"Hope travels through, nor leaves us till we die."
But they might have gone still farther, and shown us that Hope is not
only our companion on the journey, but at once the vehicle which bears
us along, the food which supports us as we go, and the goal to which all
our travels tend, not merely in the great voyage of discovery itself,
but in all the little outlets and byeways which break in upon and
diversify it.
Even in regard to the objects of external nature, Hope is the great
principle on which we take any thing like a continuous moral interest in
the contemplation of them; and if we never cease to feel that interest
during all the different periods of the year, it is because hope is no
sooner lost in fruition, than, like the Phoenix, it revives again, and
keeps fluttering on before us, like the beautiful Green Bird before the
lover, in the fairy tale; leading us--no matter where, so that it do
not leave us to plod on by ourselves, through a world that, however
beautiful _with_ it, were without it an overpeopled wilderness.
The month that we have just left behind us was indeed one made up, for
the most part, of consummations; the promises of the year being almost
forgotten in the fulness of their performance, and the season standing
still to enjoy itself, and to let its admirers satiate themselves upon
the rich completeness of its charms. It is now gone; and October is
come; and Hope is come with it; and the general impulse that we feel is,
to _look forward_ again, as we have done from the beginning of the year.
It must be confessed, however, that the hopes of _this_ month, in
particular, are not unblended with that sentiment of melancholy--gentle
and genial, but still melancholy--which results from the constant
presence of decay. The year has reached its grand climacteric, and is
fast falling "into the sere, the yellow leaf." Every day a flower drops
from out the wreath that binds its brow--not to be renewed. Every hour
the Sun looks more and more askance upon it, and the winds, those Summer
flatterers, come to it less fawningly. Every breath shakes down showers
of its leafy attire, leaving it gradually barer and barer, for the
blasts of winter to blow through it. Every morning and evening takes
away from it a portion of that light which gives beauty to its life, and
chills it more and more into that torpor which at length constitutes its
temporary death. And yet October is beautiful still, no less "for what
it gives than what it takes away;" and even for what it gives during the
very act of taking away.
Let us begin our observations with an example of the latter. The whole
year cannot produce a sight fraught with more rich and harmonious beauty
than that which the Woods and Groves present during this month,
notwithstanding, or rather in consequence of, the daily decay of their
summer attire; and at no other season can any given spot of landscape be
seen to much advantage as a mere picture. This, therefore, is, above all
others, the month for the artist to ply his delightful task, of fixing
the fugitive beauties of the scene; which, however, he must do quickly,
for they fade away, day by day, as he looks upon them.
And yet, if it were represented faithfully, an extensive plantation of
Forest Trees now presents a variety of colours and of tints that would
scarcely be considered as _natural_ in a picture, any more than many of
the Sunsets of September would. Among those trees which retain their
green hues, the Fir tribe are the principal; and these, spiring up among
the deciduous ones, now differ from them no less in colour than they do
in form. The Alders, too, and the Poplars, Limes, and Horse-chestnuts,
are still green,--the hues of their leaves not undergoing much change as
long as they remain on the branches. Most of the other Forest Trees have
put on each its peculiar livery; the Planes and Sycamores presenting
every variety of tinge, from bright yellow to brilliant red; the Elms
being, for the most part, of a rich sunny umber, varying according to
the age of the tree and the circumstances of its soil, &c.; the Beeches
having deepened into a warm glowing brown, which the young ones will
retain all the winter, and till the new spring leaves push the present
ones off; the Oaks varying from a dull dusky green to a deep russet,
according to their ages; and the Spanish Chestnuts, with their noble
embowering heads, glowing like clouds of gold.
As for the Hedge-rows this month, they still retain all their effect as
part of a general and distant view; and when looked at more closely,
though they have lost nearly all their flowers, the various fruits that
are spread out upon them for the winter food of the birds, make them
little less gay than they were in Spring and Summer. The most
conspicuous of these are the red hips of the Wild Rose; the dark purple
bunches of the luxuriant Blackberry; the brilliant scarlet and green
berries of the Nightshade; the wintry-looking fruit of the Hawthorn; the
blue Sloes, covered with their soft tempting-looking bloom; the dull
bunches of the Woodbine; and the sparkling Holly-berries.
We may also still, by seeking for them, find a few flowers scattered
about beneath the Hedge-rows, and the dry Banks that skirt the Woods,
and even in the Woods themselves, peeping up meekly from among the
crowds of newly fallen leaves. The prettiest of these is the Primrose,
which now blows a second time. But two or three of the Persicaria tribe
are still in flower, and also some of the Goosefoots. And even the
elegant and fragile Heathbell, or Harebell, has not yet quite
disappeared; while some of the ground flowers that have passed away have
left in their place strange evidences of their late presence; in
particular, the singular flower (if it can be called one) of the Arums,
or Lords and Ladies, has changed into an upright bunch, or long cluster,
of red berries, starting up from out the ground on a single stiff stem,
and looking almost like the flower of a Hyacinth.
The open Fields during this month, though they are bereaved of much of
their actual beauty and variety, present sights that are as agreeable to
the eye, and even more stirring to the imagination, than those which
have passed away. The Husbandman is now ploughing up the arable land,
and putting into it the seeds that are to produce the next year's crops;
and there are not, among rural occupations, two more pleasant to look
upon than these: the latter, in particular, is one that, while it gives
perfect satisfaction to the eye as a mere picture, awakens and fills the
imagination with the prospective views which it opens.
Another very lively rural sight, on account of the many hands that it
employs at the same time, men, women, and children, is the general
Potato gathering of this month.
Among the miscellaneous events of October, one of the most striking and
curious is the interchange which seems to take place between our
country, and the more northern as well as the more southern ones in
regard to the Birds. The Swallow tribe now all quit us; the Swift
disappeared wholly, more than a month ago; and now the House Swallow,
House Martin, and Bank or Sand Martin, after congregating for awhile in
vast flocks about the banks of rivers and other waters, are seen no more
as general frequenters of the air. And if one or two _are_ seen during
the warm days that sometimes occur for the next two or three weeks, they
are to be looked upon as strangers and wanderers; and the sight of them,
which has hitherto been so pleasant, becomes altogether different in its
effect: it gives one a feeling of desolateness, such as we experience on
meeting a poor shivering Lascar in our winter streets.
In exchange for this tribe of truly Summer visitors, we have now great
flocks of the Fieldfares and Redwings come back to us; and also Wood
Pigeons, Snipes, Woodcocks, and several of the numerous tribe of
Water-fowl.
Now, occasionally, we may observe the singular effects of a mist, coming
gradually on, and wrapping in its dusky cloak a whole landscape that
was, the moment before, clear and bright as in a Spring morning. The
vapour rises visibly (from the face of a distant river perhaps) like
steam from a boiling caldron; and climbing up into the blue air as it
advances, rolls wreath over wreath till it reaches the spot on which you
are standing; and then, seeming to hurry past you, its edges, which have
hitherto been distinctly defined, become no longer visible, and the
whole scene of beauty, which a few moments before surrounded you, is as
it were wrapt from your sight like an unreal vision of the air, and you
seem (and in fact _are_) transferred into the bosom of a cloud.
Drawing towards the home scene, we find the Orchard by no means devoid
of interest this month. The Apples are among the last to shed their
leaves; so that they retain them yet; and in some cases of late fruit,
they retain that too,--looking as bright and tempting as ever it did.
The Cherry-trees, too, are more beautiful at this time than ever they
have been since their brief period of blossoming, on account of the
brilliant scarlet which their leaves assume,--varying, however, from
that colour all the way through the warm ones, up to the bright yellow.
There are also two species of the Plum, the Purple and the White Damson,
which have only now reached their maturity.
The Elders, that frequently skirt the Orchard, or form part of its
bounding hedge, are also now loaded with their broad outspread bunches
of purple and white berries, and instantly call up (to those who are
lucky enough to possess such an association at all) that ideal of old
English snugness and comfort, the farm-house chimney corner, on a cold
winter's Saturday night; with the jug of hot Elder-wine on the red brick
hearth; the embers crackling and blazing; the toasted bread, and the
long-stemmed glasses on the two-flapped oak table; and the happy ruddy
faces of the young ones around, looking expectantly towards the comely
and portly dame for their weekly _treat_.
The gentle (query _genteel_) reader will be good enough to remember that
I am now speaking of old times; that is to say, twenty years ago; and
will not suppose me ignorant enough to imagine that _they_ can possibly
know what I mean either by "_Elder-wine_," or a "_chimney corner_." But
though the merits of mulled claret, an ottoman, and a hearth-rug, shall
never be called in question by me, I must be excused for remembering
that there _was_ a time when I knew no better than the above, and that I
have not grown wise enough to cease sighing for the return of that time
ever since it has passed away. Accordingly, though I would on no account
be supposed to permit Elder-wine to pass my actual palate, I could not
resist the above occasion of tasting it once more in imagination; and I
must say, that the flavour of it is quite as agreeable as it was before
claret became a common-place.
Now is the time for performing another of those praiseworthy operations
which modern refinement has driven almost out of fashion. I mean the
brewing of Beer that is to be called, _par excellence_, "October," some
ten or fifteen years hence, when it is worth drinking. Country folks
brew as usual, it is true; because the drink which is sent them down by
the London dealers is what they cannot comprehend: but it has become a
regular monthly work; bearing, however, about the same relation to those
of the good old times which have passed away, as the innumerable
"twopenny trash" of the present day do to the good old "Gentleman's
Magazine" that they have almost superseded. Brewing, nowadays, (thanks
to Mr. Cobbet's Cottage Economy) is an affair of a tea-kettle, a
washing-tub, and a currant-wine cask; and "October," now, will scarcely
keep till November.
Now, the Hives are despoiled of their honey; and by one of those sad
necessities attendant on artificial life, the hitherto happy and
industrious collectors of it are rewarded with death for their pains.
It is not till this month that we usually experience the Equinoxial
Gales, those fatal visitations which may now be looked upon as the
immediate heralds of the coming on of Winter; as in the Spring they were
the sure signs of its having passed away. Bitter-sweet is it, now, to
lie awake at night, and listen wilfully (as if we would not let them
escape us) to the fierce howlings of the winds, each accession of which
gives new vividness to the vision of some tall ship, illumined by every
flash of lightning--illumined, but not rendered _visible_--for there are
no eyes within a hundred leagues to look upon it; and crowded with human
beings--(not "souls" only, as the sea-phrase is, for then it were
pastime--but _bodies_) every one of which sees, in imagination, its own
grave a thousand fathom deep beneath the dark waters that roar around,
and feels itself there beforehand.
Returning to the home enclosures, we shall find them far from destitute
of attraction; and indeed if they have been properly attended to, with a
view to that almost unceasing succession of which the various objects of
cultivation admit, we shall scarcely as yet perceive any of the ravages
which the mere approach of Winter has already made among their
uncultivated kindred.
In the Flower Garden, if much of the beauty of Summer has now passed
away, its place has been supplied by that which affords one of the
pleasantest employments of the lover of gardening; for those who do not
grow and collect their own seeds know but half the pleasures of that
most delightful of all merely physical occupations. The principal flower
seeds come to perfection this month, and are now to be gathered and
laid by, before they scatter themselves abroad at random.
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.