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.

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.