together at the windows of pastry-cook's shops-thinking them "weeds that have no business there."-Now, if a frosty day or two does happen to pay us a flying visit on its way home to the North Pole, how the little boys make slides on the pathways for lack of ponds, and, it may be, trip up an occasional housekeeper just as he steps out of his own door-who forthwith vows vengeance, in the shape of ashes, on all the slides in his neighbourhood-not, doubtless, out of vexation at his own mishap, and revenge against the petty perpetrators of it, but purely to avert the like from others!-Now Bond-street begins to be conscious of carriages-two or three people are occasionally seen wandering through the Western Bazaar-and the Soho Ditto is so thronged, that Mr. Trotter begins to think of issuing another decree against the inroads of single gentlemen.-Now linen-drapers begin to "sell off” their stock at "fifty per cent. under prime cost," and continue so doing all the rest of the year-every article of which will be found on inspection to be of "the last new pattern," and to have been "only had in that morning!"-Now oranges are eaten in the dress-circle of the great theatres, and enquiries are propounded there whether "that gentleman in black," meaning Hamlet, "is Harlequin ?" And laughs and "La! Mama's resound thence, to the remotest corners of the house; and "the gods" make merry during the play, in order that they may be at leisure to listen to the pantomime! and Mr. Farley is consequently in his glory, and Mr. Grimaldi is a great man: as, indeed, when is he not?—Now newspapers teem with twice-ten-times-told-tales of haunted-houses, and great sea-snakes, and mer-maids; and a murder is worth a jew's-eye to them; for "the House does not meet for the despatch of business till the fifth of February." And great and grievous are the lamentations that are heard in the said newspapers over the lateness of the London season, and its detrimental effects on the interests of the metropolis :"—but they forget to add, "Erratum-for metropolis read newspapers."-Now Moore's Almanack holds "sole sovereign sway and mastery" among the readers of that class of literature; -for there has not yet been time to nullify any of its predictions-not even that which says we may expect some frost and snow about this period."-Finally,-now periodical works put on their best attire-the old ones expressing their determination to become new, and the new ones to become old; and the New Monthly Magazine in particular— which is both new and old, and which realizes in its performances the pretensions of all the others (!)-makes a point of putting forth the first of some pleasant series of papers (ecce signum!) which cannot fail to fix the wavering propensities of the most periodical of readers, and make him her own for another twelve months at least! 66 January in the Country. This has but a dreary sound to those who go into "the country” only that they may not be seen in "town." But to those who seek the country for the same reason that they seek London—namely, for the good that is to be found there—the one has at least as many attractions as the other, at any given period of the year. Let me add, however, that if there is a particular period when the country puts forth fewer of her attractions than at any other, it is this-probably to try who are her real lovers, and who are only false flatterers, and to treat them accordingly. And yet-Now, the trees, denuded of their gay attire, spread forth their thousand branches against the grey sky, and present as endless a variety of form and feature for study and observation as they did when dressed in all the flaunting fashions of midsummer. Now their voices are silent, and their forms are motionless, even when the wind is among them; so that the low plaintive piping of the robinredbreast can be heard, and his hiding-place detected by the sound of his slim feet alighting on the fallen leaves. Or now, grown bolder as the skies become more inclement, he flits before you from twig to twig silently, like a winged thought*, or like the brown and crimson leaf of a cherry-tree blown about by the wind-or perches himself by your side and looks sidelong in your face, pertly, and yet imploringly; as much as to say-though I do need your aid just now, and would condescend to accept a crumb from you, yet I 'm still your betters, for I'm still a bird.'-Now one of the most beautiful sights on which the eye can open, occasionally presents itself: we saw the shades of evening fall upon a waste expanse of brown earth, shorn hedge-rows, bare branches, and miry roads, interspersed here and there with a patch of dull melancholy green; but when we are awakened by the late dawning of the morning, and think to look forth upon the same, what a bright pomp greets us ! what a white pageantry! It is as if the fleecy clouds, that float about the sun at Midsummer, had descended upon the earth and clothed it in their beauty! Every object we look upon is strange and yet familiar to us-"another yet the same." And the whole affects us like a vision of the night, which we are half-conscious is a vision;—we know that it is there-and yet we know not how long it may remain there; since a motion may change it, or a breath melt it away. And what a mysterious stillness reigns over all! a white silence! Even the "clouted shoon" of the early pheasant is not heard, and the robin, as he hops from twig to twig with undecided wing, and shakes down a feathery shower as he goes, hushes his low whistle, in wonder at the unaccustomed scene. Now the labour of the husbandman is for once in the year at a stand; and he haunts the alehouse fire, or lolls listlessly over the half-door of the village smithy, and watches the progress of the labour which he unconsciously envies-tasting for once in his life (without knowing it) the bitterness of that ennui which he begrudges to his betters.-Now melancholy-looking men wander "by two's and three's" through market-towns, with thin faces as blue as the aprons that are twisted round their waists—their ineffectual rakes resting on their shouldersand a withered cabbage hoisted upon a pole,—and sing out their doleful petition, of "Pray remember the poor Gardeners, who can get no work!"-Now the passengers outside the Cheltenham night-coach look wistfully at the Witney Blanket-mills as they pass, and meditate on the merits of a warm bed.-Now people of fashion,-who cannot think of coming to their homes in town so early in the season, and will not think of remaining at their homes in the country so late,-seek out spots on the sea-shore which have the merit of being neither town nor country, and practise patience there (as Timon of Athens did) en attendant the London winter-which is ordered to commence about the first week in Spring, and end at Midsummer! * I scarcely know whether it is worth while to mention that, since the above was written and sent to press, I have seen, in a number of a little work called The Literary Pocket, a paper noticing certain appearances connected with the different seasons, in which the swallows that flit about in search of insects, are compared to "winged thoughts." The writer of the pleasant paper I allude to is of course entitled to the credit (if credit there be) of priority. But we are forgetting the garden, all this while; which must not be, for Nature does not. Though the gardener can find little to do in it, she is ever at work there, and ever with a wise hand, and graceful as wise. The wintry winds of December having shaken down the last lingering leaves from the trees, the final labour of the gardener was employed in making all trim and clean; in turning up the dark earth to give it air-pruning off the superfluous produce of summer-and gathering away the worn out attire that the perennial flowers leave behind them when they sink into the earth to seek their winter home,— as Harlequin and Columbine in the pantomimes sometimes slip down through a trap-door, and cheat their silly pursuers by leaving their vacant dresses standing erect behind them.-All being left trim and orderly for the coming on of the new year. Now, to resume our friendly monosyllable, all the processes of Nature for the renewal of her favoured race, the flowers, may be more aptly observed than at any other period. Still, therefore, however desolate a scene the garden may present to the general gaze, a particular examination of it is full of interest, and interest that is not the less valuable for its depending chiefly on the imagination. Now, the bloom-buds of the fruit-trees,which the late leaves of autumn had concealed from the view,-stand confessed, upon the otherwise bare branches; and, dressed in their patent wind and water-proof coats, brave the utmost severity of the season;-their hard unpromising outsides, compared with the forms of beauty which they contain, reminding us of their friends the butterflies when in the chrysalis state.-Now the perennials, having slipped off their summer robes, and retired to their subterranean sleeping-rooms, just permit the tops of their naked heads to peep above the ground, to warn the labourer from disturbing their annual repose.-Now the smooth-leaved and tender-stemmed rose of China hangs its pale, scentless, artificial-looking flowers upon the cheek of winter-reminding us of the last faint bloom upon the face of a fading beauty, or the hectic of disease on that of a dying one; and a few chrysanthemums still linger-the wreck of the past year-their various-coloured stars looking like faded imitations of the gay glaring China-aster. Now, too,-first evidences of the revivifying principle of the newborn year-for all that we have hitherto noticed are but lingering remnants of the old-now the golden and blue crocuses peep up their pointed coronals from amidst their guarding palisades of green and grey leaves, that they may be ready to come forth at the call of the first February sun that looks warmly upon them; and perchance one here and there, bolder than the rest, has started fairly out of the earth already, and half opened her trim form-pretending to have mistaken the true time—as a forward school-miss will occasionally be seen coquetting with a smart cornet, before she has been regularly produced as if she didn't know that there was "any harm in it." January in general. When the palm of merit is to be awarded among the Months, it is usual to assign it to May by acclamation. But if the claim depends on the sum of delight which each witnesses, or brings with her, I doubt if January should not bear the bell from her more blooming sister, if it were only in virtue of her share in the aforenamed festivities of the Christmas Holidays. And then, what a happy influence does she not exercise on all the rest of the year, by the family meetings she brings about, and by the kindling and renewing of the social affections that grow out of and are chiefly dependent on these! And what sweet re membrances and associations does she not scatter before her, through all the time to come, by her gifts-the "new year's gifts!" Christmasboxes, as they are called, are but sordid boons in comparison of these -they are mere money paid for mere services rendered or expectedwages for work done and performed-barterings of value for valueofferings of the pocket to the pocket. But new year's gifts are offerings of the affections to. the affections of the heart to the heart. The value of the first depends purely on themselves, and the gratitude, such as it is, which they call forth, is measured by the gross amount of that value. But the others owe their value to the wishes and intentions of the giver; and the gratitude they call forth springs from the affections of the receiver. And then, who can see a new year open upon him without being better for the prospect-without making sundry wise reflections-(for any reflections on this subject must be comparatively wise ones) on the step he is about to take towards the goal of his being? Every first of January that we arrive at is an imaginary mile-stone on the turnpike track of human life-at once a resting-place for thought and meditation, and a starting point for fresh exertion in the performance of our journey. The man who does not at least propose to himself to be better this year than he was last, must be either very good or very bad indeed. And only to propose to be better, is something;-if nothing else, it is an acknowledgment of our need to be so,-which is the first step towards amendment. But in fact, to propose to oneself to do well, is in some sort to do well, positively; for there is no such thing as a stationary point in human endeavours: he who is not worse to-day than he was yesterday, is better; and he who is not better is worse. The very name of January,—from Janus-twofaced-" looking before and after,"-indicates the reflective propensities which she encourages, and which when duly exercised cannot fail to lead to good. And then January is the youngest of the yearly brood, and therefore, prima facie, the best: for I protest most strenuously against the comparative age which Chaucer, I think, has assigned to this month by implication, when he compares an old husband and a young wife to "January and June." These poets will sacrifice any thing to alliteration—even abstract truth. I am sorry to say this of Chaucer, whose poetry is more of "a true thing" than that of any other-always excepting Mr. Crabbe's, which is too much of a true thing. And nobody knew better than Chaucer the respective merits of the months, and the peculiar qualities and characteristics which appertain to each. But, I repeat, alliteration is the Scylla and Charybdis united of all who embark on the perilous ocean of poetry; and that Chaucer himself chose occasionally to "listen to the voice of the charmer, charmed she never so unwisely,”—the above example affords sufficient proof. I am afraid poets themselves are too self-opiniated people to make it worth while for me to warn them on this point; but I hereby pray all prose-writers pertinaciously to avoid so pernicious a practice. This, however, by the bye. I need scarcely accumulate other arguments and examples to show that my favourite January deserves to rank first among the months, in merit as she does in place. But lest doubters should still remain, I will add-ask the makers-out of annual accounts whether month any can compare with January, since then they may begin to hope for a settlement, and may even in some cases venture to ask for it ;-which latter is a comfort that has been denied them during all the rest of the year; besides its being a remote step towards the said settlement. And on the other hand, ask the contractors of annual accounts whether January is not the best of all possible months, since then they may begin to order afresh, with the prospect of a whole year's impunity. The answers to these two questions must of course decide the point,since the two classes of persons to whom they are addressed include the whole adult (erated) population of these commercial realms! 2. THE HOUR OF DEATH. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer→→ The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for Grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine! Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee!-but thou art not of those Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, Is it when spring's first gale Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; And the world calls us forth-and thou art there! Thou art where friend meets friend, Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, Death! F. n. |