Mirror of the Months

by P. G. Patmore

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.