There is no place so desolate as the Orchard this month; for none of the fruit-trees have any beauty as trees, at their best; and now, they have not a leaf left to cover their unsightly nakedness.
Not so with the Kitchen Garden; that, if it has been duly attended to, is full of interest this month,—especially by comparison with the scenes of decay and barrenness by which it is surrounded. The Fruit Trees on the walls are all nailed out with the most scrupulous regularity; and by them, as much as by any thing else, may you now judge of the skill and assiduity of your gardener. Indeed this is of all others the month in which his merits are put to the test, and in which they often seem to vie with those of Nature herself. Anybody may have a handsome garden from May to September; but only those who deserve one can have it from September to May. Now, then, the walls are all covered with their wide-spread fruit fans; the Celery beds stretch out their unbroken lines of fresh-looking green; the late-planted Lettuces look trim and erect upon the sheltered borders where they are to stand the Winter, and be ready, not to open, but to shut up their young hearts at the first warm breath of Spring; the green strings of autumn-sown Peas scarcely lift their tender downward-turning stems above the dark soil; the hardy Endives spread out their now full-grown heads of fantastically curled leaves, or stand tied up from the sun and air, doing the penance necessary to acquire for them that agreeable state of unhealthiness without which (like modern fine ladies who contrive to blanch themselves in a similar manner, and by similar means) our squeamish appetites could not relish them; the Cauliflower, Brocoli, and Kale plants, maintain their unbroken ranks; and, finally, even the Cabbages themselves (Mr. Brummel being self-banished to Boulogne, and therefore not within hearing, I may venture to say it), even the young Cabbages themselves contrive to look genteel, in virtue of their as yet heartless state; which is, in fact, the secret of all gentility, whether in a Cabbage or a Countess.
As to the Flower-garden this month, it looks a picture either of pleasantness or of poverty, according to the degree of care and skill which has been bestowed upon it; for though Nature wills that we shall enjoy her beauties during a certain period of the year, whether we use any efforts towards the obtaining them or not, yet she lays it down as a general principle, in regard to her gifts, that to seek them, is at once to deserve, to have, and to enjoy them; and that without such seeking, we shall only have just enough to make us sigh after more. Accordingly, her sun shines with equal warmth upon the Gardens of the just and the unjust; and her rains fertilise the Fields of all alike. In short, as it is with the loveliest of her works, Woman, her favours are to be obtained by assiduous seeking alone; her love is the reward, not of riches, nor beauty, nor power, nor even of virtue, but of love alone. No man ever gave a woman his entire love, and sought hers in return, that he did not, to a certain extent, obtain it; and no man ever paid similar court to Nature, and came away empty handed.
But we are wandering from the Garden; which should not be, even at this least attractive of all its seasons; for though the honours which it offers to the close of the year cannot vie with those which it scatters so profusely about the footsteps of the Spring, we shall find them full of interest and beauty, where we find them at all.
Now, then, if the frosts have not set in, the Garden contains, or ought to contain, a numerous variety of the Chinese Chrysanthemums, which resemble and take the place of the more glaring, but less delicately constructed China-asters. The most beautiful of these is the Snow-white, looking, with its radii of different lengths, like a lighted catherine-wheel. To have these in any perfection, however, their growth must have been a little retarded by art; for their natural time of blowing is during the last month. But it must be remembered, that the Winter Garden is an affair of Art assisted by Nature, rather than of Nature assisted by Art. So that I doubt, after all, whether I shall not be overstepping the path I had marked out for myself, in describing what a Winter Garden may be. As this is what I would, above all things, avoid, let me at once refrain from pointing out any thing but what must be found in my prototype, Nature, under ordinary circumstances; for I would rather omit from my portraits much of what their originals do contain, than introduce into them any thing that they do not. And, even with this restriction, we shall find the Garden replete with pleasant objects.
The Annuals, even the latest blowing, have all been rooted up, and their straggling stems cleared away; all, except perhaps a few lingering Marigolds, and some clumps of Mignonette, that will go on blowing till the frost cuts them off. The Geraniums that were turned into the open ground in the Autumn, to fill up the vacancies left by the falling off of the early annuals, are still in flower, always provided there has not yet been a night’s sharp frost: if there has, they have all withered beneath its (to them) baleful influence, as if by magic. The same may be said of the Dahlias, with this difference,—that the destruction of their luxuriant upper and visible growth is but the renewal of the vigorous vitality that lies hid for a season in their self-generating roots.
Now, the Monthly, or China Rose, begins to be again appreciated. It has been flowering all the Summer long for its own peculiar satisfaction, and almost unnoticed amidst the flush of fresher looking beauty that surrounded it. But now, its pale blossoms, with their faint perfume, are the favourites of the Garden; and a whole company of them, wreathing about a low trellised porch, make a momentary Summer in the most wintry of scenes.
Finally, now, every here and there, start up those stray gifts which have “no business” to be seen at this season, but which, like fragments of blue sky scattered among black overhanging clouds, remind us of the beautiful whole to which they belong. I mean the little precocious Primroses, Snowdrops, &c. that sometimes during this month find, or rather lose, their way from their Winter homes, where they ought now to be hiding, and peep up with their pale faces, as if in search of that Spring which they will now never see.
If there is no denying that the Country is at its worst during this much abused month, it must be conceded, in return, that London is at its best: for at what other time is it so difficult and disagreeable to get along the streets? and when are they so perfumed with the peculiar odour of their own mud, and is their atmosphere so rich in the various “choice compounds” with which it always abounds?