A long Chapter upon November.
We have reached November, the eleventh month in the year. Our Saxon ancestors called October wyn-monat, or wine month, and this wynt-monat, or wind month. It is indeed a blustering season; and it seems as if winter and summer were in a furious contest for mastery. The cold winds come down from the north, loaded with sleet and hail, and for a time seem to exercise dominion over the land.
The tempest roars in the forest; nuts are shaken down from the trees; the leaves are scattered in the valley; the ocean is lashed into foam; all nature appears to be shadowed with gloom; and every living thing seems to shrink from the scene. The birds have already departed, or if any linger, they hurry away on a swift and busy wing. The woodchuck, the dormouse, and the chip-squirrel creep into their holes, and prepare for their long winter repose.
Occasionally, the black clouds are driven back, and gleams of sunshine creep over the land. A southerly wind, too, occasionally breathes upon us, and it seems as if the genial warmth of autumn would triumph in the great contest of nature. But, as the days advance, the strength of winter increases, and we slide into December, when its dominion becomes complete. Like an unrelenting despot, it then binds the river and the lake in icy chains; it sweeps away the last vestige of summer, and marks the boundaries of its realm with a dazzling mantle of snow.
Such is November in New England. In Old England, it is still more gloomy. The thick fogs, mingling with the smoke, hang like a dark curtain over the country; the day is dwindled to the length of seven or eight hours, and the sun rises but a few degrees in the horizon. It is quite common for it to be so dark that lamps and candles are burnt in the houses during the whole day, and frequently the stage-coaches have been obliged at the same time to travel with their lamps lighted.
This gloom of nature is, however, not without its advantages. The necessity of providing for winter is taught by it to every one. The farmer lays in his stock of fuel; the house is made tight; the cattle are gathered to the barn-yard, and thus the necessities of life enforce upon the people industry, prudence, and frugality; and these virtues become established in society. Thus it is that in cold countries the people, benefitted by the rigors of their climate, become more hardy, energetic, and virtuous. Thus it is, if you travel over the world, you will find in northern countries the finest houses, the best roads, the handsomest edifices, and, indeed, the greatest comforts and luxuries of life. On the contrary, if you travel in southern countries, where winter brings no snow, and where even November is a month of flowers, you will find most of the people idle, careless, and vicious. Their houses are generally frail and poor; their clothing slight, filthy, and ragged. Everything seems marked with poverty and neglect.
So it is that Providence balances the account with the different portions of the globe. Those who endure a harsh climate are compensated by the comforts and refinements which spring up in the soil of necessity. Those who enjoy a bland and smiling climate pay for it in various evils, social, mental, and moral.
There is one advantage which the cold season brings, and which we of New England enjoy in a peculiar manner. As winter approaches, we are driven into the house, and are taught to find our pleasures there. The family circle is thus drawn closer together, and hence acquires a deeper and more lasting interest.
If children could always wander abroad, chasing butterflies, plucking flowers, and feasting upon fruits, they would feel little of that dependence upon parents, which is the source of many virtues. Brothers and sisters would experience little of that interchange of kindly offices and friendly feelings, which weave their hearts together with an enduring web of affection. Home would lose more than half its charms, nearly all its thousand streams of virtue and of bliss.