Read the book: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 287, December 15, 1827», page 4
THE MONTHS
DECEMBER
The characteristics of November, for the most part, extend through the present month. Wind, rain, and gloom are its attributes; the sun
Scarce spreads through ether the dejected day,
Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot
His struggling rays, in horizontal lines,
Through the thick air; as clothed in cloudy storm,
Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky;
And soon descending, to the long dark night.
Wide-shading all, the prostrate world resigns.
Such is the gloomy picture of December, as drawn by the poet of the year.
To the contemplatist, and the man who has
—–No enemy,
But winter and rough weather,
the rural walk at this season is equally inviting with any of its predecessors; whilst he who can "suck melancholy from a song," will find melody in its storms and music in its wind. What are more beautiful than the fretwork frostings of rime and hoar spread on the hedges, glistening in the broad sun-beam, and in brilliancy and variety of colours vying with the richest display of oriental splendour—with here and there berries clustering on evergreens, or pendent in solitary beauty, like the "rich jewel in the Aethiop's ear." The winter stillness of animal life is a sublime subject for our meditation. Insects which floated on the gay sunshine of summer and autumn have now retired to their winter quarters, there to remain dormant till regenerated in the enlivening warmth of spring; and even the labours of husbandry are in a state of torpidity.
Within the circuit of gardens and shrubberies Nature, however, reserves the evergreen pride of firs and pines; and even flowers are left to gladden the eye of the winter observer; and the rose, that sweet emblem of our fragile and transitory state, will live and prosper during this month. In the forest, the oak, beech, and hornbeam in part retain their leaves; there, too, is the endless variety of mosses, and lichens, and ivy, spreading and clinging round aged trunks, as if to protect them with their fond warmth, or mantling over the neglected labours of human art, and mocking their proud import.
At this season, too, the social economy of man is wont to ripen into mirth; and in olden time, winter was the summer of hospitality, when the sunshine of Christmas shed its holy light on the hearts and faces of young and old. What the present generation have gained in head, they have lost in heart, and Christmas is almost the only surviving holiday of the calendar. But now, alas! "we live too late in time."
If knowledge be valuable only in the proportion in which it conduces to our happiness, then we have cause to deplore the loss of the wassail-bowl, the sports and wrestlings of the town green, the evening tales, and the elegant pastimes of masque, song, and dance, of our ancestors, which the taste of our times has narrowed into a commercial channel, or pared down to a few formal visits and their insipid returns; and friends, families, and fortunes are often sacrificed in this exchange.
But there are minds so attuned as not to be shut out from
"The gayest, happiest attitudes of things,"
nor to allow their social blaze to be darkened by such narrow conceits; and for a picture of this portion of mankind, we quote Mr. Bucke's Harmonies:—
"Awed by the progress of time, winter, ushered into existence by the howling of storms, and the rushing of impetuous torrents, and contemplating, with the satisfaction of a giant, the ruins of the year, still affords ample food for enjoyments, which the vulgar never dream of, if sympathy and association diffuse their attractive spells around us! In the bosom of retirement, how delightful is it to feel exempt from the mean intrigues, the endless difficulties and tumults, which active life ensures, and which retirement enables us so well to contemplate through the telescope of recollection. When seated by the cheerful fire among friends, loving and beloved, our hopes, our wishes, and our pleasures are concentrated; the soul seems imparadised in an enchanted circle; and the world, vain, idle, and offensive as it is, presents nothing to the judgment, and little to the imagination, that can induce the enlightened or the good to regret, that the knowledge they possess of it is chiefly from the report of others, or from the tumultuous murmur, which from a distance invades the tranquillity of their retreat, and operates as a discord in a soft sonata. These are the moments which affect us more than all the harmony of Italy, or all the melody of Scotland—moments, in which we appear almost to emulate the gods in happiness."
"Change," in the quaint language of Feltham, "is the great lord of the universe, and Time is the agent which brings all things under his dominion." This has been demonstrated through our past calendar of monthly characteristics; to which are subjoined, from a still more quaint authority than Feltham, said to be printed in the reign of Henry VII., in a Sarum black-letter missal:
THE MONTHS MORALIZED
(From our Correspondent, M.L.B.)
Januarius
The fyrst six yeres of mannesbyrth and aege
May well be compared to Janyere,
For in this moneth, is no strengeth nor courage
More than in a chylde of the aege of six yere.
Februarius
The other six yeres is like February,
In the end thereof beguyneth (1) the Sprynge,
That tyme chyldren is moost asst and redy
To receyve chastysement, nurture and lernynge.
Martinus
March betokeneth the six yeres followynge,
Arayeng the erthe with pleasaunt verdure;
That season youth thought for nothynge,
And wothout thought dooth his sporte and pleasure.
Aprilis
The next six yere maketh four-and-twenty,
And figured is to jolly Aprill
That tyme of pleasures man hath most plenty
Fresh, and louying (2) his lustes tofulfyll.
Maius
As in the moneth of Maye all thing in mygth (3)
So at thirty yeres man is in chief lyking,
Pleasaunt and lustie to every mannes sygth, (4)
In beauti and strengthe to women pleasynge.
Junius
In June, all thyns falleth to rypenesse,
And so dooth man at Ihirty-six yere old,
And studyetli for to acquyre rychesse.
And taketh a wyfe, to keepe his householde.
Julius
At forty yere of aege, or elles never
Is ony man endewed with wysdome
For than forgth (5) his mygth fayleth ever
As in July doth every blossome.
Augustus
The goodes of the erthe is gadered evermore
In August, so at forty-eight yere
Man ought to gather some goodes in store
To susteyne aege that then draweth nere.
September
Let no man thynke, for to gather plenty
Yf, at fifty-four yere he have none
No more than yf his barne were empty
In September when all the come is gone.
October
By Octobre betokenyth sixty yere
That aege hastely dooth man assayle,
Yf he have outgh (6) than (7) it dooth appere
To lyve quyetly after his travayle.
November
When man is at sixty-six yere olde
Which lykened is to bareyne Novembre
He waxeth unweldy, (8) sekely (9) and cold
Than (7) his soule helth is time to remember.
December
The yere by Decembre takelh his ende,
And so dooth man at three-score and twelve,
Nature with aege wyll hym on message sende
Tho tyme is come that he must go hymselve.
Glossary
1. Beginneth. 3. Loving. 3. Might 4. Sight. 5. Waste or barren, applied to mind. 6. Aught, anything. 7. Then. 8. Unwieldy. 9. Sickly.
A few words at parting, or rather in closing our calendar. Whilst we have endeavoured to attract by the little emblematic display of art at the head of each month, we have not neglected to direct the attention of our readers to "the good in every thing" which is scattered through each season of the year, by constantly recurring to the beneficence of the OMNIPOTENT BEING—thus enabling them to look
"Through Nature up to Nature's God."
Her study will moderate our joys and griefs, and enable us to carry the principle of "good in every thing" into every relation of social life. Let us learn to cherish in our remembrance that (in the language of the sublime Sterne) "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb;" and that the storms of the world, like those of nature, will at length clear off, and open to us a prospect unclouded and eternal.
THE SKETCH-BOOK
No. LII
THE UNKNOWN REGION
[For the following Gulliverian sketch we are indebted to a lively volume of whim, humour, and pleasant sentiment, entitled Snatches from Oblivion: the work likewise contains some springy versification.—Ed.]
An honourable member of a certain enlightened assembly, who had greatly distinguished himself by his topographical ingenuity and taste for good society, had, in the course of some statistical researches, discovered a part of the globe hitherto unknown, called by the natives Russell Square, and which was considered would be an important acquisition to the English dominions. A council of state was called upon this occasion, who, after six successive meetings, determined upon sending out an expedition, at the head of which was the original discoverer, to reconnoitre, and, if eligible, to take possession of the terra incognita in the name and behalf of the British crown. Unfortunately I was myself at that time engaged in oddity-hunting in another part of the world, and was consequently unable to join the adventurous party, but have learned the whole particulars from the mouth of an intimate friend, who formed a portion of it, and who obliged me with the tie of a cravat of one of the extraordinary inhabitants of the soil. His relation is to the following effect:—
"The conditions of our enterprise having been finally arranged, and our instructions delivered, sealed by the Lords of the Admiralty, after a few months' preparation we were enabled to commence our adventurous career. Prayers having been put up for our safe return, our, wills having been made, and, in case of our never returning from
"'That undiscovered country (Russell Square),
From whence (it was dreaded) no traveller returns,'
"our property secured, as well as handsome annuities to our wives and children, we embarked on board the Admiralty yacht from Whitehall Stairs. Here a scene that would have melted the heart of a stoic took place. The difficulties and horrors of our campaign, the melancholy fates of Mungo Park, and Captains Cook and Bowditch, the agonizing consequences of starvation, cannibalism, and vulgarity, which we were likely to encounter in these unknown regions, were depicted in their most vivid and powerful colours. But each of us was a Roman, a Columbus, prepared to stand or fall in the service of his country.
"The vessel left the shores amidst the tears, groans, and perfumed handkerchiefs of the surrounding multitude; so heart-rending were our adieux, that three officers of the guards, overcome by the afflicting crisis, went into strong hysterics, and were obliged to have their stay-laces cut. Standing on the poop of the vessel with a white handkerchief in one glove, and a bottle of Eau de Cologne in the other, we waved farewell to our friends, and, as the last vestige of their whiskers disappeared from our sight, a sad presentiment filled our minds that it was for ever. Groups of beings, wearing the form and countenances of men, though most barbarously disguised, occasionally passed us in what we supposed to be canoes, saluting us in an unknown and discordant tone. Our voyage concluded at a point which, we have since been informed, was discovered by a noble lord in a sailing expedition, where he was driven by adverse winds and tides, and baptized by him 'Waterloo Bridge,' after a certain victory supposed to have been obtained by the ancient Britons some time previous to the flood. Having landed, we were immediately surrounded by a native tribe of a warlike and barbarous aspect, being in almost a primitive dress, having only the lower part of their persons covered. The appearance of their skin was most remarkable; it was intersected by blue seams, as if nature had supplied them with a shirt of her own formation—for not the slightest appearance of muslin or cambric was visible. The name of this horde of barbarism is, as we were afterwards informed, in their native patois, Scullers, and from the circumstance of their appearing peculiar to the river and its banks, the Professor of Natural History, whom we carried with us, after an elaborate investigation, declared them to be, peculiar to the soil, members of the animal kingdom, of a species between the alligator and crocodile.
"After reference to our geographical charts, we took our seats in our stanhopes, being preceded by our travelling chariots, a detachment of the Lancers, by way of security, two interpreters, a guide, and a surgeon, in case of casualties. By the instructions of the guide we steered in a direction N.E.E., and as we proceeded farther into the country, the barbarity and uncivilization became more apparent. Crossing a swamp called the Strand, we arrived at a native settlement called Drury Lane, inhabited by a horde infinitely more barbarous and rude than the tribe by which we were accosted on landing. The indigites of this soil, in ferocity of appearance, exceeded all our previous idea of savage life. They are generally tattooed, but the crevices in their skin, instead of variegated colours as the savages of the South Seas, seemed to be filled up by a composition much resembling dirt. They had, however, no tomahawks, nor implements of a warlike description, nor were any of them dressed in skins; although some of them had the hide of a beast hanging from their waist downwards, which appeared their only covering, and we understand is called by them—leathern apron.
