THE SEASON. 
Sunk In the vale, whose concave depth receives 
The waters draining from these shelvy banks 
When the shower beats, yon pool with pallid gleam 
Betrays its icy covering. From the glade 
Issuing in pensive file, and moving slow, 
The cattle, all unwitting of the change, 
To quench their customary thirst advance. 
With wondering stare and fruitless search they trace 
The solid margin : now bend low the head 
In act to drink; now with fastidious nose 
Snuffing the marble floor, and breathing loud, 
From the cold touch withdraw. Awhile they stand 
In disappointment mute ; with ponderous feet 
Then bruise the surface : to each stroke the woods 
Reply ; forth gushes the imprisoned wave. 
Our Saxon ancestors, according to Verstegan, “called February Sprout kele, by kele meaning the kele- 
wurt, which we now call the cole-wurt, the greatest pot-wurt in time long past that our ancestors used, and 
the broth made therewith was thereof also called kele ; for before we borrowed from the French the name of 
potage, and the name of herbe, the one in our owne language was called kele , and the other wurt ; and as 
this kele-wurt, or potage-herbe, was the chiefe winter- wurt for the sustenance of the husbandman, so was it 
the first herbe that in this moneth began to yeeld out wholesome yong sprouts, and consequently gave 
thereunto the name of Sprout kele .” The “kele” here mentioned, is the well known kale of the cabbage 
tribe. But the Saxons likewise called this month “Solmonath,” which Dr. Frank Sayers in his “Disqui- 
sitions” says, is explained by Bede “mensis placentarum,” and rendered by Spelman in an unedited 
manuscript “ pan-cake month, ” because in the course of it, cakes were offered by the pagan Saxons to the 
sun; and “Sol” or “soul,” signified “food,” or “cakes.” 
In “The Months,” a popular writer remarks that “if February were not the precursor of spring, it 
would be the least pleasant season of the year, November not excepted. The thaws now take place; and a 
clammy mixture of moisture and cold succeeds, which is the most disagreeable of wintry sensations.” Yet 
so variable is our climate, that the February of 1825 broke in upon the inhabitants of the metropolis with 
a day or two of piercing cold, and realized a delightful description of January sparkled from the same pen. 
“What can be more delicately beautiful than the spectacle which sometimes salutes the eye at the break- 
fast-room window, occasioned by the hoar-frost dew? If a jeweller had come to dress every plant over 
night, to surprise an Eastern sultan, he could not produce any thing like the ‘ silvery plumage/ An ordi- 
nary bed of greens, to those who are not at the mercy of their own vulgar associations, will sometimes look 
like crisp and corrugated emerald, powdered with diamonds/ 5 
In February, says William Howitt, “The houses, and all objects whatever, have a dirty and disconso- 
late aspect; and clouds of dim and smoky haze hover over the whole dispiriting scene. In the country the 
prospect is not much better : the roads are full of mire. In the woods and copses you hear a continual 
dripping and pattering of wet : while the fieldfares, instead of flying across the country with a pleasant 
chattering, sit solitarily amongst the comfortless trees, uttering their plaintive cry of “cock-shute, cock- 
shute ;” and the very rooks peer about after worms in the fields with a drooping air. Instead of the en- 
chantments of hoar-frost, you have naked hedges, sallow and decaying weeds beneath them, brown and wet 
pastures and sheets of ice, but recently affording so much fine exercise to skaters and sliders, half submersed 
in water, full of great cracks, scattered with straws and dirty patches, and stones half liberated by the thaw ; 
— such are the miserable features of the time. 
Let us felicitate ourselves that such joyless period is seldom of long duration. The winds of March 
speedily come piping their jovial strains, clearing the face of the blessed heavens from their sullen veil of 
clouds, and sweeping away the superabundant moisture from earth and air. Oh; blithe and animating is 
the breath of March ! It is like a cool but spirit-stirring draught of some ancient vintage ; elating but not 
enervating the heart; deadening the memory of past evil, and expanding it to the delicious hope of future 
delights. So precious a boon, however, is not exclusively permitted to March; February is allowed to be 
a liberal partaker ere its close, and we have known the winds lift up their voices this month with all their 
triumphant and sonorous energy. Nothing can perhaps illustrate so livingly our idea of a spirit, as a mighty 
wind — present in its amazing power and sublimity, yet seen only in its effects. We are whirled along with 
its careering torrent with irresistible power ; we are driven before it, as Miss Mitford says, as by a steam- 
engine. How it comes rushing and roaring over the house, like the billows of a mighty ocean ! Then for 
the banging of doors, the screaming and creaking of signs, the clatter of falling shutters in the street! Then 
for the crash of chimneys, the down-toppling of crazy gables, the showering of tiles upon the pavement, as 
if the bomb-shells of a besieging army were demolishing the roofs, and rendering it even death to walk the 
streets ! Then for a scene of awful grandeur upon the glorious ocean ! That which, but an hour before, was 
calm and sun-bright, a variety of vessels lying at anchor, or sailing to and fro in serene beauty, then is a 
scene of sublime and chaotic uproar! — the waves rolling and foaming, and dashing their spray over rocks, 
pier-heads, houses, and even over the loftiest towers and churches too, as I have seen it, to an amazing 
extent, till the water ran down the walls like rain, and the windows, at a great distance from the beach, 
were covered with a salt incrustation — the vessels meanwhile labouring amidst the riotous billows as for 
life, and tugging at their cables, as if mad for their escape. 
