“Do paint the meadow with delight.”
“Do paint the meadow with delight.”
We must not stay to pluck and particularize them; for most of them have already had their greeting from us in the two preceding months; and though they insist on repeating themselves during this, they must not expect us to do the same, to the exclusion of others whose claims are newer and not less noticeable. That we may duly attend to these latter, let us pass along beside this flourishing Hedge-row, that skirts the Wood from which we have just emerged.
The first novelty of the Season that greets us here is perhaps the sweetest, the freshest, andfairest of all, and the only one that could supply an adequate substitute for the Hawthorn bloom which it has superseded. Need the Eglantine be named? the “sweet-leaved Eglantine;” the “rain-scented Eglantine;” Eglantine—to which the Sun himself pays homage, by “counting his dewy rosary” on it every morning; Eglantine—which Chaucer, and even Shakespeare—but hold—let me again insist on the Poets not being permitted to set their feet even within the porticos of these pleasant papers; for if once they do, good bye to the control of the rightful owner! I did but invite Mr. Wordsworth in, two months ago, as the reader may remember, just to say a few words in favour of the Daisy, in pure gratitude for his having made it a sort of sin to tread on one,—and lo! there was no getting him out again, till he had poured forth two or three pages full of stanzas, touching that one “wee, modest, crimson-tipped Flower!” Besides, what need have we for the aid of Poets (I meanthePoets, so calledpar excellence) when in the actual presence of that Nature which madethemsuch, and can makeussuch too, if any thing can. In fact, whatsoever the Poets themselves may insinuate to the contrary, to read poetry inthe presence of Nature is a kind of impiety: it is like reading the commentators on Shakespeare, and skipping the text; for you cannot attend to both; to say nothing of Nature’s book being avade mecumthat can make “every man his own poet” for the time being; and there is, after all, no poetry like that which we create for ourselves. Away, then, with the Poets by profession—at least till the winter comes, and we want them.
Begging pardon of the Eglantine for having permitted any thing—even her own likeness in the Poets’ looking-glass—to turn our attention from her real self,—look with what infinite grace she scatters her sweet coronals here and there among her bending branches; or hangs them, half-concealed, among the heavy blossoms of the Woodbine that lifts itself so boldly above her, after having first clung toherfor support; or permits them to peep out here and there close to the ground, and almost hidden by the rank weeds below; or holds out a whole arch-way of them, swaying backward and forward in the breeze, as if praying of the passers hand to pluck them. Let who will praise the Hawthorn—now it is no more! The Wild Rose is the Queen ofForest Flowers, if it be only because she is as unlike a Queen as the absence of every thing courtly can make her.
The Woodbine deserves to be held next in favour during this month; though more on account of itsintellectualthan its personal beauty. All the air is faint with its rich sweetness; and the delicate breath of its lovely rival is lost in the luscious odours which it exhales.
These are the onlyscentedWild Flowers that we shall now meet with in any profusion; for though the Violet may still be found by looking for, its breath has lost much of its spring power. But if we are content with mere beauty, this month is perhaps more profuse of it than any other, even in that department of Nature which we are now examining—namely, the Fields and Woods. The rich hedge-row from which we have just been plucking the Eglantine and the Wild Honeysuckle is fringed all along its borders, and festooned in every part, with gay clusters, some of which appeared for the first time last month, and continue through this, and with numerous others which now first come forth. Most conspicuous among the latter are the brilliant Hound’s tongue; the striped andvariegated Convolvulus; the Wild Scabious, pale and scentless sister of the rich garden one; the Ox-eye, or Great White Daisy, looking, with its yellow centre surrounded by white beams, like the miniature original of the Sun on country sign-posts; the Mallow, that supplies the little children withcheeses; and two or three of the almost animated Orchises, particularly the Bee-Orchis,—which escapes being rifled of its sweets by that general plunderer who gives his name to it, by always seeming to be pre-occupied.
Before quitting the little elevation on which we have commenced our observations, we must take a brief general glance at the various masses of objects that it brings within our view. The Woods and Groves, and the single Forest Trees that rise here and there from out the bounding Hedge-rows, are now in full foliage; all, however, presenting a somewhat sombre, because monotonous, hue, wanting all the tender newness of the Spring, and all the rich variety of the Autumn. And this is the more observable, because the numerous plots of cultivated land, divided from each other by the hedge-rows, and looking, at this distance, like beds in a garden divided by box, are nearly all still invested withthe same green mantle; for the Wheat, the Oats, the Barley, and even the early Rye, though now in full flower, have not yet become tinged with their harvest hues. They are all alike green; and the only change that can be seen in their appearance is that caused by the different lights into which each is thrown, as the wind passes over them. The patches of purple or of white Clover that intervene here and there, and are now in flower, offer striking exceptions to the above, and at the same time load the air with their sweetness. Nothing can be more rich and beautiful in its effect on a distant prospect at this season, than a great patch of purple Clover lying apparently motionless on a sunny upland, encompassed by a whole sea of green Corn, waving and shifting about it at every breath that blows.
Before quitting this Wood-side, let us observe that the hitherto full concert of the singing birds is now beginning to falter, and fall short. We shall do well to make the most of it now; for in two or three weeks it will almost entirely cease till the Autumn. I mean that it will cease as a full concert; for we shall have single songsters all through the Summer at intervals; and thosesome of the sweetest and best. The best of all, indeed, the Nightingale, we have now lost. It is never to be heard for more than two months in this country, and never at all after the young are hatched, which happens about this time. So that the youths and maidens who now go in pairs to the Wood-side, on warm nights, to listen for its song (hoping they maynothear it), are well content to hear each other’s voice instead.
We have still, however, some of the finest of the second class of songsters left; for the Nightingale, like Catalani, is a class by itself. The mere chorus-singers of the Grove are also beginning to be silent; so that thejubilatethat has been chanting for the last month is now over. But the Stephenses, the Trees, the Patons, and the Poveys, are still with us, under the forms of the Woodlark, the Skylark, the Blackcap, and the Goldfinch. And the first-named of these, now that it no longer fears the rivalry of the unrivalled, not seldom, on warm nights, sings at intervals all night long, poised at one spot high up in the soft moonlit air.
We have still another pleasant little singer, the Field Cricket, whose clear shrill voice the warm weather has now matured to its fullstrength, and who must not be forgotten, though he has but one song to offer us all his life long, and that one consisting but of one note; for it is a note of joy, andwillnot be heard without engendering its like. You may hear him in wayside banks, where the Sun falls hot, shrilling out his loud cry into the still air all day long, as he sits at the mouth of his cell; and if you chance to be passing by the same spot at midnight, you may hear it then too.
We must now make our way towards home, noticing a few of the remaining marks of mid-June as we pass along. Now, then, in covert Copses, or on the skirts of dark Woods, the Foxglove rears its one splendid spire of speckled flowers from the centre of its cone of dull, down-hanging leaves.—Now, scarlet Poppies peer up here and there in bright companies among the green shafts of the Corn, and scatter beauty over the mischief they do.—Now, Bees and little boys banquet on the honey-laden flowers of the white Hedge-nettle.—Now, the Brooms put forth their gold and silver blossoms on hitherto barren Heaths, and change them into beauteous gardens.—Now, whole fields of Peas send out their winged blossoms, which look like flocks ofpurple and white butterflies basking in the sun.—Now, too, the Bean, which has little or no perceptible scent when gathered and smelt to singly, growing together in fields breathes forth the most enchanting odour,—only to be come at, however, by the wind, which bears and spreads it half over the adjacent plains.
Now, also, we meet with several new objects among the animated part of the creation, a few only of which we must stay to notice.—Now, the Grasshopper vaults merrily in the meadows, leaping over the tops of their mountains (the molehills), and fancying himself a bird.—Now, the great Dragon-flies shoot with their shining wings through the air, as if bearing some fairy to its distant bower; or hover, apparently motion and motiveless, as if they had forgotten their way, or were waiting to look at some invisible direction-post. We had best not inquire too curiously into their employment at those moments, lest we should find that they are only stopping to take a bait, consisting of some beautiful invisible that had just began to enjoy its age of half an hour.—Now, lastly, as the Sun declines, may be seen, emerging from the surface of shallow streams, and lying there for a while tillits wings are dried for flight, the (misnamed)May-fly. Escaping, after a protracted struggle of half a minute, from its watery birth-place, it flutters restlessly, up and down, up and down, over the same spot, during its whole era of a summer evening; and at last dies, as the last dying streaks of day are leaving the western horizon. And yet, who shall say that in that space of time it has not undergone all the vicissitudes of a long and eventful life? That it has not felt all the freshness of youth, all the vigour of maturity, all the weakness and satiety of old age, and all the pangs of death itself? In short, who shall satisfy us that any essential difference exists betweenitsfour hours andourfourscore years?
Before entering the home inclosure, we must pay due honour to the two grand husbandry occupations of this month; the Hay-harvest, and the Sheep-shearing.
The Hay-harvest, besides filling the whole air with its sweetness, is even more picturesque in the appearances it offers, as well as more pleasant in the associations it calls forth, thantheHarvest in Autumn. What a delightful succession of pictures it presents! First, the Mowers, stooping over their scythes, and moving with measured paces through the early morning mists, interrupted at intervals by the freshening music of the whetstone.
Then—blithe companies of both sexes, ranged in regular array, and moving lengthwise and across the Meadow, each with the same action, and the ridges rising or disappearing behind them as they go:
“There are fortymovinglike one.”—
“There are fortymovinglike one.”—
Then again, when the fragrant crop is nearly fit to be gathered in, and lies piled up in dusky-coloured hillocks upon the yellow sward, while here and there, beneath the shade of a “hedgerow elm,” or braving the open sunshine in the centre of the scene, sunburnt Groups are seated in circles at their noonday meal, enjoying that ease which nothing but labour can generate.
And lastly, when Man and Nature, mutually assisting each other, have completed the work of preparation, and the cart stands still to receive its last forkfull; while the horse, almost hidden beneath his apparently overwhelming load, lifts up his patient head sideways to pick a mouthful; and all about stand the labourers, leaning listlessly on their implements, and eyeing the completion of their work.
What sweet pastoral pictures are here! The last, in particular, is prettier to look upon than any thing else, not excepting one of Wouvermann’s imitations of it.
Sheep-shearing, the other great rural labour of this delightful month, if not so full of variety as the Hay-harvest, and so creative of matter for those “in search of the picturesque” (though it is scarcely less so), is still more lively, animated, and spirit-stirring; and it besides retains something of the character of a Rural Holiday,—which rural matters need, in this age and in this country, more than ever they did since it became a civilized and happy one. The Sheep-shearings are the onlystatedperiods of the year at which we hear of festivities, and gatherings together of the lovers and practisers of English husbandry; for even the Harvest-home itself is fast sinking into disuse, as a scene of mirth and revelry, from the want of being duly encouraged and partaken in by the great ones of the Earth; without whose countenance and example it is questionable whether eating, drinking, and sleeping, would not soon become vulgar practices, and be discontinued accordingly! In a state of things like this, the Holkham and Woburn Sheep-shearings do more honour to their promoters than all theirwealth can purchase and all their titles convey. But we are getting beyond our soundings: honours, titles, and “states of things,” are what we do not pretend to meddle with, especially when the pretty sights and sounds preparatory to and attendant on Sheep-shearing, as a mere rural employment, are waiting to be noticed.
Now, then, on the first really summer’s day, the whole Flock being collected on the higher bank of the pool formed at the abrupt winding of the nameless mill-stream, at the point perhaps where the little wooden bridge runs slantwise across it, and the attendants being stationed waist-deep in the midwater, the Sheep are, after a silent but obstinate struggle or two, plunged headlong, one by one, from the precipitous bank; when, after a moment of confused splashing, their heavy fleeces float them along, and their feet, moving by an instinctive art which every creature but man possesses, guide them towards the opposite shallows, that steam and glitter in the sunshine. Midway, however, they are fain to submit to the rude grasp of the relentless washer; which they undergo with as ill a grace as preparatory-schoolboys do the same operation.Then, gaining the opposite shore heavily, they stand for a moment till the weight of water leaves them, and, shaking their streaming sides, go bleating away towards their fellows on the adjacent green, wondering within themselves what has happened.
The Shearing is no less lively and picturesque, and no less attended by all the idlers of the Village as spectators. The Shearers, seated in rows beside the crowded pens, with the seemingly inanimate load of fleece in their laps, and bending intently over their work; the occasional whetting and clapping of the shears; the neatly attired housewives, waiting to receive the fleeces; the smoke from the tar-kettle, ascending through the clear air; the shorn Sheep escaping, one by one, from their temporary bondage, and trotting away towards their distant brethren, bleating all the while for their Lambs, that do not know them;—all this, with its ground of universal green, and finished every where by its leafy distances, except where the village spire intervenes, forms together a living picture, pleasanter to look upon than words can speak, but still pleasanter to think of whenthatis the nearest approach you can make to it.
We must now betake ourselves to the Garden, which I have perhaps kept aloof from longer than I ought, from something like a fear that the flush of beauty we shall meet there will go near to infringe upon that perfect sobriety of style on which these papers so much pique themselves, and which, I hope, has not hitherto been departed from! What may happen now, however, is more than I shall venture to anticipate. If, therefore, in passing across yonder smooth elastic Turf, now in its fullest perfection, and making our way towards the Flower-plots that are imbedded in it, my imagination should imbibe some of the occasionally undue warmth of the season, and my fancy find itself “half in a blush of clustering roses lost,” and these should together engender a style as flowery as the subject about which it is to concern itself, the reader will be good enough to bear in mind, that even the Berecinian blood of an Irish Barrister can scarcely be made to keep within due bounds, when he has a beauty for his client! nay, that eventheIrish Barristerpar excellenceis sometimes misled into a metaphor, and inveigled into an allitteration, when his theme happens to be more than ordinarily inspiring!
As the Wild Rose is the reigning belle of the Forest during this Month, sotheRose occupies a similar rank in the more courtly realm of the Garden; and the latter is to her sweet relative of the Woods what the centre of the court circle in town (whoever she may be) is to theCynosureof a country village. Here, in these oval clumps, which she has usurped entirely to herself, we find her greeting us under a host of different forms at the same time, all of which are her own, all unlike each other, and yet each and all more lovely than all the rest! I must be content merely to call by name upon a few of the principal of these “fair varieties,” and allow their prototypes in the reader’s imagination to answer for themselves; for the Poets, those purloiners of all public property that is worth possessing, have long precluded us plain prosers from being epithetical in regard to Roses, without incurring the imputation of borrowing that fromthem, whichtheyfirst borrowed from their betters, the Roses themselves.
What, then, can be more enchanting to look upon than this newly-opened Rose of Provence, looking upward half shamefacedly from its fragile stem, as if just awakened from a happydream to a happier reality? It is the loveliest Rose we have, and the sweetest—exceptthis by its side, the Rose-unique, which looks like the image of the other cut in marble—the statue of the Venus de’ Medici beside the living beauty that stood as its model.This, surely,isthe loveliest of all Roses—exceptthe White Blush-Rose, that rises here in the centre of the group, and looks like the marble image of the two former, just as the enamoured gaze of its Pygmalion has warmed it into life. You see, its delicate lips are just becoming tinged with the hues of vitality; and itbreathesalready, as all the air about it bears witness. Undoubtedlythisis the loveliest of Roses—exceptthe Moss Rose that hangs flauntingly beside it, seemingly the most careless, but in reality the most coquettish of court beauties; apparently the sport of every coxcomb Zephyr that passes, but in truth indifferent to all but her own sweet self; and if more modest in her attire than all other of her fair sisterhood, only adopting this particular mode because it makes her look more pretty and piquant. Her “close-fit cap of green,” the fashion of which she never changes, has exactly thatbecomingeffect on her face which a Frenchblondetrimming has on the face of an Englishlondebeauty. But I must refrain from further details, touching the attractions of the Rose family, or I shall inevitably lose my credit with all of them, by discovering some reason why each, as it comes before me, is without exception preferable to all the rest. And, in fact, without wishing to be personal in regard to any, I must insist that, philosophically speaking, that Rose which is nearest at handis, without exception, the best of Roses, in relation to the person affected by it; and that even the gaudy Damask, and the intense velvet-leaved Tuscan (each of which, in its own particular ear be it said, is handsomer than any of the beforenamed), must yield in beauty to the pretty little innocent blossoms of the Sweet-briar Rose itself, when none but that is by.
I am afraid the other Garden Flowers, that first appear in June, must go without their fair proportion of praise, since theywillrisk a rivalry with the unrivalled. They must be content with a passing “now” of recognition. Now, then, the flaring Peony throws up its splendid globesof crimson and blush-colour from out its rich domelike pavilion of dark leaves.—Now, the elegant yet exotic-looking family of the Amaranths begin to put on their fantastical attire of fans, feathers, and fringes. Those, however, which give name to the tribe, the trulyAmaranthine, or Everlasting ones, are not yet come; nor that other, most elegant and pathetic of them all, which is known by the name of Love-lies-bleeding.
Now, the Ranunculus tribe begin to scatter about their many-coloured balls of brilliant light. The Persian ones, when planted in beds, with their infinite varieties of tint and penciling, and their hundred leaves, lapped over each other with such inimitable art, eclipse all the Tulips of the Spring, and would eclipse their Summer rivals the Carnations too, but that the latter are as sweet as they are beautiful.
Now, the delicate Balsams rejoice in the fresh air which is allowed to blow upon them, and which, like too tender maidens, they have been sighing for ever since they came into bloom, without knowing that one rude breath of it would have blown them into the grave.
Now, too, the Fuchsia, that most exquisitely formed of all our flowers, native or exotic, is nolonger confined, like an invalid, to a fixed temperature, but is permitted to mix with its more hardy brethren in the open air.
Now, also, the whole tribe of Geraniums get leave of absence from their winter barracks, and are allowed to keep guard on each side the hall-door, in their gay regimentals of scarlet, crimson, and the rest, ranged “each under each,” according to their respective inches, and all together making up as pretty a show as a crack regiment at a review. What the passers in and out can mean by plucking part of a leaf as they go, rubbing it between their fingers, and then throwing it away, is more than they (the Geraniums) can divine.
The other flowers, that present themselves for the first time in this most fertile of all the months, must be dismissed with a very brief glance at the commonest of them: which epithet, by the way, is always a synonyme for the most beautiful, among flowers. Now, the favourite family of the Pinks shoot up their hundred-leaved heads from out their low ground-loving clump of frosty-looking leaves, and are in such haste to scatter abroad their load of sweetness, that they break down the polished sides of the pretty green vasein which they are set, and hang about it like the tresses of a school-girl on the afternoon of dancing-day.
Now, Sweet-Williams lift up their bold but handsome faces, right against the meridian Sun,—disdaining to shrink or bend beneath his most ardent gaze: whence, no doubt, their claim to the name of William; for no lady-flower would think of doing so!
Now, the Columbine dances apas-seulto the music of the breeze; “being her first appearance this season;” and she performs her part to admiration, notwithstanding her Harlequin husband, Fritillary, has not been heard of for this month past.
Now, the yellow Globe-flower flings up its balls of gold into the air; and the modest little Virginia Stock scatters its rubies, and sapphires, and pearls, profusely upon the ground; and Lupines spread their wings for flight, but cannot, for very fondness, escape from the handsome leaves over which they seem hovering; and Mignonette begins to make good its pretty name; and, finally, the princely Poppy, and the starry Marigold, and the innocent little wild Pansy, and the pretty Pimpernel, and the dear little blue Germander,willspring up, unasked, all over the Garden, and you cannot find in your heart to treat them as weeds.
In the Fruit Garden, all is still for the most part promise: not, however, the flowery and often fallacious promise of the Spring; but that solid and satisfying assurance which one feels in the word of a friend who never breaks it. So that, to the eye and palate of the imagination, this month and the next are richer than those which follow them; for now you can “haveyour fruit andeatit too;” which you cannot do then. In short, now the fruit blossoms are all gone, and the fruit is so fullysetthat nothing can hurt it; and what is better still, it is not yet stealable, either by boys, birds, or bees; so that you are as sure of it as one can be of any thing the enjoyment of which is not actually past. Enjoy it now, then, while you may; in order that, when in the Autumn itdisappears, on the eve of the very day you had destined for the gathering of it (as every body’s fruit does),youalone may feel that you can afford to lose it. Every heir who is worthy to enjoy the estate that is left to him in reversion,doesenjoy it whether it ever comes to him or not.
On looking more closely at the Fruit, we shall find that the Strawberries, which lately (like bold and beautiful children) held out their blossoms into the open sunshine, that all the world might see them, now, that their fruit is about to reach maturity, hide it carefully beneath their low-lying leaves, as conscious virgins do their maturing beauties;—that the Gooseberries and Currants have attained their full growth, and the latter are turning ripe;—that the Wall-fruit is just getting large enough to be seen among the leaves without looking for;—that the Cherries are peeping out in white or “cherry-cheeked” clusters all along their straight branches;—and that the other standards, the Apples, Pears, and Plums, are more or less forward, according to their kinds.
For reasons before hinted at, and in deference to the delicacy of that class of readers for whom these papers are in part propounded, I must, however reluctantly, refrain from descending any lower in the scale of vegetable life. It would ill become me to speak in praise of Green Peas in presence of a Peeress—who could not possibly understand the allusion! Think of mentioning Summer Cabbages within hearing of a Countess,or French Beans to a Baronet’s Lady! I could not do it. I cannot even persuade myself to “mentionHerbsto ears polite!” If it were not for this proper, and indeed necessary restriction, there would be no end to the pleasant sights I might show the ordinary reader during this month, in the Kitchen-garden. But it may not be. I know my duty, and in pursuance of it must now at once “stay my hand, and change my measure.”
Behold us, then, in the heart of London. In the Country, when we left it, Midsummer was just at hand. Here mid-Winter has just passed away! and the Fashionable World finds itself in a condition of the most melancholy intermediateness. It is now much too late to stay in Town, and much too early to go into the Country. And what is worse, all fashionable amusements are at an end in London, and have not yet commenced elsewhere; on the express presumption that there is no one at hand to partake of them in either case. There are two places of public resort, however, which still boast the occasional countenance of people of fashion; probably on account of their corresponding with the intermediate character of the month—not being situated either in London or the Country, but at equal distances from each. I mean Kensington Gardens and Vauxhall. Now, in fact, during the first fortnight, Kensington Gardens is a place not to be paralleled: for the unfashionable portion of my readers are to know, that this delightful spot, which has been utterly deserted during the last age (of seven years), and could not be named during all that period without incurring the odious imputation of having a taste for trees and turf, has now suddenly started into vogue once more, and you may walk there even during the “morning” part of a Sunday afternoon with perfect impunity, always provided you pay a due deference to the decreed hours, and never make your appearance there earlier than twenty minutes before five, or later than half-past six; which is allowing you exactly two hours after breakfast to dress for the Promenade, and an hour after you get home to do the same for dinner: little enough, it must be confessed; but quite as much as the unremitting labour of a life of idleness can afford! Between the abovenamed hours, on the three first Sundays of this month, and the two last of the preceding, you may (weather willing) gladden your gaze with such a galaxy of Beauty and Fashion (I beg to be pardoned for the repetition, for FashionisBeauty) as no other period or place, Almack’s itself not excepted, can boast: for there is no denying that the fair rulers over this last-named rendezvous of the regular troops ofbon tonare somewhat toorecherchéein their requirements. The truth is, that though the said Rulers will not for a moment hesitate to patronise the above proposition under its simple form, they entirely object to that subtle interpretation of it which their sons and nephews would introduce, and on which interpretation the sole essential difference between the two assemblies depends. In fact, at Almack’s Fashion is Beauty; but at Kensington Gardens Beauty and Fashion are one. At any rate, those who have not been present at the latter place during the period above referred to, have not seen the finest sight (with one exception) that England has to offer.
Vauxhall Gardens, which open the first week in this month, are somewhat different from the above, it must be confessed. But they are unique in their way nevertheless. Seen in the darknessof noonday, as one passes by them on the top of the Portsmouth coach, they cut a sorry figure enough. But beneath the full meridian of midnight, what is like them, except some parts of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments? Now, after the first few nights, they begin to be in their glory, and are, on every successive Gala, illuminated with “ten thousandadditionallamps,” and include all the particular attractions of every preceding Gala since the beginning of time!
Now, on fine evenings, the sunshine finds (or rather loses) its way into the galleries of Summer Theatres at whole price, and wonders where it has got to. Now, Boarding-school boys, in the purlieus of Paddington and Mile End, employ the whole of the first week in writing home to their distant friends in London a letter of not less than eight lines, announcing that the “ensuing vacation will commence on the —— instant;” and occupy the remaining fortnight in trying to find out the unknown numerals with which the blank has been filled up.
Finally, now, during the first few days, you cannot walk the streets without waiting, at every crossing, for the passage of whole regiments of little boys in leather breeches, and little girls inwhite aprons, going to church to practise their annual anthem singing, preparatory to that particular Thursday in this month, which is known all over the world of Charity Schools by the name of “walking-day;” when their little voices, ten thousand strong, are to utter forth sounds that shall dwell for ever in the hearts of their hearers. Those who have seen this sight, of all the Charity Children within the Bills of Mortality assembled beneath the dome of Saint Paul’s, and heard the sounds of thanksgiving and adoration which they utter there, have seen and heard what is perhaps better calculated than any thing human ever was to convey to the imagination a faint notion of what we expect to witness hereafter, when the Hosts of Heaven shall utter, withone voice, hymns of adoration before the footstool of the Most High.
At last Summeriscome among us, and her whole world of wealth is spread out before us in prodigal array. The Woods and Groves have darkened and thickened into one impervious mass of sober uniform green, and having for a while ceased to exercise the more active functions of the Spring, are resting from their labours, in that state of “wise passiveness” whichwe, in virtue of our so infinitely greater wisdom, know so little how to enjoy. In Winter, the Trees may be supposed to sleep in a state of insensible inactivity, and in Spring to be labouring with the flood of new life that is pressing through their veins, and forcing them to perform the offices attached to their existence. But in Summer, having reached the middle term of their annual life, they pause in their appointed course, and then, if ever,tastethe nourishment they take in, and “enjoy the air they breathe.” And he who, sitting in Summer time beneath the shadeof a spreading Plane-tree, can see its brave branches fan the soft breeze as it passes, and hear its polished leaves whisper and twitter to each other, like birds at love-making; and yet can feel any thing like an assurance that it doesnotenjoy its existence, knows little of the tenure by which he holds his own, and still less of that by which he clings to the hope of a future. I do not ask him to make it an article of hisfaiththat the flowers feel; but I do ask him, for his own sake, not to make it an article of his faith that theydo not.
Like the Woods and Groves, the Hills and Plains have now put off the bright green livery of Spring; but, unlike them, they have changed it for one dyed in almost as many colours as a harlequin’s coat. The Rye is yellow, and almost ripe for the sickle. The Wheat and Barley are of a dull green, from their swelling ears being alone visible, as they bow before every breeze that blows over them. The Oats are whitening apace, and quiver, each individual grain on its light stem, as they hang like rain-drops in the air. Looked on separately, and at a distance, these three now wear a somewhat dull and monotonous hue, when growing in great spaces;but this makes them contrast the more effectually with the many-coloured patches that every where intermix with them, in an extensively open country; and it is in such a one that we should make ourgeneralobservations, at this finest period of all our year.
What can be more beautiful to look on, from an eminence, than a great Plain, painted all over with the party-coloured honours of the early portion of this month, when the all-pervading verdure of the Spring has passed away, and before the scorching heats of Summer have had time to prevail over the various tints and hues that have taken its place? The principal share of the landscape will probably be occupied by the sober hues of the above-named Corns. But these will be intersected, in all directions, by patches of the brilliant emerald which now begins to spring afresh on the late-mown meadows; by the golden yellow of the Rye, in some cases cut, and standing in sheaves; by the rich dark green of the Turnip-fields; and still more brilliantly, by sweeps, here and there, of the bright yellow Charlock, the scarlet Corn-poppy, and the blue Succory, which, like perverse beauties, scatter the stray gifts of their charms in proportion asthe soil cannot afford to support the expenses attendant on them.
Still keeping in the open Fields, let us come into a little closer contact with some of the sights which they present this month. The high Down on which we took our stand, to look out upon the above prospect, has begun to feel the parching influence of the Sun, and is daily growing browner and browner beneath its rays; but, to make up for this, all the little Molehills that cover it are purple with the flowers of the wild Thyme, which exhales its rich aromatic odour as you press it with your feet; and among it the elegant blue Heath-bell is nodding its half-dependent head from its almost invisible stem,—its perpetual motion, at the slightest breath of air, giving it the look of a living thing hovering on invisible wings just above the ground. Every here and there, too, we meet with little patches of dark green Heaths, hung all over with their clusters of exquisitely wrought filigree flowers, endless in the variety of their forms, but all of the most curiously delicate fabric, and all, in their minute beauty, unparalleled by the proudest occupiers of the Parterre. This is the singular family of Plants that, when cultivated inpots, and trained to form heads on separate stems, give one the idea of the Forest Trees of a Lilliputian people. Those who think there is nothing in Nature too insignificant for notice, will not ask us to quit our present spot of observation (a high turf-covered Down) without pointing out the innumerable little thread-like spikes that now rise from out the level turf, with scarcely perceptible seed-heads at top, and keep the otherwise dead flat perpetually alive, by bending and twinkling beneath the Sun and breeze.
Descending from our high observatory, let us take our way through one of the pretty green Lanes that skirt or intersect the Plain we have been looking down upon. Here we shall find the ground beneath our feet, the Hedges that inclose us on either side, and the dry Banks and damp Ditches beneath them, clothed in a beautiful variety of flowers that we have not yet had an opportunity of noticing. In the Hedge-rows (which are now grown into impervious walls of many-coloured and many-shaped leaves, from the fine filigree-work of the White-thorn, to the large, coarse, round leaves of the Hazel) we shall find the most remarkable of these, winding upintricately among the crowded branches, and shooting out their flowers here and there, among other leaves than their own, or hanging themselves into festoons and fringes on the outside, by unseen tendrils. Most conspicuous among the first of these is the great Bind-weed, thrusting out its elegantly-formed snow-white flowers, but carefully concealing its leaves and stem in the thick of the shrubs which yield it support. Nearer to the ground, and more exposed, we shall meet with a handsome relative of the above, the common red and white wild Convolvolus; while all along the face of the Hedge, clinging to it lightly, the various coloured Vetches, and the Enchanter’s Night-shade, hang their flowers into the open air; the first exquisitely fashioned, with wings like the Pea, only smaller; and the other elaborate in its construction, and even beautiful, with its rich purple petals turned back to expose a centre of deep yellow; but still, with all its beauty, not without a strange and sinister look, which at once points it out as a poison-flower. It is this which afterwards turns to those bunches of scarlet berries which hang so temptingly in Autumn, just within the reach of little children, and which itrequires all the eloquence of their grandmothers to prevent them from tasting. In the midst of these, and above them all, the Woodbine now hangs out its flowers more profusely than ever, and rivals in sweetness all the other field scents of this month.
On the bank from which the Hedge-row rises, and onthisside of the now nearly dry water-channel beneath, fringing the border of the green path on which we are walking, a most rich variety of Field Flowers will also now be found. We dare not stay to notice the half of them, because their beauties, though even more exquisite than those hitherto described, are of that unobtrusive nature that you must stoop to pick them up, and must come to an actual commune with them, before they can be even seen distinctly; which is more than our desultory and fugitive gaze will permit,—the plan of our walk only allowing us to pay the passing homage of a word to those objects thatwillnot be overlooked. Many of the exquisite little Flowers, now alluded to generally, look, as they lie among their low leaves, only like minute morsels of many-coloured glass scattered upon the green ground—scarlet, and sapphire, and rose, and purple, and white,and azure, and golden. But pick them up, and bring them towards the eye, and you will find them pencilled with a thousand dainty devices, and elaborated into the most exquisite forms and fancies, fit to be strung into necklaces for fairy Titania, or set in broaches and bracelets for the neatest-handed of her nymphs.
The little flowers of which I now speak,—with their minute blossoms, scarcely bigger than pins’ heads, scattered singly among their low-lying leaves,—are the Veronicas, particularly that called the Wild Germander, with its flowers coloured like no others, nor like any thing else, except the Turquoise; the Scarlet Pimpernel; the Red Eyebright; and the Bastard Pimpernel, the smallest of flowers. All these, however, and their like, I must pass over (as the rest of the world does) without noticing them particularly; but not without commending them to the reader’s best leisure, and begging him to give to each one of them more of it than I have any hope he will bestow on me, or than he would bestow half so well if he did.
But there are many others that come into bloom this month, some of which we cannot pass unnoticed if we would. We shall meet with mostof them in this green Lane, and beside the paths through the meadows and corn-fields as we proceed homeward. Conspicuous among them are the Centaury, with its elegant cluster of small, pink, star-like flowers; the Ladies’ Bed-straw, with its rich yellow tufts; the Meadow-sweet—sweetest of all the sweeteners of the Meadows; the Wood Betony, lifting up its handsome head of rose-coloured blossoms; and, still in full perfection, and towering up from among the low groundlings that usually surround it, the stately Fox-glove.
Among the other plants that now become conspicuous, the Wild Teasal must not be forgotten, if it be only on account of the use that one of the Summer’s prettiest denizens sometimes makes of it. The Wild Teasal (which now puts on as much the appearance of a flower as its rugged nature will let it) is that species of thistle which shoots up a strong serrated stem, straight as an arrow, and beset on all sides by hard sharp-pointed thorns, and bearing on its summit a hollow egg-shaped head, also covered at all points with the same armour of threatening thorns—as hard, as thickly set, and as sharp as a porcupine’s quills. Often within this fortress, impregnable to birds, bees, and even to mischievous boys themselves, that beautiful Moth which flutters about so gaily during the first weeks of Summer, on snow-white wings spotted all over with black and yellow, takes up its final abode,—retiring thither when weary of its desultory wanderings, and after having prepared for the perpetuation of its ephemeral race, sleeping itself to death, to the rocking lullaby of the breeze.
Now, too, if we pass near some gently lapsing water, we may chance to meet with the splendid flowers of the Great Water Lily, floating on the surface of the stream like some fairy vessel at anchor, and making visible, as it ripples by it, the elsewhere imperceptible current. Nothing can be more elegant than each of the three different states under which this flower now appears;—the first, while it lies unopened among its undulating leaves, like the Halcyon’s egg within its floating nest; next, when its snowy petals are but half expanded, and you are almost tempted to wonder what beautiful bird it is that has just taken its flight from such a sweet birth-place; and lastly, when the whole flower floats confessed, and spreading wide upon the water its pointed petals, offers its whole heart to the enamoured sun. There is I know not what ofawful, in the beauty of this flower. It is, to all other flowers, what Mrs. Siddons is to all other women.
In the same water, congregating together towards the edge, and bowing their black heads to the breeze, we shall now see those strange anomalies in vegetation, the flowers, or fruit, or whatever else they are to be called, of the Bullrush, the delight of village boys, when, like their betters, they are disposed to “play at soldiers.” And on the bank, the handsome Iris hangs out its pale flag, as if to beg a truce of the besieging sun.
Before entering the Garden, to luxuriate among the flocks of Flowers that are waiting for us there, let us notice a few of the miscellaneous objects that present themselves this month in the open country. Now, then, cattle wade into shallow pools of warm water, and stand half the day there stock still, in exact imitation of Cuyp’s pictures.—Now, breechesless little boys become amphibious,—daring each other to dive off banks a foot high, to the bottom of water two feet deep.—Now, country gentlemen who wander through new-cut Rye-fields, or across sunny meadows, are first startled from their reveries by the rushing sound of many wings, and straightway lay gunpowder plots against the peace of partridges, and have visions redolent of double-barrelled guns.—Now, another class of children, of a smaller growth than the above, go through one of their preparatory lessons in the pleasant and profitable art of lying, by persuading Lady-birds to “fly away home” from the tops of their extended fingers, on the forged information that “their house is on fire, their children at home.”
Now, those most active and industrious of the feathered tribes, the Swallows and House Martins, bring out their young broods into the cherishing sunshine, and having taught them to provide for themselves, they send them “about their business,” of congregating on slate-roofed houses and churches, and round the tops of belfry towers; while they (the parents) proceed in their periodical duty of providing new flocks of the same kind of “fugitive pieces,” as regularly as the editors of a Magazine.
Now may be observed that singular phenomenon which (like all other phenomena) puzzles all those observers who never take the trouble of observing. Whole meadows, lanes, and commons,are covered, for days together, with myriads of young Frogs, no bigger than horse-beans,—though there is no water in the immediate neighbourhood, where they are likely to have been bred, and the ponds and places where theyarelikely to breed are entirely empty of them. “Wherecanthey have come from in this case, but from the clouds?” say the before-named observers. Accordingly, from the clouds theydocome, the opinion of all such searching inquirers; and I am by no means sure they will be at all obliged to me for telling them, that the water in which these animals are born is not their natural element, and that, on quitting their Tad-pole state, they choose the first warm shower tomigratefrom their birth-place, in search of that food and home which cannot be foundthere. The circumstance of their almost always appearing for the first time after a warm shower, no doubt encourages the searchers after mystery in assigning them a miraculous origin.
Now, the Bees (those patterns of all that is praiseworthy in domestic and political economy) give practical lessons on the Principles of Population, by expelling from the hive,vi et armis, all those heretofore members of it who refuse toaid the commonweal by working for their daily honey. When they need those services which none but the Drones can perform, they let them live in idleness and feed luxuriously. But as the good deeds of the latter are of that class which “in doing pay themselves,” those who benefit by them think that they owe the doers no thanks, and therefore, when they no longer need them, send them adrift, or if they will not go, sacrifice them without mercy or remorse. And this—be it known to all whom it may concern (and those are not a few)—this is the very essence of Natural Justice.
Now, as they are wandering across the meadows thinking of nothing less, gleams of white among the green grass greet the eyes of bird-nesting boys, who all at once dart upon the welcome prize, and draw out from its hiding-place piece-meal what was once a Mushroom; and forthwith mushrooming becomes the order of the day.—Now, the lowermost branches of the Lime-tree are “musical with Bees,” who eagerly beset its almost unseen blossoms—richer in sweets than the sweetest inhabitants of the garden.
Finally, now we occasionally have one of thosesultry days which make the house too hot to hold us, and force us to seek shelter in the open air, which is hotter;—when the interior of the Blacksmith’s shop looks awful, and we expect the foaming porter pot to hiss, as the brawny forger dips his fiery nose into it;—when the Birds sit open-mouthed upon the bushes; and the Fishes fry in the shallow ponds; and the Sheep and Cattle congregate together in the shade, and forget to eat;—when pedestrians along dusty roads quarrel with their coats and waistcoats, and cut sticks to carry them across their shoulders; and cottagers’ wives go about their work gown-less; and their daughters are anxious to do the same, but that they have the fear of the Vicar before their eyes;—when every thing seen beyond a piece of parched soil quivers through the heated air; and when, finally, a snow-white Swan, floating above its own image, upon a piece of clear cool water into which a Weeping-Willow is dipping its green fingers, is a sight not to be turned from suddenly.
But we must no longer delay to glance at the Garden, which is now fuller of beauty than ever: for nearly all the flowers of last month still continue in perfection, and for one that has disappeared, half a dozen have started forward to supply its place.
Against the house, or overhanging the shaded arbour, among Shrubs, we have the Jasmin, shooting out its stars of white light from among its throng of slender leaves; and the white Clematis (well worthy of both its other names, of Virgin’s Bower, and Traveller’s Joy) flinging its wreaths of scented snow athwart the portico, and rivaling the Hawthorn in sweetness; and the Syringa, sweeter still. Now, too, the large Lilies lift up their lofty heads proudly, and do not seem to forget that they once held the rank of Queens of the Garden;—the rich-scented white one looking, in comparison with the red, what a handsome Countess does to a handsome Cook-maid.
Among the less aspiring we have now several whose beauty almost makes us forget their want of sweetness. Conspicuous among these are the Convolvulus, whose elegant trumpet-shaped cups open their blue eyes to greet the sun, and, at his going down, close them never to open again; and the Nasturtium, as gaudy in its scarlet and gold as an Officer of the Guards on a levee day; and the fine-cut Indian Pink; and theprofuse Larkspur, all flower, shooting up its many-coloured cones here and there at random, or ranging them in rich companies, that rival the Tulip-beds of the Spring.
In the Orchard and Fruit-Garden the hopes of the last month begin in part to be realized, and in all to be confirmed. The elegant Currant, red and white (the Grape of our northern latitudes), now hangs its transparent bunches close about the parent stem, and looks through its green embowering leaves most invitingly. But there you had best let it hang as yet, till the Autumn has sweetened its wine with sunbeams: for Autumn is your only honest wine-maker in this country; all others sweeten with sugar-of-lead instead of sunshine.—The Gooseberry, too, has gained its full growth, but had better be left where it is for awhile, to mature its pleasant condiment. As for the Tarts into which it is the custom to translate it during this and the last month,—they are “pleasant but wrong.”—Now, too, is in full perfection the most grateful fruit that grows, and the most wholesome—the Strawberry. I grieve to be obliged to make “odious comparisons” of this kind, between things that are all alike healthful, wherethe partakers of them are living under natural and healthful circumstances. But if Manwilllive upon what was not intended for him, he must be content to see whatwasintended for him lose its intended effect. The Strawberry is the only fruit in which we may indulge to excess with impunity: accordingly I hereby give all my readers (the young ones in particular) Mr. Abernethy’s full permission to commit a debauch of Strawberries once every week during this month, always provided they can do it at the bed itself; for otherwise they are taking an unfair advantage of nature, and must expect that she will make reprisals on them.—Now, too, the Raspberry is delicious, if gathered and eaten at its place of growth. There it is fragrant and full of flavour, elsewhere flat and insipid.
The other fruits of this month are Apricot, one or two of the early Apples, and if the season is forward a few Cherries. But of these, the two latter belong by rights to the next month; so till then we leave them. And as for Apricots, they look handsome enough at a distance, against the wall; but they offer so barefaced an imitation of the outward appearance of Peaches and Nectarines, without possessing any one of their intrinsicmerits, that I have a particular contempt for them, and beg the reader to dismiss them from his good graces accordingly.
Of London in July—“LondoninJuly?”—surely there can be no such place! It sounds like a kind of contradiction in terms. But, alas! thereissuch a place, as yonder thick cloud of dust, and the blare of the horn that issues from it, too surely indicate. And what is worse, we must, in pursuance of our self-imposed duty, proceed thither without delay. We cannot, therefore, do better (or worse) than mount the coming vehicle (the motto of which at this time of the year ought to be “per me si va nella citta, dolente,”) and,