MAY.

“————look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky?”

But he will be likely to look in vain; for so shy are they, that lucky (or ratherunlucky, to my thinking) is he who has everseena cuckoo. I well remember that from the first moment I saw one flutter heavily out of an old hawthorn bush, and flurr awkwardly away across the meadow, as I was listening in rapt attention to its lonely voice, the mystery of the sound was gone, and with it no small share of its beauty.

If we happen to be wandering forth on a warm still evening during the last week in this month, and passing near a roadside orchard, or skirting a little copse in returning from our twilight ramble, or sitting listlessly on a lawn near some thick plantation, waiting for bedtime, we may chance to be startled from our meditations (of whatever kind they may be) by a sound, issuing from among the distant leaves, that scares away the silence in a moment, and seems to put to flighteven the darkness itself;—stirring the spirit, and quickening the blood, as no other mere sound can, unless it be that of a trumpet calling to battle. That is the Nightingale’s voice. The cold spells of winter, that had kept him so long tongue-tied, and frozen the deep fountains of his heart, yield before the mild breath of Spring, and he is voluble once more. It is as if the flood of song had been swelling within his breast ever since it last ceased to flow; and was now gushing forth uncontrollably, and as if he had no will to control it: for when it does stop for a space, it is suddenly, as if for want of breath. In our climate the nightingale seldom sings above six weeks; beginning usually the last week in April. I mention this because many, who would be delighted to hear him, do not think of going to listen for his song till after it has ceased. I believe it is never to be heard after the young are hatched.

Now, too, the pretty, pert-looking Blackcap first appears, and pours forth his tender and touching love-song, scarcely inferior, in a certain plaintive inwardness, to the autumn song of the Robin. The mysterious little Grasshopper Lark also runs whispering within the hedgerows; theRedstart pipes prettily upon the apple trees; the golden-crowned Wren chirps in the kitchen-garden, as she watches for the new sown seeds; and lastly, the Thrush, who has hitherto given out but a desultory note at intervals to let us know that he was not away, now haunts the same tree, and frequently the same branch of it, day after day, and sings an “English Melody” that even Mr. Moore himself could not write appropriate words to.

Though all the above-named are what are commonly called birds of passage, yet from their not congregating together, and from their particular habits (except of singing) being consequently but little observed, we are accustomed to blend them among the general class of English birds, and look upon them as if they belonged to us. But now also first come among us (whether from a far off land, or from their secret homes within our own, remains to this day undetermined) those mysterious and interesting strangers that enliven all the air of Spring and Summer with their foreign manners, and the infinite variety of whose movements it is almost as pleasant to watch as it is to listen to the modulations of their vocal brethren. I allude to the Swallowtribe, who come usually in the following order, namely, first the Sand-Martin, the least noticeable of the tribe, and not affecting the dwellings of man; then the House or Chimney Swallow; then the House Martin; and lastly the Swift. Those who can see shoot past them, like a thought, the first swallow of the year, and yet continue pondering on their own affairs as if nothing had happened, may be assured that “the seasons and their change” were not made for them, and that, whatever they may fancy they feel to the contrary, Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter are to them mere words, indicating the periods when rents are payable and interest becomes due.

As the Swallow tribe do nothing, for the first fortnight after their arrival, but disport themselves, we will leave them and the rest of the feathered tribe for the present. We shall have sufficient opportunities of observing all their pretty ways hereafter.

I am afraid we must now quit the country altogether,asthe country; not however without mentioning that now begins that most execrable of all practices, Angling. Now Man, “lordly man,” first begins to set his wit to a simple fish;and having succeeded in attracting it to his lure, watches it for a space floundering about in its crystal waters, in the agonies of death; and when he is tired of thissport, drags it to the green bank, among the grass, and moss, and wild-flowers, and stains them all with its blood![2]The “gentle” reader may be sure that I would willingly have refrained altogether from forcing upon his attention this hateful subject, especially amid such scenes and objects as we have just been contemplating: but I was afraid that my “silence” might have seemed to “give consent” to the practice.

We must now transport ourselves to the environs of London, and see what this happy season is producing there; for to leave the very heart of the country, and cast ourselves at once into the very heart of town, would be likely to put us in a temper ill suited to the time.

Now, on Palm Sunday, boys and girls (youths and maidens have got much above so “childish” a practice) may be met early in the morning, in blithe though breakfastless companies, sallyingforth towards the pretty outlets about Hampstead and Highgate on one side of the water, and Clapham and Camberwell on the other (all of which they innocently imagine to be “The Country”), there to sport away the pleasant hours till dinner-time, and then return home, with joy in their hearts, endless appetites in their stomachs, and bunches of the Sallow Willow with its silken bloom-buds in their hands, as trophies of their travels.

Now, at last, the Easter week is arrived, and the Poor have for once in the year the best of it,—setting all things, but their own sovereign will, at a wise defiance. The journeyman who works on Easter Monday should lose hiscaste, and be sent to the Coventry of Mechanics, wherever that may be. In fact, it cannot happen. On Easter Monday ranks change places; Jobson is as good as Sir John; the “rude mechanical” is “monarch of all he surveys” from the summit of Greenwich Hill, and when he thinks fit to say “It is our royal pleasure to be drunk!” who shall dispute the proposition? Not I, for one. When our English mechanics accuse their betters of oppressing them, the said betters should reverse the old appeal, and refer from Philip soberto Philip drunk; and then nothing more could be said. ButNOW, theyhaveno betters, even in their own notion of the matter. And in the name of all that is transitory, envy them not their brief supremacy! It will be over before the end of the week, and they will be as eager to return to their labour as they now are to escape from it; for the only thing that an Englishman, whether high or low, cannot endure patiently for a week together, is, unmingled amusement. At this time, however, he is determined to try. Accordingly, on Easter Monday all the narrow lanes and blind alleys of our metropolis pour forth their dingy denizens into the suburban fields and villages, in search of the said amusement, which is plentifully provided for them by another class, even less enviable than the one on whose patronage they depend; for of all callings, the most melancholy is that of Purveyor of Pleasure to the poor.

During the Monday our determined holiday maker, as in duty bound, contrives, by the aid of a little or not a little artificial stimulus, to be happy in a tolerably exemplary manner. On the Tuesday, hefancieshimself happy to-day, because hefelthimself so yesterday. On theWednesday he cannot tell what has come to him, but every ten minutes he wishes himself at home, where he never goes but to sleep. On Thursday he finds out the secret, that he is heartily sick of doing nothing; but is ashamed to confess it; and then what is the use of going to work before his money is spent? On Friday he swears that he is a fool for throwing away the greatest part of his quarter’s savings without having any thing to show for it, and gets gloriously drunk with the rest to prove his words; passing the pleasantest night of all the week in a watch-house. And on Saturday, after thanking “his Worship” for his good advice, of which he does not remember a word, he comes to the wise determination, that, after all, there is nothing like working all day long in silence, and at night spending his earnings and his breath in beer and politics!—So much for the Easter week of a London holiday maker.

But there is a sport belonging to Easter Monday which is not confined to the lower classes; and which fun forbid that I should pass over silently. If the reader has not, during his boyhood, performed the exploit of riding to the Turn-out of the Stag on Epping Forest—following the houndsall day long at a respectful distance—returning home in the evening with the loss of nothing but his hat, his hunting whip, and his horse, not to mention a portion of his nether person—and finishing the day by joining the Lady Mayoress’s Ball at the Mansion-House; if the reader has not done all this when a boy, I will not tantalize him by expiating on the superiority of those who have. And if hehasdone it, I need not tell him that he has no cause to envy his friend who escaped with a flesh wound from the fight of Waterloo; for there is not a pin to choose between them.

I have little to tell the reader in regard to London exclusively, this month; which is lucky, because I have left myself less than no space at all to tell it in. I must mention, however, that now is heard in her streets the prettiest of all the cries which are peculiar to them—“Come, buy my Primroses!” and but for which the Londoners would have no idea that Spring was at hand.

Now, too, spoiled children make “fools” of their mammas and papas; which is but fair, seeing that the said mammas and papas returnthe compliment during all the rest of the year. Now, not even a sceptical apprentice (for such there be now-a-days, thanks to the enlightening effects of universal education) but is religiously persuaded of the merits ofGoodFriday, and the propriety of its being so called, since it procures him two Sundays in the week instead of one.

Finally,—now, Exhibitions of Paintings court the public gaze, and obtain it, in every quarter; on the principle, I suppose, that the eye has, at this season of the year, a natural hungering and thirsting after the colours of the Spring leaves and flowers, and rather than not meet with them at all, is content to find them on painted canvas!

Spring is with us once more, pacing the earth in all the primal pomp of her beauty, with flowers and soft airs and the song of birds every where about her, and the blue sky and the bright clouds above. But there is one thing wanting, to give that happy completeness to her advent, which belonged to it in the elder times; and without which it is like a beautiful melody without words, or a beautiful flower without scent, or a beautiful face without a soul. The voice of Man is no longer heard, hailing her approach as she hastens to bless him; and his choral symphonies no longer meet and blessherin return—bless her by letting her behold and hear the happiness that she comes to create. The soft songs of women are no longer blended with her breath as it whispers among the new leaves; their slender feet no longer traceherfootsteps in the fields and woods and wayside copses, or dance delighted measures round the flowery offerings that she prompted their lovers to place before them on the village green. Even the little children themselves, that have an instinct for the Spring, and feel it to the very tips of their fingers, are permitted to let May come upon them, without knowing from whence the impulse of happiness that they feel proceeds, or whither it tends. In short,

“All the earth is gay;Land and seaGive themselves up to jollity,And with the heart of MayDoth every beast keep holiday:”

while man, man alone, lets the season come without glorying in it; and when it goes he lets it go without regret; as if “all seasons and their change” were alike to him; or rather, as if he were the lord of all seasons, and they were to do homage and honour to him, instead of he to them! How is this? Is it that we have “sold our birthright for a mess of pottage?”—that we have bartered “our being’s end and aim” for a purse of gold? Alas! thus it is:

“The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:Little we see in nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away—a sordid boon!”

And the consequence is, that, if we would know the true nature of those hearts, and the manner in which they are adapted to receive and act upon the impressions that come to them from external things, we must gain what we seek at secondhand; we must look into the records that have been copied from hearts that lived and beat ages ago; for in our own breasts we shall find only a blurred and scribbled sheet, or at best but a blank one. Even among our poets, the passions, characters, and events growing out of an over-civilized state of society, have usurped the place of those primary impulses and impressions in the susceptibility to receive which the poetical temperament mainly consists; and instead of Nature and her works being any longer the theme of our verse, these are only brought in as occasional aids and ornaments, to show off, notmanas he essentially is in all time, butmenas they accidentally are in the nineteenth century. It is true that one of our poets, and he the greatest, has nearly escaped the polluting influence of towns and cities. But in doing so, he has been compelled to take such close shelter within the citadel of his own heart, that hismental health has somewhat suffered from a want of due airing and exercise. And this it is which will, in a great measure, prevent his works from calling us back to that vigorous and healthful condition which they otherwise might. No, even Mr. Wordsworth himself has not been able, from the loopholes of his retreat, to take that kind of glance at “man, nature, and society,” which will enable him so to adapt himself to our wants as to do more than persuade us of their existence. To supply or set aside those wants will demand even a greater than he: unless indeed (as I fear) we are “hurt past allpoetry,” and must look for a cure to that Nature alone which we have so long despised and outraged. But be this as it may, we are still able tofeelwhat Nature is, though we have in a great measure ceased toknowit; though we have chosen to neglect her ordinances, and absent ourselves from her presence, we still retain some instinctive reminiscences of her beauty and her power; and every now and then the sordid walls of those mud hovels which we have built for ourselves, and choose to dwell in, fall down before the magic touch of our involuntary fancies, and giveus glimpses into “that imperial palace whence we came,” and make us yearn to return thither, though it be but in thought.

“Then sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!And let the young lambs boundAs to the tabor’s sound!Wein thoughtwill join your throng,Ye that pipe and ye that play,Ye that through your hearts to-dayFeel the gladness of theMay!”

Meet me, then, gentle reader, here on this Village Green, and forgetting that there are such places as cities in the world, let us “do observance to a morn of May:” we shall find it almost as pleasant an employment as money-getting itself! From this spot we can observe specimens of many of those objects which are now in their fullest beauty, and which we were obliged to pass over at our last meeting.

The stately Horse-chestnut is in still greater perfection than it was last month—each of its pyramidal flowers looking like a “picture in little” of the great American Aloe. The Limes, too, that shade the lower windows of the Parsonage, and the Honeysuckles that make a little bower of its trellised doorway, are now in full leaf.

By the sunshine, which falls in bright patches on this broad walk leading to the Church, we may observe that the Elms are not as yet in full leaf; and casting our eyes upward, we shall see, through the intervals between the thinly spread leaves, spots of blue sky looking down upon us like a host of blue eyes. In the little Churchyard the graves are all covered with a flush of new green, spotted here and there with Daisies, which make even them look gay; the Ivy, which binds together the stones of the old belfry, is every where putting forth its young shoots; and the dark Yew itself, that shades the low porch, feels the influence of the season, and is once more putting on a look of green old age.

Let us now pass over the little stile that divides this sadly sweet inclosure from the adjacent paddock, and make our way into the open fields beyond. But what is this rich perfume, that comes floating past us as we go, borne on the warm breeze like incense? What but the sweet breath of the Hawthorn, blended (for those who have organs delicate enough to distinguish it) with that of the Violet, which grows about its roots, and steams up its plaintive odours from acrowd of hidden censers, till they reach the clouds of sweetness that are hanging above, and both are borne away together on the wings of every wind that passes. Those who are not accustomed to theharmony of scents, and cannot detect two or three together when they are blended in this manner, are exactly in the situation of those who are only susceptible of themelodiesof music, and can hear nothing inharmonybut asingle sound.

One of the loveliest objects in the vegetable kingdom is a fine-grown Hawthorn tree, in the state in which we meet with it this month. But they are scarcely ever to be found in the open country, being of such extremely slow growth that they require particular advantages of soil, protection from the depredations of cattle, &c. before they can be made to reach the state ofa tree. They are seldom to be met with in this state except in parks and pleasure-grounds; and even then they require to stand perfectly alone, or they do not gain that picturesque elegance of form on which so much of their beauty depends. There are some, I remember, both pink and white, in the deer-park of MaudlinCollege, that area sightto look upon. The extreme beauty of this tree when in blossom arises partly from the delightful mixture of the leaves and blossoms together,—almost all the other trees that can properly be calledfloweringones putting forth their blossoms before they have acquired sufficient green leaves to contrast with and set them off. There is another tree that we have not yet noticed, the Sycamore, the effect of which, when it is suffered to grow singly, is extremely elegant at this season.

Now, too, and not till now, the Oak, the Walnut, and the Mulberry begin to put forth their leaves, offering us, even till the commencement of June, a seeming renewal or lengthening out of the Spring, when all the rest of the vegetable world has put on the hues of Summer. The two first of these, however, have during the first fortnight of their vegetation the brown and golden hues of Autumn upon them.

But we must be more brief in our search after the beauties of May, or we shall not have space to name the half of them. Let us turn, then, towards our home inclosures; glancing, as we pass, at a few more of those sweet sights whichbelong to the fields exclusively. And first let us feed our eyes with the brilliant green of yonder Wheat-field. The stems, you see, have just attained height enough to wave gracefully in the wind; which, as it passes over them, seems to convert the whole into a beautiful lake of bright green undulating water. That Meadow which adjoins it, glittering all over with yellow King-cups, is no less bright and beautiful. It looks like the bed where Jupiter visited Danäe in a shower of gold. How pretty, too, are these Cowslips, starting up close beside our path, as if anxious to be seen, and yet hanging down their modest heads, as if afraid to meet the gaze that they seem to court.

We must delay for a moment beside this pretty Hedgerow, to observe a few more of the various coloured weeds (so called by those manufacturers of artificial flowers, the gardeners) which first put forth their blossoms this month. Conspicuous is the Campion, rising from the bank, with its single lake-coloured flowers scattered aloof from each other, upon their long bare stems. Among the lower leaves of these, rising from the ditch below, the Water-violetrears its elegant head, consisting of rosy clusters ranged tier above tier, and lessening towards the top, till they form a flowery pyramid. About the edges of the banks, low on the ground, are scattered the Hyacinths in blue profusion, relieved here and there by the white Cuckoo-flower, or Lady-smock, the plain, but sweet-scented Woodruff, and the sunny Dandelion; while, close beneath the overhanging hedgerow, the Cuckoo-pint stands motionless in its green pavilion, and seems to keep watch, like a sentinel, over the flowery tribe around.

But see! yonder Butterfly, fluttering past us like a winged flower, reminds us that now come forth that ephemeral race whose lives are scarcely of longer date than those of the flowers on whose aroma they feed.

Now, shoot past us, like winged arrows, or hover near us like Fairies’ messengers come to bring us tidings of the Summer, those frail creatures—green, and purple, and gold—borne on invisible gossamer wings,—of which the flying dragons of fairy and of pantomime-land are but clumsy imitations. Now, blithe companies of Gnats hum and hover up and down in the warmair, like motes in a sunbeam. Now, the wayside Cricket begins to chirrup forth its monotonous mirth; for ever harping on one note, and never tiring or growing tired. Now, the great Humble Bee goes booming along, startling the pleased ear as he passes; or hurries suddenly out of the heart of some wayside flower, and leaves it trembling at his departure, as if a thought of his distant home had disturbed him in the midst of his blithe labours. Now, in the early dusk, the heavy Cockchafer hums drowsily along, or flurs from out some near lime-tree, and flings his mailed form (as if on purpose) into the face of the startled passenger. Now, at night, the Glow-worm shows her bright love-lamp to her distant mate, as he floats in the dim air above; and, seeing it, he closes his thin wings about him, and drops down to her side.

Now, the most active and industrious of all the smaller birds, the Swallow tribe, begin to devote themselves seriously to the business of the season. They have hitherto, since their first appearance, been sporting about in seeming idleness. But without this needful exercise and relaxation they would not be fit to go through the henceforth unceasing toils of the Summer;for they have two or three broods to bring up before they retire, each of which, when hatched, requires the incessant toil of the parents from light till dark, to provide them food,—so dainty and delicate are they in the choice of it. Now, during this month, they begin and complete their dwellings; the House-swallow in the shafts of chimneys, thus providing their young at once with warmth and safety; the confiding Martin in the windows, and under the eaves, of our houses; and the Swift within the clefts of castles and other high old buildings, where “the air is delicate.”

Finally, now many of the earlier builders aresitting, and some few have hatched their broods. Let those who would contemplate, in imagination, the most perfect state of tranquil happiness of which a sentient being is susceptible, gaze (still in imagination, for actual sight would break the spell for both parties) on the mother bird, breasting her warm eggs beneath the shade of some retired covert, while her vocal lover (made vocal by his love) sits on some near bough beside, and pours into her listening heart the joy thatwillnot be contained within his own.

In the Garden we now find all the promises of April completed, and a host of others springing up, to be fulfilled in their turn during the rest of the season. But May, notwithstanding its reputation in this particular, is not to be considered as,par excellence, the Month of Flowers, at least in this climate, and in respect to those flowers which have now become exclusively garden ones: though ofwildflowers, and of blossoms which are afterwards to produce fruit, it is the month. Of the annuals, for instance, which make so rich a show in common gardens, (and it is of those alone that these unexotic pages profess to speak), none flower in May; but all of them mix up their many-shaded greens, and contrast their various shaped forms, with those that do. Among these latter are, in addition to those of last month which still continue in blow, the rich-scented Wall-flower; the flower of as many names as colours, the prettiest of which is taken from that feeling which the sight of it gives—Heart’s-ease; Crown-imperial; Lily of the Valley, most delicate of all the vegetable tribe, both in shape and odour,—its bright little illumination-lamps looking out meekly from their pavilions of emerald green; the towering, blueMonk’s-hood; the pretty but foreign-looking Fritillary, or Snake’s-head, as it is more appropriately called, from its shape and colours; and sometimes, when the season is unfavourably favourable, the Rose herself. But her and her attractions we must leave till they come upon us in showers, in herownmonth of June.

Among the flowering shrubs we have now, also, many which demand their Spring welcome. And first the Lilac; for it was scarcely in full bloom last month; and it is its rich fulness that constitutes much of its charm, though its scent is delightful. Now, too, the Guelder-rose flings up its spheres of white light into the air, supported on their invisible stems, and looking, as the wind blows them about, like the jugglers’ balls chasing each other as if in sport. The Mountain-ash, too, puts forth its fans of white blossom, which the imagination converts, as soon as they appear, into those rich bunches of scarlet berries that make the winter months look gay; and which said “imagination” would do the same by the Elder-bloom, which also now appears, but that its delicious odour, when scented at a sufficient distance from its source, tells tales of any thing but winter and elder-wine. Lastly,the Laburnum now hangs forth its golden glories, and shows itself, for a few brief days, the most graceful of all the inhabitants of the shrubbery. The blossoms of the Laburnum, where they are seen from a little distance, and have (from circumstances of soil, &c.) acquired their due dependent posture, can scarcely be looked at steadily without a seemingmotionbeing communicated to them, as if some invisible hand had detached them from their stems, and they were in the act of falling to the earth in the form of a yellow rain.

In the orchard, the loveliest of all fruit-blossoms, the Apples, are now in full perfection. These flowers are scarcely ever examined or praised for their beauty; and yet they are formed of almost every other flower’s best. They are as fresh as the Rose, and more delicate; as innocent as the Vale Lily, and more gay; as modest as the Daisy, and less prim. And surely they are not the worse for being followed by a beautiful fruit; any more than a beautiful bride is the worse for being a rich one. I have been “cudgelling my brains” (which, to speak the truth, I am seldom called upon to do) for a likeness to this lovely blossom; and I canfind none but that which I have used already. The Apple-blossom is like nothing, in nature or in art, but the Countess of B——’s face; which is itself not wholly in either, being a happy mixture of the best parts of both—the sweet simplicity of the one, and the finished grace of the other; and which—but I beseech her to take it away from before my imagination at once, if she has any desire to see these pleasant papers come to a conclusion; for if it should again open upon me from among the flowers, like Cupid’s from out the Rose, I cannot answer for the consequences on the remainder of this history; for, though I am able to find in the Apple-blossom no likeness to any thing butherface, if once I am put upon pointing out resemblances inthat, it shall go hard but I will prove it to be, in some particular or other, the prototype of all beautiful things,—always excepting Sir Thomas’s portrait of her; which, howevershemay be likeit, isnot like her. Her face is like—

’Tis like the morning when it breaks;’Tis like the evening when it takesReluctant leave of the low sun;’Tis like the moon, when day is done,Rising above the level sea;’Tis like——

But hold!—if my readers, in consideration of the brief limits which confine me, are not to be treated with other people’s poetry, they shall, at least, not be troubled with mine; to which end I must bid adieu to the abovenamed face, once and for ever.

We may now quit the garden for this month; though it would be ungrateful to do so without condescending to take one glance at that portion of it which is to supply our more substantial wants. Now, then, the Kitchen-garden is in its best trim, its orderly inhabitants having all put on their Spring liveries, and their sprightliest looks, but not being yet sufficiently advanced in growth to call down that havoc which will soon be at work among them. We must not venture into detail here; though the real lover of the Garden (unless he affects thegenteel) would scarcely be angry with us if we did. But we may notice, in passing, the first fruits of the year—Gooseberries and Currants; the successive crops of Peas and Beans, “each under each,” the earliest just getting into bloom; green lines of Lettuces, so spruce and orderly, that it seems a pity ever to break them; (ditto of Cabbages we of course utterly exclude, seeing that suchthings were never heard of in the polite purlieus of Piccadilly;) Melon and Cucumber frames, glittering in the bright light, and half open, to admit the morning visits of the sun and air. In short, a flower-garden itself is but half complete, if we cannot step out of it at pleasure into the kitchen one, on the other side of the green screen or the fruit-clothed wall that bounds it.

Must we, after all this pleasant expatiation among the natural delights of May, repair to the metropolis, and see whether there is any thing worthy of remark among the artificial ones? I suppose we must; for it is mid-winter in London now, and the fashionable season is at its height. But we must not be expected to look about us there in the best possible humour, after having left the flowers and the sunshine behind us. We will, at all events, contrive to reach London on May-day, that we may not lose the only relic that is left us of the sports which were once as natural to this period as the opening of the leaves or the springing of the grass. I mean the gloomy merriment of Jack in the Green, and the sad hilarity of the chimney-sweepers. This is, indeed, a melancholy affair,contrasted with what that must have been of which it reminds us. The effect of it, to the bystanders, is like that of a wobegone ballad-singer chanting a merry stave. It is good as far as it goes, nevertheless; inasmuch as it procures a holiday, such as it is, for those who would not otherwise know the meaning of the phrase. The wretched imps, whose mops and mowes produce the mock merriment in question, are thepariasof their kind; outcasts from the society even of their equals, the very charity-boys give themselves airs of patronage in their presence; and the little beggar’s brat, that leads his blind father along the streets, would scorn to be seen playing at chuck-farthing with them. But even they, on May-day, feel themselves somebody; for the rout of ragged urchins, that turned up their noses at them yesterday, will to-day dog their footsteps with admiring shouts, and, such is the love of momentary distinction, would not disdain to own an acquaintance with them. Nay, some of them are trying, even now, to recollect whether it was not with that young gentleman, in the gilt jacket and gauze trowsers, that they had the honour of playing at marbles“on Wednesday last.” There was not a man in the crowd, when Jack Thurtell was hanged, that would not have been proud of a nod from him on the scaffold.

Now, on the first day, the hats of the Hammersmith coachmen grow progressively heavy, and their heads light, with the “favours” they receive from the barmaids of the fifteen public-houses at which they regularly stop to refresh themselves between Kensington Gravel Pits and Saint Paul’s.

Now, the winter being fairly set in, London is full of life; and Bond-street seems an enviable spot in the eyes of coach-makers, and cavalry officers on duty.

Now, the innocent inhabitants of May-fair wonder what the people in the street can mean by disturbing them at six in the morning, just as they are getting to sleep, by crying, “come buy my nice bow-pots!” not having any notion that there are natural flowers “in the midst of winter!”

Now, the Benefits have began at the winter theatres, and consequently all “genteel” persons have left off going there; seeing that the onlyattraction offered on those occasions is a double portion of amusement: as if any body went to the theatre forthat!

Now, the high fashionables, for once in the year, permit their horses’ hoofs to honour the stones of the Strand by striking fire out of them; and, what is still more unaccountable, they permit plebeian shawls and shoulders to come in contact with theirs, on the stairs of Somerset House. And all to encourage the Arts! That their own portraits, by Sir Thomas, are among the number of the works exhibited, cannot for a moment be considered as the moving cause at such marvellous condescension.

Now, too, flowing through the Strand in opposite directions towards the same spot, may be seen, on fine days of the first fortnight, two streams of white muslin, on which flowers are floating, and which form a confluence at the gates of the Academy, and ascending the winding staircase together (which streams are seldom in the habit of doing), presently disperse themselves into a lake at the top of the building, which glows with as many colours as that on the top of Mount Cenis.

Now, too, still on the same spot, may be seen,peering half shamefacedly in the purlieus of his own picture, some anxious young artist, watching intently for those scraps of criticism which the newspapers have as yet withheld from him (but which will doubtless appear intomorrow’sreport); and believing, from the bottom of his soul, that the young lady, aged twelve years, who has just fetched her mamma to admirehisproduction, is the best judge in the room; which, considering that he is a reasonable person, and nowise prejudiced, is more than he can account for in one so young!

Now, an occasional butterfly is seen fluttering away over the heads of the pale pedestrians of Ludgate Hill, who wonder what it can portend. Now, country cousins pay their triennial visits to the sights of London; and having been happy enough to secure lodgings in a side street in the Strand, have no doubt whatever that they are living at the west end of the town. Accordingly, they perambulate Parliament-street with exemplary perseverance, and then return to the country, to tell tales of the fashionables they have seen.

Finally, now the Parks really are the pleasantest imitations of the country that can bemet with away from it. That of Hyde is worth walking in at five on a fine week-day, if it be only to see how the footmen and the horses enjoy themselves; and still more so at four on a fine Sunday, to see how the citizens do the same. The Green Park, in virtue of the youths and maidens who meander about it in all directions on the latter day, looks, at a distance, like a meadow strewn all over with moving wild-flowers. And the great alley in Kensington Gardens, when the fashionables please to patronise it, is as pretty to look down upon, from the Pavilion at top, as one of Watteau’s pictures.

Summer is come—come, but not to stay; at least, not at the commencement of this month. And how should it, unless we expect that the seasons will be kind enough to conform to the devices of man, and suffer themselves to be called by what name and at what periodhepleases? He must die and leave them a legacy (instead of they him) before there will be any show of justice in this. Till then the beginning of June will continue to be the latter end of May, by rights; as it was according to theold style. And, among a thousand changes, in what one has the old style been improved upon by the new? Assuredly not in that of substituting theutilefor thedulce, in any eyes but those of almanack makers. Let all lovers of Spring, therefore, be fully persuaded that, for the first fortnight in June, they are living in May; and then, all the sweet truths that I had to tell of the latter month, are equally applicable to half the present. Weshall thus be gaining instead of losing, after all, by the impertinence of any breath, but that of Heaven, attempting to force Spring into Summer, even in name alone.

Spring, therefore, may now be considered as employed in completing her toilet, and, for the first weeks of this month, putting on those last finishing touches which an accomplished beauty never trusts to any hand but her own. In the woods and groves also, she is still clothing some of her noblest and proudest attendants with their new annual attire. The oak until now has been nearly bare; and, of whatever age, has been looking old all the Winter and Spring, on account of its crumpled branches and wrinkled rind. Now, of whatever age, it looks young, in virtue of its new green, lighter than all the rest of the grove. Now, also, the stately Walnut (standing singly or in pairs in the fore-court of ancient manor-houses; or in the home corner of the pretty park-like paddock at the back of some modern Italian villa, whose white dome it saw rise beneath it the other day, and mistakes for a mushroom), puts forth its smooth leaves slowly, as “sage grave men” do their thoughts; and which over-caution reconciles one to the beatingit receives in the autumn, as the best means of at once compassing its present fruit, and making it bear more; as its said prototypes in animated nature are obliged to have their brains cudgelled, before any good can be got from them.

Among the ornamental trees, the only one that is not as yet clothed in all its beauty is, the most beautiful of all—the white Acacia. Its trim taper leaves are but just spreading themselves forth to welcome the coming summer sun; as those pretty female fingers which they resemble are spread involuntarily at the approach of the accepted lover.

The Mulberry, too, which in this country never sees itself unprovided with a smooth-shaven carpet of green turf beneath it, on which to drop (without injuring) its tender fruit, is only now rousing itself from its late repose. Its appearance is at present as poverty-stricken, in comparison with most of its well-dressed companions, as six weeks hence it will be rich, full, and umbrageous.

These are the chief appearances of the early part of this month which appertain exclusively to the Spring. Let us now (however reluctantly) take a final leave of that lovely and love-makingseason, and at once step forward into the glowing presence of Summer—contenting ourselves, however, to touch the hem of her rich garments, and not attempting to look into her heart, till she lays that open to us herself next month: for whatever school-boys calendar-makers may say to the contrary, Midsummer never happens in England till July.

The most appropriate spots in which first to watch the footsteps of Summer are amid “the pomp of Groves, and garniture of Fields.” There let us seek her, then.

To saunter, at mid June, beneath the shade of some old forest, situated in the neighbourhood of a great town, so that paths are worn through it, and you can make your way with ease in any direction, gives one the idea of being transferred, by some strange magic, from the surface of the earth to the bottom of the sea! (I say it givesonethis idea; for I cannot answer for more, in matters of so arbitrary a nature as the association of ideas). Over head, and round about, you hear the sighing, the whispering, or the roaring (as the wind pleases) of a thousand billows; and looking upward, you see the light of heaven transmitted faintly, as if through a mass of greenwaters. Hither and thither, as you move along, strange forms flit swiftly about you, which may, for any thing you can see or hear to the contrary, be exclusive natives of the new world in which your fancy chooses to find itself: they may befishes, if that pleases; for they are as mute as such, and glide through the liquid element as swiftly. Now and then, indeed, one of larger growth, and less lubricated movements, lumbers up from beside your path, and cluttering noisily away to a little distance, may chance to scare for a moment your sub-marine reverie. Your palate too may perhaps here step in, and try to persuade you that the cause of interruption was not a fish but a pheasant. But in fact, if your fancy is one of those which are disposed to “listen to reason,” it will not be able to lead you into spots of the above kind without your gun in your hand,—one report of which will put all fancies to flight in a moment, as well as every thing else that has wings. To return, therefore, to our walk,—what do all these strange objects look like, that stand silently about us in the dim twilight, some spiring straight up, and tapering as they ascend, till they lose themselves in thegreen waters above—some shattered and splintered, leaning against each other for support, or lying heavily on the floor on which we walk—some half buried in that floor, as if they had lain dead there for ages, and become incorporate with it; what do all these seem, but wrecks and fragments of some mighty vessel, that has sunk down here from above, and lain weltering and wasting away, till these are all that is left of it! Even the floor itself on which we stand, and the vegetation it puts forth, are unlike those of any other portion of the earth’s surface, and may well recall, by their strange appearance in the half light, the fancies that have come upon us when we have read or dreamt of those gifted beings, who, like Ladurlad in Kehama, could walk on the floor of the sea, without waiting, as the visitors at Watering-places are obliged to do, for the tide to go out.

“But why,” exclaims the reasonable reader, “detain us, at a time of year like this, among fancies and associations, when facts and realities a thousand times more lovely are waiting to be recorded?” He is right, and I bow to the reproof; only I must escape at once from theold Forest into which I had inadvertently wandered; forthereI shall not be able to remain a moment fancy-free.

Stepping forth, then, into the open fields, what a bright pageant of Summer beauty is spread out before us! We are standing, you perceive, on a little eminence, every point of which presents some particular offering of the season, and from which we can also look abroad upon those which require a more distant and general gaze. Everywhere about our feet flocks of Wild-Flowers

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