Mirror of the Months Part 3

"When soothed awhile by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few gray hairs; Spring cannot shun thee; And Autumn, melancholy wight, Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee."

[By the by, I cannot let pa.s.s this epithet, "melancholy," without protesting most strenuously against the above application of it. Seldom, indeed, is it that the poet before us falls into an error of this kind; and it is _therefore_ that I point it out.]

"In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane.

And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

Be violets, in their secret mews, The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling;

_Thou_ art the poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly, Or some bright day of April sky Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare, He need but look about, and there Thou art, a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy!

If stately pa.s.sions in me burn, And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy, that heeds The common life our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure."

And then do but see what "fantastic tricks" the poet's imagination plays, when he comes to seek out _similies_ for his fair favourite:

"A nun demure, of lowly port; A sprightly maiden of love's court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations; A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seem to suit thee best, Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring, to threaten or defy-- That thought comes next--and instantly The freak is over; The shape will vanish--and behold!

A silver shield with boss of gold, That spreads itself, some fairy bold In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar,-- And then thou art a pretty star; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest!

Sweet flower! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast; Sweet silent creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!"

What poetry is here! It "dallies with the innocence" of the poet and of the flower, till we know not which to love best. But we must turn at once from the fascination of both, and not allow them again to seduce us from our duty to the rest of those sweet "children of the year" that are courting our attention.

See, upon the sloping sides of this bank, beneath the hedgerow, what companies of Primroses are dedicating their pale beauties to the pleasant breeze that blows over them, and looking as faint withal as if they had senses that could "ache" at the rich sweetness of the hidden Violets that are growing here and there among them.

The intermediate spots of the bank are now nearly covered from sight by the various green weeds that sprout up every where--beginning to fill the interstices between the lower stems of the Hazel, the Hawthorn, the Sloe, the Eglantine, and the Woodbine, which unite their friendly arms together above, to form the natural inclosure,--that prettiest feature in our English scenery, or at least that which communicates a picturesque beauty to all the rest.

Of the above-named shrubs, the Hazel, you see, is scarcely as yet in leaf; the scattered leaves of the Woodbine, of a dull purplish green, are fully spread; the Sloe is in blossom, offering a pretty but scentless imitation of the sweet hawthorn bloom that is to come next month. This latter is now vigorously putting forth its crisp and delicate filigree work of tender green, tipped with red; and the Eglantine, or wild rose, is opening its green hands, as if to welcome the sun.

Entering the little copse which this inclosure separates from the meadow, we shall find, on the ground, all the low and creeping plants pushing forth their various shaped leaves--stars, fans, blades, fingers, fringes, and a score of other fanciful forms; and some of them bearing the prettiest flowers in the world. Conspicuous among these, in addition to those of February and March, are the elegant little Wood-sorrel, with its delicately pencilled cups; the pretty Wild Strawberry; the common blue Hyacinth,--so delightful when it comes upon you in innumerable flocks while you are thinking of nothing less; the gently-stooping Harebell, the most fragile of all flowers, yet braving the angriest winds of heaven, by bowing to the ground before them; and, lastly, that strangest of flowers (if flower it be) called by the country folks Cuckoo-pint, and by the children Lords and Ladies.

Still pa.s.sing on through this copse, we shall find all the young forest trees, except the oaks, in a kind of half-dress, like so many village maidens in their trim bodices, and with their hair in papers. Among these are conspicuous the graceful Birch, hanging its head like a half-shamefaced, half-affected damsel; the trim Beech, spruce as a village gallant dressed for the fair; the rough-rinded Elm, grave and sedate looking, even in its youth, and already bespeaking the future "green-robed senator of mighty woods." These, with the white-stemmed Ash, the Alder, the artificial-looking Hornbeam, and the as yet bare Oak, make up this silent but happy company, who are to stand here on the same spot all their lives, looking upward to the clouds and the stars, and downward to the star-like flowers, till we and our posterity (who pride ourselves on our superiority over them) are laid in that earth of which _they_ alone are the true inheriters.

But who ever heard of choosing a warm April morning to moralize in? Let us wait till winter for that; and in the mean time pa.s.s out of this pleasant little copse, and make our way windingly towards the village.

In the little green lane that leads to it we meet with nothing very different from what we have already noticed; unless it be an early Bee booming past us, or hovering for a moment over the snowy flower of the Lady-smock; or a village boy looking upward with hand-shaded brow after the mounting Lark, while he holds in his other hand the tether of a young heifer, that he has led forth to take her first taste of the fresh-sprouting herbage.

On reaching the Village Green, we cannot choose but pause before this stately Chestnut-tree, the smooth stem of which rises from the earth like a dark coloured marble column, seemingly placed there by art to support the pyramidal fabric of beauty that surmounts it. It has just put forth its first series of rich fan-like leaves, each family of which is crowned by its splendid spiral flower; the whole, at this period of the year, forming the grandest vegetable object that our kingdom presents, and vying in rich beauty with any that Eastern woods can boast. And if we could reach one of those flowers, to pluck it, we should find that the most delicate fair ones of the Garden or the Greenhouse do not surpa.s.s it in elaborate pencilling and richly varied tints. It can be likened to nothing but its own portrait painted on velvet.

Farther on, across the Green, with this little raised footpath leading to it, stands a row of young Lindens, separating in the middle to admit a view of the Parsonage-house; for it can be no other. What a lovely green is theirs! and what an exact shape in their bright circular leaves, all alike, cl.u.s.tering and flapping over each other! And their smooth pillar-like stems shoot out from the hard gravel pathway like artificial shafts, without a ridge, a knot, or an inequality, till they spread forth suddenly just above the reach of branch-plucking schoolboys.

The Honeysuckles, that wreathe the trellised door of the neat dwelling, have already put forth their dull purple-tinged leaves, at distant intervals, on the slim shoots; but the Jasmin, that spreads itself over the circular-topped windows, is not yet sufficiently clothed to hide the formality of its training.

To the right, the fine old avenue of Elms, forming the Walk leading to the low Church, are sprinkled all over with their spring attire; but not enough to form the shade that they will a month hence. At present the blue sky can every where be seen through them.

We might wander on through the Village and its environs for a while longer, pleasantly enough, without exhausting the objects of novelty and interest that present themselves in this sweetest of months; but we must get within more confined limits, or we shall not have s.p.a.ce to glance at half those which more exclusively belong to this time.

If the Garden, like the Year, is not now absolutely at its best, it is perhaps better; inasmuch as a pleasant promise but half performed partakes of the best parts of both promise and performance. Now, all is neatness and finish, or ought to be; for the weeds have not yet began to make head; the annual flower seeds are all sown; the divisions and changes among the perennials, and the removings and plantings of the shrubs, have all taken place. The Walks, too, have all been turned and freshened, and the Turf has began to receive its regular rollings and mowings. Among the bulbous-rooted perennials, all that were not in flower during the last two months, are so now; in particular the majestic Crown-imperial; the Tulip, beautiful as the panther, and as proud,--standing aloof from its own leaves; the rich double Hyacinth, cl.u.s.tering like the locks of Adam; and Narcissus, pale and pa.s.sion-stricken at the sense of its own sweetness.

But what we are chiefly to look for now are the fibrous-rooted and herbaceous Perennials. There is not one of these that has not awakened from its winter dreams, and put on at least the half of its beauty. A few of them venture to display all their attractions at this time, from a wise fear of that dangerous rivalry which they must be content to encounter if they were to wait for a month longer; for a pretty villager might as well hope to gain hearts at Almack's, as a demure daisy of a modest polyanthus think to secure its due share of attention in presence of the glaring peonies, flaunting roses, and towering lilies of May and midsummer.

Now, too, those late planted Stocks and Wallflowers, that have had strength to brave the cutting blasts of winter, feel the benefit of their hardihood, and show it in the profusion of their blooms and the richness of their colours.

Finally, among flowers we have now the singular spotted Fritillary; Heart's-ease, the "little western flower," that cannot be looked at or thought of without feeling its name; and the Auricula, that richest in its texture and colour of all the vegetable tribe, and as various as rich.

Among the Shrubs that form the inclosing belt of the flower-garden, the Lilac is in full leaf, and loaded with its heavy bunches of bloom-buds; the common Laurel, if it has reached its flowering age, is hanging out its meek modest flowers, preparatory to putting forth its vigorous summer shoots; and the Larch has on it hairy tufts of pink, stuck here and there among its delicate threads of green.

But the great charm of this month, both in the open country and the garden, is undoubtedly the infinite _green_ which pervades it every where, and which we had best gaze our fill at while we may, as it lasts but a little while,--changing in a few weeks into an endless variety of shades and tints, that are equivalent to as many different colours. It is this, and the budding forth of every living member of the vegetable world, after its long winter death, that in fact const.i.tutes THE SPRING; and the sight of which affects us in the manner it does, from various causes--chiefly moral and a.s.sociated ones; but one of which is unquestionably physical: I mean the sight of so much tender green after the eye has been condemned to look for months and months on the mere negation of all colour, which prevails in winter in our climate. The eye feels cheered, cherished, and regaled by this colour, as the tongue does by a quick and pleasant taste, after having long palated nothing but tasteless and insipid things.

This is the princ.i.p.al charm of Spring, no doubt. But another, and one that is scarcely second to this, is, the bright flush of Blossoms that prevails over and almost hides every thing else in the Fruit-garden and Orchard. What exquisite differences and distinctions and resemblances there are between all the various blossoms of the fruit-trees; and no less in their general effect than in their separate details! The Almond-blossom, which comes first of all, and while the tree is quite bare of leaves, is of a bright blush-rose colour; and when they are fully blown, the tree, if it has been kept to a compact head instead of being permitted to straggle, looks like one huge rose, magnified by some fairy magic, to deck the bosom of some fair giantess. The various kinds of Plum follow, the blossoms of which are snow-white, and as full and cl.u.s.tering as those of the almond. The Peach and Nectarine, which are now full blown, are unlike either of the above; and their sweet effect, as if growing out of the hard bare wall, or the rough wooden paling, is peculiarly pretty. They are of a deep blush colour, and of a delicate bell shape, the lips, however, divided, and turning backward, to expose the interior to the cherishing sun.

But perhaps the bloom that is richest and most _promising_ in its general appearance is that of the Cherry, clasping its white honours all round the long straight branches, from heel to point, and not letting a leaf or a bit of stem be seen, except the three or four leaves that come as a green finish at the extremity of each branch.

The other blossoms, of the Pears, and (loveliest of all) the Apples, do not come in perfection till next month.

In thinking of the circ.u.mstances which happen this month in connexion with the animal world, I scarcely know where to begin my observations, so numerous are the subjects, and so limited the s.p.a.ce they must be despatched in. The Birds must have precedence, for they are now, for once in their lives, as busy as the bees are always. They are getting their houses built, and seeing to their household affairs, and concluding their family arrangements, that when the summer and the sunshine are fairly come, they may have nothing to do but teach their children the last new modes of flying and singing, and be as happy as--birds, for the rest of the year. Now, therefore, as in the last month, they have but little time to sing to each other; and the Lark has the morning sky all to himself. Not but we have other April melodies, and one or two the _premices_ of which belong so peculiarly to this month, that we must listen to them for a moment, whatever else is awaiting us. And first let us hearken to the Cuckoo, shooting out its soft and mellow, yet powerful voice, till it seems to fill the whole concave of the heavens with its two mysterious notes, the most primitive of musical melodies. Who can listen to those notes for the first time in Spring, and not feel his school days come back to him? And not as he did then

"------------look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky?"

But he will be likely to look in vain; for so shy are they, that lucky (or rather _un_lucky, to my thinking) is he who has ever _seen_ a 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 pa.s.sing 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 flight even 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 Gra.s.shopper Lark also runs whispering within the hedgerows; the Redstart 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. .h.i.therto 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 pa.s.sage, 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 cla.s.s 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 Swallow tribe, 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 a.s.sured 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, _as_ the 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 s.p.a.ce floundering about in its crystal waters, in the agonies of death; and when he is tired of this _sport_, drags it to the green bank, among the gra.s.s, 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.

[2] There is poetical authority for this expression, but I believe no other: