Mirror of the Months Part 7

Peake; and on him let them be visited accordingly. Though I doubt not he will intimate in extenuation, that they are quite _pun-ish-meant_ enough in themselves.--But where was I?--oh]--I never see Wrench without fearing that, some day or other, a gleam of common sense may by accident miss its way to the brain of our winter managers, and they may bethink them (for if one does, both will) of offering an engagement to this most engaging of actors. But if they should, let me beseech him to turn (if he has one) a deaf ear to their entreaties; for we had need have something to look for at a Summer Theatre that cannot be had elsewhere.

I am not qualified to descend any lower than the Major of the Minor Theatres, in regard to what is doing there at this season; though it appears that Mr. Ducrow is still satisfying those who were not satisfied of it before, that Horsemanship is one of the Fine Arts; and though the Bills of the Coburg append sixteen instead of six notes of admiration to Mr. n.o.body's name. Being somewhat fastidious in the affair of phraseology, the only mode in which I can explain my remissness in regard to the above particular is, that, whereas at this season of the year _Steam conveys us_ to all other places,--from the theatres frequented by throngs of "rude mechanicals" it most effectually keeps us away.

Now, on warm evenings after business hours, citizens of all ages grow romantic; the single, wearing away their souls in sighing to the breezes of Brixton Hill, and their soles in getting there; and the married, sipping syllabub in the arbours of White Conduit House, or cooling themselves with hot rolls and b.u.t.ter at the New River Head.

Now, too, moved by the same spirit of Romance, young patricians, who have not yet been persuaded to banish themselves to the beauty of their paternal groves, fling themselves into funnies, and fatigue their _ennui_ to death, by rowing up the river to Mrs. Grange's garden, to eat a handful of strawberries in a cup-full of cream.

Now, adventurous c.o.c.kneys swim from the Sestos of the Strand stairs to the Abydos of the coal-barge on the opposite sh.o.r.e, and believe that they have been rivaling Lord Byron and Leander--not without wondering, when they find themselves in safety, why the Lady for whom the latter performed a similar feat is called the Hero of the story, instead of the Heroine.

Finally,--now pains-and-pleasure taking citizens hire cozey cottages for six weeks certain in the Curtain Road, and ask their friends to come and see them "in the country."

AUGUST.

The Year has now reached the parallel to that brief, but perhaps best period of human life, when the promises of youth are either fulfilled or forgotten, and the fears and forethoughts connected with decline have not yet grown strong enough to make themselves felt; and consequently when we have nothing to do but look around us, and be happy. It has, indeed, like a man at forty, turned the corner of its existence; but, like him, it may still fancy itself young, because it does not begin to feel itself getting old. And perhaps there is no period like this, for encouraging and bringing to perfection that habit of tranquil enjoyment, in which all true happiness must mainly consist: with _pleasure_ it has, indeed, little to do; but with _happiness_ it is every thing.

August is that debateable ground of the year, which is situated exactly upon the confines of Summer and Autumn; and it is difficult to say which has the better claim to it. It is dressed in half the flowers of the one, and half the fruits of the other; and it has a sky and a temperature all its own, and which vie in beauty with those of the Spring. May itself can offer nothing so sweet to the senses, so enchanting to the imagination, and so soothing to the heart, as that genial influence which arises from the sights, the sounds, and the a.s.sociations connected with an August evening in the Country, when the occupations and pleasures of the day are done, and when all, even the busiest, are fain to give way to that "wise pa.s.siveness," one hour of which is rife with more real enjoyment than a whole season of revelry.

Those who will be wise (or foolish) enough to make comparisons between the various kinds of pleasure of which the mind of man is capable, will find that there is none (or but one) equal to that felt by a true lover of Nature, when he looks forth upon her open face silently, at a season like the present, and drinks in that still beauty which seems to emanate from every thing he sees, till his whole senses are steeped in a sweet forgetfulness, and he becomes unconscious of all but that _instinct of good_ which is ever present with us, but which can so seldom make itself felt amid that throng of thoughts which are ever busying and besieging us, in our intercourse with the living world. The only other feeling which equals this, in its intense quietude, and its satisfying fulness, is one which is almost identical with it,--where the accepted lover is gazing un.o.bserved, and almost unconsciously, on the face of his mistress, and tracing there sweet evidences of that mysterious union which already exists between them. The great charm of Claude's pictures consists in their power of generating, to a certain degree, the description of feeling above alluded to; a feeling which no other pictures produce in the slightest degree; and which even his produce only enough of to either remind us of what we have experienced before, or give us a foretaste of what Nature herself has in store for us. And I only mention them here, in order that those who are accustomed to expend themselves in admiration of the copies may be led to look at the originals in the same spirit; when they will find, that the one is to the other, what a thought is to a feeling, or what a beautiful mask is to the beautiful living face from which it was modelled. Let the professed enthusiasts to Claude look at Nature's pictures through the same eyes, and with the same prepared feelings, as they look at his (which few, if any of them have ever done), and they will find that they have hitherto been content to _fancy_ what they now _feel_; and this discovery will not derogate from the value of the said fancy, but will, on the contrary, make it more effective by making it less vague. When you hear people extravagant in their general praise of Claude's Landscapes, you may shrewdly suspect that they have never experienced in the presence of Nature herself those sensations which enabled Claude to be what he was; and that, in admiring him, they have only been yielding to involuntary yearnings after that Nature which they have hitherto neglected to look upon. They have been worshipping the image, and pa.s.sing by the visible G.o.d.

The whole face of Nature has undergone, since last month, an obvious change; obvious to those who delight to observe all her changes and operations, but not sufficiently striking to insist on being seen generally by those who can read no characters but such as are written in a _text_ hand. If the general _colours_ of all the various departments of natural scenery are not changed, their _hues_ are; and if there is not yet observable the infinite variety of Autumn, there is as little the extreme monotony of Summer. In one department, however, there _is_ a general change, that cannot well remain un.o.bserved. The rich and unvarying green of the Corn-fields has entirely and almost suddenly changed, to a still richer and more conspicuous gold colour; more conspicuous on account of the contrast it now offers to the lines, patches, and ma.s.ses of green with which it every where lies in contact, in the form of intersecting Hedge-rows, intervening Meadows, and bounding ma.s.ses of Forest. These latter are changed too; but in _hue_ alone, not in colour. They are all of them still green; but it is not the fresh and tender green of the Spring, nor the full and satisfying, though somewhat dull, green of the Summer; but many greens, that blend all those belonging to the seasons just named, with others at once more grave and more bright; and the charming variety and interchange of which are peculiar to this delightful month, and are more beautiful in their general effect than those of either of the preceding periods: just as a truly beautiful woman is perhaps more beautiful at the period immediately before that at which her charms begin to wane, than she ever was before. Here, however, the comparison must end; for with the year its incipient decay is the signal for it to put on more and more beauties daily, till, when it reaches the period at which it is on the point of sinking into the temporary death of Winter, it is more beautiful in general appearance than ever.

But we must not antic.i.p.ate. We may linger upon one spot, or step aside from our path, or return upon our steps; but we must not antic.i.p.ate; for those who would duly enjoy and appreciate the Present and the Past, must wait for the Future till it comes to them. The Future and the Present are jealous of each other; and those who attempt to enjoy both at the same time, will not be graciously received by either.

The general appearance of natural scenery is now much more varied in its character than it has. .h.i.therto been. The Corn-fields are all redundant with waving gold--gold of all hues--from the light yellow of the Oats (those which still remain uncut), to the deep sunburnt glow of the red Wheat. But the wide rich sweeps of these fields are now broken in upon, here and there, by patches of the parched and withered looking Bean crops; by occasional bits of newly ploughed land, where the Rye lately stood; by the now darkening Turnips--dark, except where they are being fed off by Sheep Flocks; and lastly by the still bright-green Meadows, now studded every where with grazing cattle, the second crops of Gra.s.s being already gathered in.

The Woods, as well as the single Timber Trees that occasionally start up with such fine effect from out the Hedge-rows, or in the midst of Meadows and Corn-fields, we shall now find sprinkled with what at first looks like gleams of scattered sunshine lying among the leaves, but what, on examination, we shall find to be the new foliage that has been put forth since Midsummer, and which yet retains all the brilliant green of the Spring. The effect of this new green, lying in sweeps and patches upon the old, though little observed in general, is one of the most beautiful and characteristic appearances of this season. In many cases, when the sight of it is caught near at hand, on the sides of thick Plantations, the effect of it is perfectly deceptive, and you wonder for a moment how it is, that while the sun is shining so brightly _every where_, it should shine so much _more_ brightly on those particular spots.

We shall find those pretty wayside Shrubberies, the Hedge-rows, and the Field-flower-borders that lie beneath and about them, less gay with new green, and less fantastic with flowers, than they have lately been; but they still vie with the Garden both in sweetness and in beauty. The new flowers they put forth this month are but few. Among these are the pretty little Meadow Scabious, with its small purple head standing away from its leaves; the various Goosefoots, curious for their leaves, feeling about like fingers for the fresh air; the Camomile, shooting up its troops of little suns, with their yellow centres and white rays; and a few more of lesser note. But, in addition to these, we have still many which have already had their greeting from us, _or should have had_; but really, when one comes every month, self-invited, to Nature's morning levees, and meets there flocks of flowers, every one of which claims as its single due a whole morning's attention, it must not be taken as unkind or impolite by any of them, if, in endeavouring hastily to record the company we met, for the benefit of those who were not there, we should chance to forget some who may fancy themselves quite as worthy of having their presence recorded, and their court dresses described, as those who do figure in this Court Calendar of Nature. It is possible, too, that we may have fallen into some slight errors in regard to the places of residence of some of our fair flowery friends, and the particular day on which they first chose to make their appearance at Nature's court; for we are not among those reporters who take short-hand notes, or any other, but such as write themselves in the tablet of our memory. But if any lady _should_ feel herself aggrieved in either of the above particulars, she has only to drop us a leaf to that effect, stating, at the same time, her name and residence, and she may be a.s.sured that we shall take the first opportunity of paying our personal respects to her, and shall have little doubt of satisfying her that our misconduct has arisen from any thing rather than a wilful neglect towards her pretensions, or a want of taste in appreciating them. In the mean time let us add, that, in addition to the new company which graces this month's levee, the following are still punctual in their attendance; namely, Woodbine, Woodruff, Meadow-sweet, and Wild Thyme; (N. B. These ladies are still profuse in their use of perfumes); and, among those who depend on their beauty alone, Eyebright, Pansie, the lesser and greater Willow-herb, Daisy, two or three of the Orchises, Hyacinth, several sisters of the Speedwell and Pimpernel families, and the scentless Violet.

Now, after the middle of the month, commences that great rural employment to which all the hopes of the farmer's year have been tending; but which, unhappily, the mere labourer has come to regard with as much indifference as he does any of those which have successively led to it. This latter is not as it should be. But as we cannot hope to alter, let us not stay to lament over it. On the contrary, let us rejoice that at least Nature remains uninjured--that _she_ shows more beautiful than ever at harvest time, whether Man chooses to be more happy then or not. It is true Harvest-home has changed its moral character, in the exact proportion that the people among whom it takes place have changed _theirs_, in becoming, from an agricultural, a mechanical and manufacturing nation; and we may soon expect to see the produce of the earth gathered in and laid by for use, almost without the intervention of those for whose use it is provided, and in supplying whose wants it is chiefly consumed: for the rich, so far from being "able to live by bread alone," would scarcely feel the loss if it were wholly to fail them. But Nature is not to be changed by the devices which man employs to change and deteriorate himself. She has willed that the scenes attendant on the gathering in of her gifts shall be as fraught with beauty as ever. And accordingly, Harvest time is as delightful to look on to _us_, who are mere spectators of it, as it was in the Golden Age, when the gatherers and the rejoicers were one. Now, therefore, as then, the Fields are all alive with figures and groups, that seem, in the eye of the artist, to be made for pictures--pictures that he can see but one fault in; (which fault, by the bye, const.i.tutes their only beauty in the eye of the farmer;) namely, that they will not stand still a moment, for him to paint them. He must therefore be content, as we are, to keep them as studies in the storehouse of his memory.

Here are a few of those studies, which he may practise upon till doomsday, and will not then be able to produce half the effect from them that will arise spontaneously on the imagination, at the mere mention of the simplest words which can describe them:--The sunburnt Reapers, entering the Field leisurely at early morning, with their reaphooks resting on their right shoulders, and their beer-kegs swinging to their left hands, while they pause for a while to look about them before they begin their work.--The same, when they are scattered over the Field: some stooping to the ground over the prostrate Corn, others lifting up the heavy sheaves and supporting them against one another, while the rest are plying their busy sickles, before which the brave crop seems to retreat reluctantly, like a half-defeated army.--Again, the same collected together into one group, and resting to refresh themselves, while the lightening keg pa.s.ses from one to another silently, and the rude clasp-knife lifts the coa.r.s.e meal to the ruddy lips.--Lastly, the piled-up Wain, moving along heavily among the lessening sheaves, and swaying from side to side as it moves; while a few, whose share of the work is already done, lie about here and there in the shade, and watch the near completion of it.

I would fain have to describe the boisterous and happy revelries that used to ensue upon these scenes, and should do still. And what if they were attended by mirth a little over-riotous, or a few broken crowns?

Better so, than the troops of broken spirits that now linger amidst the overflowing plenty of the last Harvest-field, and begin to think where they shall wander in search of their next week's bread.

But no more of this. Let us turn at once to a few of the other occurrences that take place in the open Fields during this month. The Singing Birds are, for the most part, so busy in educating and providing for their young broods, that they have little time to practise their professional duties; consequently this month is comparatively a silent one in the Woods and Groves. There are some, however, whose happy hearts will not let them be still. The most persevering of these is that poet of the skies, the Lark. He still pours down a bright rain of melody through the morning, the mid-day, and the evening skies, till the whole air seems sparkling and alive with the light of his strains.--His sweet-hearted relation, the Woodlark, also still warbles high up in the warm evening air, and occasionally even at midnight--hovering at one particular spot during each successive strain.--The Goldfinch, the Yellowhammer, and the Green and Brown Linnet, those pretty flutterers among the summer leaves,--as light hearted and restless as they,--still keep whistling s.n.a.t.c.hes of their old songs, between their quick fairy-like flittings from bough to bough. As for the solitary Robin, his delicate song may be heard all through the year, and is peculiarly acceptable now in the neighbourhood of human dwellings--where no other is heard, unless it be the common wren's.

By the middle of this month we shall lose sight entirely of that most airy, active, and indefatigable of all the winged people,--the Swift--Shakespeare's "temple-haunting Martlet." Unlike the rest of its tribe, it breeds but once in the season; and its young having now acquired much of their astonishing power of wing, young and old all hurry away together--no one can tell whither. The sudden departure of the above singular species of the Swallow tribe, at this very moment, when every thing seems to conform together for their delight,--when the winds (which they shun) are hushed--and the Summer (in which they rejoice) is at its best--and the air (in which they feed) is laden with dainties for them--and all the troubles and anxieties attendant on the coming of their young broods are at an end, and they are wise enough not to think of having more;--that, at the very moment when all these favourable circ.u.mstances are combining together to make them happy, they should suddenly, and without any a.s.signable cause whatever, disappear, and go no one knows whither, is one of those facts, the explanation of which has. .h.i.therto baffled all our inquiring philosophizers, and will continue to do so while the said inquirers continue to judge of all things by a.n.a.logies invented by their own boasted _reason_: as if reason were given us to explain instinct! and as if a being which pa.s.ses its whole life on the wing--(for sleep is not a part of life, and the Swift, during its waking hours, never sets foot on tree or ground--almost realizing that fabled bird which has wings but no feet) were not likely to be gifted with any senses but such as _we_ can trace the operations of! The truth is, all that we can make of this mysterious departure is, to accept it as an omen--the earliest, the most certain, and yet the least attended to, because it happens in the midst of smiling contradictions to it--that the departure of Summer herself is nigh at hand.

It is not good to cull out the sad points of reflection which present themselves, in the various subjects which come before us, in contemplating the operations of Nature. But as little is it good, studiously to avoid those points. Perhaps the only wise course is, to let them suggest what they will, of sadness or of joy; and then, so to receive and apply those suggestions, that even the sad ones themselves may be made subservient to good. To me, this early departure, in the very heart of our summer, of the most bird-like of all the birds that visit us only for a season, always comes at first like an omen of evil, that I cannot doubt, and yet will not believe. It might as well be told me, that the being who sits beside me now, in all the pomp of health, and all the l.u.s.tre of loveliness, will leave me to-morrow, and go--like the bird--I know not whither. And yet, if such a prediction _were_ made to me, what should I do in regard to it, but (as one ought in the case of the omen of departing summer) to _believe_ that it is true, and yet _feel_ that it is false; and, acting upon the joint impulse thus created, enjoy the blessing tenfold, while it remains mine, and leave the lamentations for its loss till I can no longer feel the delight that flows from its presence?

But, enough of philosophy--even of that which is intended to cure us of philosophizing. Let us get into the air and the sunshine again; which can bid us be happy in spite of all philosophy, and _will_ be obeyed even by philosophers themselves,--who have long since found that they have no resource left against those enemies to their art, but to fly their presence, and shut themselves up in schools and studies.

The Swift, whose strange flight has for a moment led us astray from our course, is the only one of its tribe that has yet made any preparations towards departure: though the young broods of House-swallows and House-martins are evidently _thinking_ of it, and congregating together in great flocks, about the tops of old towers and belfries, to talk the matter over, and wonder with one another what will happen to them in their projected travels--if they _do_ travel. Their parents, however, who are to lead them, are still employed in increasing their company, and have just now brought out their second broods into the open air.

Now, on warm still evenings, we may sometimes see the whole air about us speckled with another cla.s.s of emigrants, who are not usually regarded as such; namely, the flying Ants, whom their own offspring, or their inclinations (for it is uncertain which), have expelled from their birth-place, to found new colonies, and find new habitations, where they can. It is a ticklish task to make people more knowing than they wish to be, and one which, even if I were qualified for the office, I should be very shy of undertaking. But when a race of comparatively foolish and improvident little creatures have for ages enjoyed the credit of being proverbial patterns of wisdom, prudence, and forethought, I cannot refuse to a.s.sist in dispelling the delusion. Be it known, then, to the elderly namesakes of the above, that when they bid their little nephews and nieces "go to the Ant, and consider its ways," they can scarcely offer them advice less likely to end, if followed, in teaching them to "be wise:" for, in fact, one of those "ways" is, to sleep ("sluggards"

as they are!) all the winter through; another is, never to lay up a single morsel of store even for a day, much less for a whole year, as has been reported of them; and a third is, to do what they are in fact doing at this very moment--namely, to come out in myriads from their homes, and fill the air with that food (themselves) which serves to fatten the _really_ wise, prudent, and industrious Swallows and Martins, who are skimming through the air delightedly in search of it. It is true, the Ants are active enough in providing for their immediate wants, and artful enough in overcoming any obstacles to their immediate pleasures. But all this, and more, the _other_ Aunts, who hold them up as patterns, will find their little pupils sufficiently expert in, without any a.s.sistance.

Now, we may observe that pretty pair of rural pictures (not, however, _peculiar_ to this month); first, when the numerous Flock is driven to fold, as the day declines,--its scattered members converging towards a point as they enter the narrow opening of their nightly enclosure, which they gradually fill and settle into, as a shallow stream runs into a bed that has been prepared for it, and there settles into a still pool.--And again, in the early morning, when the slender barrier that confines them is removed, they crowd and hurry out at it,--gently intercepting each other; and as they get free, pour forth their white fleeces over the open field, as a lake that has broken its bank pours its waters over the adjoining land: in each case, the bells and meek voices of the patient people making music as they move, and the Shepherd standing carelessly by (leaning on his crook, even as shepherds did in Arcady itself!) and leaving the care of all to his half-reasoning dog.

As I have again got my pencil in hand, instead of my pen, let me not forget to sketch a copy of that other pretty picture, at once so still and yet so lively, which may be had this month for the price of looking at, and than which Paul Potter himself could not have presented us with a sweeter: and indeed, but that he was a mere imitator of Nature, one might almost swear it to be his, not hers.--Fore-ground: on one side, a little shallow pond, with two or three pollard willows stooping over it; and on the other a low bank, before which stand as many more pollard willows, with round trim heads set formally on their straight pillar-like stems: between all these, the sunshine lying in bright streaks on the green ground, and made distinguishable by the straight shadows thrown by the thick stems of the trees. Middle distance: a moist meadow, level as a line, and on it half a dozen cattle; three lying at their ease, and "chewing the cud of sweet" (not "bitter") herbage--two cropping the same--and one lifting up its grave matronly face, and lowing out into the side distance; while, about the legs of all of them, a little flock of Wagtails are glancing in and out merrily, picking up their delicate meal of invisible insects; and upon the very back of one of the ruminators, a pert Magpie has perched himself. Of the extreme distance, half is occupied by dim-seen willows, of the same stunted growth with those in front; and the rest shows indistinctly, and half hidden by trees, a little village,--its church spire pointing its silent finger straight upward, as if bidding us look at a sky scarcely less calm and sweet than the scene which it canopies.--How says the connoisseur? Is this a picture of Paul Potter's, or of Nature? But no matter,--for they are almost the same. There is only just enough difference between them to make us feel (as the possessor of twin children does) that we are blessed with _two_ instead of _one_.

In the Plantation and Flower-garden we must hardly expect to find much of novelty, after the profusion of last month. And in fact there are very few flowers the first appearance of which can be said to be absolutely _peculiar_ to this month; most of those hitherto unnamed choosing to be the medium of a pleasant interchange between the two months, according as seasons, and circ.u.mstances of soil and planting, may dispose them. It must be admitted, however (though I am very loth, even by implication, to dissever this month from absolute summer), that many of the flowers which do come forward now are _autumn_ ones.

Conspicuous among those which first appear in this month, is the stately Holyoak; a plant whose pretensions are not so generally admitted as they ought to be, probably on account of its having, by some strange accident, lost its character for _gentility_. Has this (in the present day) dire misfortune happened to it, because it condescends to flower in as much splendour and variety when leaning beside low cottage porches, or spiring over broken and lichen-grown palings, as it does in the gardens of the great? I hope not; for then those who contemn it must do the same by the vaunted Rose, and the rich Carnation; for where do _they_ blow better than in the daisy-bordered flower-beds of the poor?

The only plausible plea which I can discover, for the reasonableness of banishing from our choice parterres this most magnificent of all their inhabitants, is, that its aspiring and oriental splendour may put to shame the less conspicuous beauties of Flora's court. I hope the latter have not, through envy, been entering into a conspiracy to fix an ill name upon the Holyoak, and thus stir up in the hearts of their admirers a dislike to it, that nothing else is so likely to produce: for, give even a flower "an ill name," and you may as well treat it like a dog at once. In fact, I do not think that any thing short of calling it _ungenteel_ could have displaced the Holyoak from that universal favour with us which it always acquires during our youth, in virtue of its being the only flower that we can distinguish in "garden scenes" on the stage.

As the Holyoak is at present a less _petted_ flower than any other, perhaps the Pa.s.sion-flower (which blows this month) is, of all those which bear the open air, the most so; and, I must say, with quite as little reason. In fact, its virtue lies in its name; which it owes, however, to its fantastical construction suggesting certain religious a.s.sociations, and not to any romantic or sentimental ones; which latter, when connected with it, have grown out of its name, and not its name out of them. If, however, it has little that is beautiful and flower-like about it, it has something bizarre and recherchee, which is well worth examining. But we examine it as we would a watch or a compa.s.s, and not a flower; which is its great fault. It is to other flowers, what a Blue-stocking is to other women.

Among the other flowers that appear now, the most conspicuous, and most beautiful, is that one of the Campanulas which shoots up from its cl.u.s.ter of low leaves one or more tall straight spires, cl.u.s.tered around from heel to point with brilliant sky-blue stars, crowding as closely to each other as those in the milky way,--till they look like one continuous rod of blue, or like the sky-blue ribbons on the mane of a Lord Mayor's coach-horse. These are the flowers that you see in pots, trained into a fan-like shape, till they cover, with their brilliant galaxy of stars, the whole window of the snug parlour where sits at her work the wife of the village apothecary. Of course I speak of a not less distance from town than a long day's journey: any nearer than that, all flowers but exotics have long since been banished from parlour windows, as highly ungenteel.

There are a few other very noticeable flowers, which begin to show themselves to us late in this month; but as they by rights rank among the autumn ones, and as I am not willing to admit that we have as yet arrived even on the confines of that season, I must consider that they have chosen to come before their time, and treat them accordingly.

In the Shrubbery, too, we shall find little of novelty. We will, therefore, at once pa.s.s through it, and reach the Orchard and Fruit Garden; merely observing as we go, that the Elder is beginning to cast a tinge of autumnal purple on its profuse berries; that those of the Rowan, or Mountain Ash, are on the point of putting on their scarlet liveries, which they are to wear all the winter; and that the Purple Clematis is heavy with its handsome flowers.

Perhaps the Fruit-Garden is never in a more favourable state for observation than at present; for most of its produce is sufficiently advanced to have put on all its beauty, while but little of it is in a state to disturb: so that there it hangs in the sight of its satisfied owner--at once a promise, and a fulfilment, without the attendant ills of either.

The inferior fruit, indeed (so at least it is reckoned with us, though in the East Indies a plate of Currants is sometimes placed in the centre of the table, as a Pine-apple is here, and holds exactly the same relative value in respect to the rest of the dessert), the Currants and Gooseberries are now in perfection, and those epicures from the nursery, who alone condescend to eat them in their natural state, may now be turned loose among them with impunity. A few of the Apples, too, are now asking to be plucked; namely, the pretty little, tender, and pale-faced Jeannotin (vulgarice _Gennettin_); the rude-shaped, but firm, sweet, and rosy-cheeked Codling; and the cool, crisp, and refreshing Nonsuch,--eating, when at its best, like a gla.s.s of Apple-ice; and with a shape and make which ent.i.tles it to be called the very Apollo of Apples.

The Cherries, too, have most of them acquired their "cherry-cheeks," and are looking down temptation

"Unto the white upturned wond'ring eyes Of _school-boys_, that fall back to gaze on them,"

as they hang over the garden-wall, next to the road.

As to the other fruits, they look almost as handsome and inviting as ever they will. But we must be content to let them "enjoy the air they breathe" for a month or so longer, if we expect them to do the same by us.

Of London what shall we say, at this only one of its seasons when it has nothing to say for itself? when even the most immoveable of its citizens become migratory for at least a month, and permit their wives and daughters to play the parts of mermaids on the sh.o.r.es of Margate, while they themselves pore over the evening papers all the morning, and over the morning ones all the evening?--when 'Change Alley makes a transfer of half its (live) stock every Sat.u.r.day to the Steine at Brighton, to be returnable by Snow's coaches on Monday morning?--nay, when even the lawyers' clerks themselves begin to grow romantic, and, neglecting their accustomed evening haunts at the c.o.c.k in Fleet-street, Offley's, and the Cider Cellar, permit themselves to be steamed down from Billingsgate to Broadstairs, where they meditate moonlight sonnets to their absent Seraphinas (not without an eye to half-a-guinea each in the magazines), beginning with "Oh, come unto these yellow sands!"

What _can_ be said of the Town at a time like this? The truth is, I am not disposed to quarrel with London (any more than I am with my "bread and b.u.t.ter," and for a similar reason) at any season; so that the less I say or think of it now the better. Suffice it, that London in August is a species of nonent.i.ty, to all but those amateur architects who "go partnerships" in candle-lit grottos at the corners of courts. But, _en revanche_, it is to them a month that, like May to the chimney-sweepers, "only comes once a year."

SEPTEMBER.

I am sorry to mention it, but the truth must be told, even in a matter of age. The Year, then, is on the wane. It is "declining into the vale"

of months. It has reached "a certain age." Its _bloom_ (that indescribable something which surpa.s.ses and supersedes all mere beauty) is fled, and with it all its pretensions to be regarded as an object of pa.s.sionate admiration.

A truce, then, to our treatment of the Months as mistresses. But let us henceforth look upon them as the next best thing, as dear and devoted friends: for

"Turn wheresoe'er we may, By night or day, The things which we have seen we now can see no more."