The Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Village, by Mary Russell Mitford
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Title: Our Village
Author: Mary Russell Mitford
Commentator: Anne Thackeray Ritchie
Release Date: January 8, 2009 [EBook #2496]
Last Updated: January 9, 2013
Language: English
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR VILLAGE ***
Produced by Les Bowler, and David Widger
OUR VILLAGE
By Mary Russell Mitford
1893 Macmillan and Co. edition.
Contents
Introduction by Anne Thackeray Ritchie
I.
There is a great deal of admirable literature concerning Miss Mitford, so
much of it indeed, that the writer of this little notice feels as if she
almost owed an apology to those who remember, for having ventured to
write, on hearsay only, and without having ever known or ever seen the
author of 'Our Village.' And yet, so vivid is the homely friendly
presence, so clear the sound of that voice 'like a chime of bells,' with
its hospitable cheery greeting, that she can scarcely realise that this
acquaintance exists only in the world of the might-have-beens.
For people who are beginning to remember, rather than looking forward any
more, there certainly exists no more delightful reading than the memoirs
and stories of heroes and heroines, many of whom we ourselves may have
seen, and to whom we may have spoken. As we read on we are led into some
happy bygone region,—such as that one described by Mr. du Maurier in
'Peter Ibbetson,'—a region in which we ourselves, together with all
our friends and acquaintances, grow young again;—very young, very
brisk, very hopeful. The people we love are there, along with the people
we remember. Music begins to play, we are dancing, laughing, scampering
over the country once more; our parents too are young and laughing
cheerily. Every now and then perhaps some old friend, also vigorous and
hopeful, bursts into the book, and begins to talk or to write a letter;
early sights and sounds return to us, we have NOW, and we have THEN, in a
pleasant harmony. To those of a certain literary generation who read Miss
Mitford's memoirs, how many such familiar presences and names must appear
and reappear. Not least among them that of her biographer, Mr. Harness
himself, who was so valued by his friends. Mrs. Kemble, Mrs. Sartoris,
Charles Allston Collins, always talked of him with a great respect and
tenderness. I used to think they had a special voice with which to speak
his name. He was never among our intimate friends, but how familiar to my
recollection are the two figures, that of Mr. Harness and Miss Harness,
his sister and housekeeper, coming together along the busy Kensington
roadway. The brother and sister were like characters out of some book,
with their kind faces, their simple spiritual ways; in touch with so much
that was interesting and romantic, and in heart with so much that
suffered. I remember him with grey hair and a smile. He was not tall; he
walked rather lame; Miss Harness too was little, looking up at all the
rest of the world with a kind round face and sparkling eyes fringed with
thick lashes. Mary Mitford was indeed happy in her friends, as happy as
she was unfortunate in her nearer relations.
With much that is sad, there is a great deal of beauty and enjoyment in
Miss Mitford's life. For her the absence of material happiness was made up
for by the presence of warm-hearted sensibility, of enthusiasm, by her
devotion to her parents. Her long endurance and filial piety are very
remarkable, her loving heart carried her safely to the end, and she found
comfort in her unreasoning life's devotion. She had none of the
restlessness which is so apt to spoil much that might be harmonious; all
the charm of a certain unity and simplicity of motive is hers, 'the single
eye,' of which Charles Kingsley wrote so sweetly. She loved her home, her
trees, her surrounding lanes and commons. She loved her friends. Her books
and flowers are real and important events in her life, soothing and
distracting her from the contemplation of its constant anxieties. 'I may
truly say,' she once writes to Miss Barrett, 'that ever since I was a very
young girl, I have never (although for some years living apparently in
affluence) been without pecuniary care,—the care that pressed upon
my thoughts the last thing at night, and woke in the morning with a dreary
sense of pain and pressure, of something which weighed me to the earth.'
Mary Russell Mitford was born on the 16th of December 1787. She was the
only child of her parents, who were well connected; her mother was an
heiress. Her father belonged to the Mitfords of the North. She describes
herself as 'a puny child, with an affluence of curls which made her look
as if she were twin sister to her own great doll.' She could read at three
years old; she learnt the Percy ballads by heart almost before she could
read. Long after, she used to describe how she first studied her beloved
ballads in the breakfast-room lined with books, warmly spread with its
Turkey carpet, with its bright fire, easy chairs, and the windows opening
to a garden full of flowers,—stocks, honeysuckles, and pinks. It is
touching to note how, all through her difficult life, her path was
(literally) lined with flowers, and how the love of them comforted and
cheered her from the first to the very last. In her saddest hours, the
passing fragrance and beauty of her favourite geraniums cheered and
revived her. Even when her mother died she found comfort in the plants
they had tended together, and at the very last breaks into delighted
descriptions of them.
She was sent to school in the year 1798 to No. 22 Hans Place, to a Mrs.
St. Quintin's. It seems to have been an excellent establishment. Mary
learnt the harp and astronomy; her taste for literature was encouraged.
The young ladies, attired as shepherdesses, were also taught to skip
through many mazy movements, but she never distinguished herself as a
shepherdess. She had greater success in her literary efforts, and her
composition 'on balloons' was much applauded. She returned to her home in
1802. 'Plain in figure and in face, she was never common-looking,' says
Mr. Harness. He gives a pretty description of her as 'no ordinary child,
her sweet smiles, her animated conversation, her keen enjoyment of life,
and her gentle voice won the love and admiration of her friends, whether
young or old.' Mr. Harness has chiefly told Miss Mitford's story in her
own words by quotations from her letters, and, as one reads, one can
almost follow her moods as they succeed each other, and these moods are
her real history. The assiduity of childhood, the bright enthusiasm and
gaiety of her early days, the growing anxiety of her later life, the
maturer judgments, the occasional despairing terrors which came to try her
bright nature, but along with it all, that innocent and enduring
hopefulness which never really deserted her. Her elastic spirit she owed
to her father, that incorrigible old Skimpole. 'I am generally happy
everywhere,' she writes in her youth—and then later on: 'It is a
great pleasure to me to love and to admire, this is a faculty which has
survived many frosts and storms.' It is true that she adds a query
somewhere else, 'Did you ever remark how superior old gaiety is to new?'
she asks.
Her handsome father, her plain and long-enduring mother, are both
unconsciously described in her correspondence. 'The Doctor's manners were
easy, natural, cordial, and apparently extremely frank,' says Mr. Harness,
'but he nevertheless met the world on its own terms, and was prepared to
allow himself any insincerity which seemed expedient. He was not only
recklessly extravagant, but addicted to high play. His wife's large
fortune, his daughter's, his own patrimony, all passed through his hands
in an incredibly short space of time, but his wife and daughter were never
heard to complain of his conduct, nor appeared to admire him less.'
The story of Miss Mitford's 20,000 pounds is unique among the adventures
of authoresses. Dr. Mitford, having spent all his wife's fortune, and
having brought his family from a comfortable home, with flowers and a
Turkey carpet, to a small lodging near Blackfriars Bridge, determined to
present his daughter with an expensive lottery ticket on the occasion of
her tenth birthday. She had a fancy for No. 2224, of which the added
numbers came to 10. This number actually came out the first prize of
20,000 pounds, which money started the family once more in comparative
affluence. Dr. Mitford immediately built a new square house, which he
calls Bertram House, on the site of a pretty old farmhouse which he causes
to be pulled down. He also orders a dessert-service painted with the
Mitford arms; Mrs. Mitford is supplied with a carriage, and she subscribes
to a circulating library.
A list still exists of the books taken out by her for her daughter's use;
some fifty-five volumes a month, chiefly trash: 'Vicenza,' 'A Sailor's
Friendship and Soldier's Love,' 'Clarentina,' 'Robert and Adela,' 'The
Count de Valmont,' 'The Three Spaniards,' 'De Clifford' (in four volumes)
and so on.
The next two or three years were brilliant enough; for the family must
have lived at the rate of three or four thousand a year. Their hospitality
was profuse, they had servants, carriages, they bought pictures and
furniture, they entertained. Cobbett was among their intimate friends. The
Doctor naturally enough invested in a good many more lottery tickets, but
without any further return.
The ladies seem to take it as a matter of course that he should speculate
and gamble at cards, and indeed do anything and everything he fancied, but
they beg him at least to keep to respectable clubs. He is constantly away.
His daughter tries to tempt him home with the bloom of her hyacinths. 'How
they long to see him again!' she says, 'how greatly have they been
disappointed, when, every day, the journey to Reading has been fruitless.
The driver of the Reading coach is quite accustomed to being waylaid by
their carriage.' Then she tells him about the primroses, but neither
hyacinths nor primroses bring the Doctor away from his cards. Finally, the
rhododendrons and the azaleas are in bloom, but these also fail to attract
him.
Miss Mitford herself as she grows up is sent to London more than once, to
the St. Quintin's and elsewhere. She goes to the play and to Westminster
Hall, she sees her hero, Charles James Fox, and has the happiness of
watching him helped on to his horse. Mr. Romilly delights her, but her
greatest favourite of all is Mr. Whitbread. 'You know I am always an
enthusiast,' she writes, 'but at present it is impossible to describe the
admiration I feel for this exalted character.' She speaks of his voice
'which she could listen to with transport even if he spoke in an unknown
language!' she writes a sonnet to him, 'an impromptu, on hearing Mr.
Whitbread declare in Westminster Hall that he fondly trusted his name
would descend to posterity.'
'The hope of Fame thy noble bosom fires,
Nor vain the hope thy ardent mind inspires;
In British breasts whilst Purity remains,
Whilst Liberty her blessed abode retains,
Still shall the muse of History proclaim
To future ages thy immortal name!'
There are many references to the celebrities of the time in her letters
home,—every one agrees as to the extreme folly of Sheridan's
entertainments, Mrs. Opie is spoken of as a rising authoress, etc. etc.
etc.
Miss Austen used to go to 23 Hans Place, and Miss Mitford used to stay at
No. 22, but not at the same time. Mrs. Mitford had known Miss Austen as a
child. She may perhaps be forgiven for some prejudice and maternal
jealousy, in her later impressions, but Mary Mitford admired Jane Austen
always with warmest enthusiasm. She writes to her mother at length from
London, describing everything, all the people and books and experiences
that she comes across,—the elegant suppers at Brompton, the Grecian
lamps, Mr. Barker's beauty, Mr. Plummer's plainness, and the destruction
of her purple gown.
Mrs. Mitford writes back in return describing Reading festivities, 'an
agreeable dinner at Doctor Valpy's, where Mrs. Women and Miss Peacock are
present and Mr. J. Simpson, M.P.; the dinner very good, two full courses
and one remove, the soup giving place to one quarter of lamb.' Mrs.
Mitford sends a menu of every dinner she goes to.
In 1806 Dr. Mitford takes his daughter, who was then about nineteen, to
the North to visit his relations; they are entertained by the grandparents
of the Trevelyans and the Swinburnes, the Ogles and the Mitfords of the
present day. They fish in Sir John Swinburne's lake, they visit at Alnwick
Castle. Miss Mitford kept her front hair in papers till she reached
Alnwick, nor was her dress discomposed though she had travelled thirty
miles. They sat down, sixty-five to dinner, which was 'of course' (she
somewhat magnificently says) entirely served on plate. Poor Mary's
pleasure is very much dashed by the sudden disappearance of her father,—Dr.
Mitford was in the habit of doing anything he felt inclined to do at once
and on the spot, quite irrespectively of the convenience of others,—and
although a party had been arranged on purpose to meet him in the North,
and his daughter was counting on his escort to return home, (people posted
in those days, they did not take their tickets direct from Newcastle to
London), Dr. Mitford one morning leaves word that he has gone off to
attend the Reading election, where his presence was not in the least
required. For the first and apparently for the only time in her life his
daughter protests. 'Mr. Ogle is extremely offended; nothing but your
immediate return can ever excuse you to him! I IMPLORE you to return, I
call upon Mamma's sense of propriety to send you here directly. Little did
I suspect that my father, my beloved father, would desert me at this
distance from home! Every one is surprised.' Dr. Mitford was finally
persuaded to travel back to Northumberland to fetch his daughter.
The constant companionship of Dr. Mitford must have given a curious colour
to his good and upright daughter's views of life. Adoring her father as
she did, she must have soon accustomed herself to take his fine speeches
for fine actions, to accept his self-complacency in the place of a
conscience. She was a woman of warm impressions, with a strong sense of
right. But it was not within her daily experience, poor soul, that people
who did not make grand professions were ready to do their duty all the
same; nor did she always depend upon the uprightness, the courage, the
self-denial of those who made no protestations. At that time loud talking
was still the fashion, and loud living was considered romantic. They both
exist among us, but they are less admired, and there is a different
language spoken now to that of Dr. Mitford and his school. * This must
account for some of Miss Mitford's judgments of what she calls a 'cynical'
generation, to which she did little justice.
*People nowadays are more ready to laugh than to admire when
they hear the lions bray; for mewing and bleating, the
taste, I fear, is on the increase.
II.
There is one penalty people pay for being authors, which is that from
cultivating vivid impressions and mental pictures they are apt to take
fancies too seriously and to mistake them for reality. In story-telling
this is well enough, and it interferes with nobody; but in real history,
and in one's own history most of all, this faculty is apt to raise up
bogies and nightmares along one's path; and while one is fighting
imaginary demons, the good things and true are passed by unnoticed, the
best realities of life are sometimes overlooked....
But after all, Mary Russell Mitford, who spent most of her time gathering
figs off thistles and making the best of her difficult circumstances,
suffered less than many people do from the influence of imaginary things.
She was twenty-three years old when her first book of poems was published;
so we read in her letters, in which she entreats her father not to curtail
ANY of the verses addressed to him; there is no reason, she says, except
his EXTREME MODESTY why the verses should be suppressed,—she speaks
not only with the fondness of a daughter but with the sensibility of a
poet. Our young authoress is modest, although in print; she compares
herself to Crabbe (as Jane Austen might have done), and feels 'what she
supposes a farthing candle would experience when the sun rises in all its
glory.' Then comes the Publisher's bill for 59 pounds; she is quite
shocked at the bill, which is really exorbitant! In her next letter Miss
Mitford reminds her father that the taxes are still unpaid, and a
correspondence follows with somebody asking for a choice of the Doctor's
pictures in payment for the taxes. The Doctor is in London all the time,
dining out and generally amusing himself. Everybody is speculating whether
Sir Francis Burdett will go to the Tower.* 'Oh, my darling, how I envy you
at the fountain-head of intelligence in these interesting times! How I
envy Lady Burdett for the fine opportunity she has to show the heroism of
our sex!' writes the daughter, who is only encountering angry
tax-gatherers at home.... Somehow or other the bills are paid for the
time, and the family arrangements go on as before.
*Here, in our little suburban garden at Wimbledon, are the remains of an
old hedgerow which used to grow in the kitchen garden of the Grange where
Sir Francis Burdett then lived. The tradition is that he was walking in
the lane in his own kitchen garden when he was taken up and carried off to
honourable captivity.—A.T.R.
Besides writing to the members of her own home, Miss Mitford started
another correspondent very early in life; this was Sir William Elford, to
whom she describes her outings and adventures, her visits to Tavistock
House, where her kind friends the Perrys receive her. Mr. Perry was the
editor of the Morning Chronicle; he and his beautiful wife were the
friends of all the most interesting people of the day. Here again the
present writer's own experiences can interpret the printed page, for her
own first sight of London people and of London society came to her in a
little house in Chesham Place, where her father's old friends, Mrs.
Frederick Elliot and Miss Perry, the daughters of Miss Mitford's friends,
lived with a very notable and interesting set of people, making a social
centre, by that kindly unconscious art which cannot be defined; that quick
apprehension, that benevolent fastidiousness (I have to use rather
far-fetched words) which are so essential to good hosts and hostesses. A
different standard is looked for now, by the rising generations knocking
at the doors, behind which the dignified past is lying as stark as King
Duncan himself!
Among other entertainments Miss Mitford went to the fetes which celebrated
the battle of Vittoria; she had also the happiness of getting a good sight
of Mme. de Stael, who was a great friend of the Perrys. 'She is almost as
much followed in the gardens as the Princess,' she says, pouring out her
wonders, her pleasures, her raptures. She begins to read Burns with
youthful delight, dilates upon his exhaustless imagination, his
versatility, and then she suggests a very just criticism. 'Does it not
appear' she says, 'that versatility is the true and rare characteristic of
that rare thing called genius—versatility and playfulness;' then she
goes on to speak of two highly-reputed novels just come out and ascribed
to Lady Morley, 'Pride and Prejudice' and 'Sense and Sensibility.'
She is still writing from Bertram House, but her pleasant gossip
continually alternates with more urgent and less agreeable letters
addressed to her father. Lawyers' clerks are again calling with notices
and warnings, tax-gatherers are troubling. Dr. Mitford has, as usual, left
no address, so that she can only write to the 'Star Office,' and trust to
chance. 'Mamma joins in tenderest love,' so the letters invariably
conclude.
Notwithstanding the adoration bestowed by the ladies of the family and
their endearing adjectives, Mr. Harness is very outspoken on the subject
of the handsome Doctor! He disliked his manners, his morals, his
self-sufficiency, his loud talk. 'The old brute never informed his friends
of anything; all they knew of him or his affairs, or whatever false or
true he intended them to believe, came out carelessly in his loose,
disjointed talk.'
In 1814 Miss Mitford is living on still with her parents at Bertram House,
but a change has come over their home; the servants are gone, the gravel
turned to moss, the turf into pasture, the shrubberies to thickets, the
house a sort of new 'ruin half inhabited, and a Chancery suit is hanging
over their heads.' Meantime some news comes to cheer her from America. Two
editions of her poems have been printed and sold. 'Narrative Poems on the
Female Character' proved a real success. 'All who have hearts to feel and
understandings to discriminate, must wish you health and leisure to
complete your plan,' so write publishers in those golden days, with
complimentary copies of the work....
Great things are happening all this time; battles are being fought and
won, Napoleon is on his way to St. Helena; London is in a frenzy of
rejoicings, entertainings, illuminations. To Mary Mitford the appearance
of 'Waverley' seems as great an event as the return of the Bourbons; she
is certain that 'Waverley' is written by Sir Walter Scott, but 'Guy
Mannering,' she thinks, is by another hand: her mind is full of a genuine
romantic devotion to books and belles lettres, and she is also rejoicing,
even more, in the spring-time of 1816. Dr. Mitford may be impecunious and
their affairs may be threadbare, but the lovely seasons come out ever in
fresh beauty and abundance. The coppices are carpeted with primroses, with
pansies and wild strawberry blossom,—the woods are spangled with the
delicate flowers of the woodsorrel and wood anemone, the meadows enamelled
with cowslips.... Certainly few human beings were ever created more fit
for this present world, and more capable of admiring and enjoying its
beauties, than Miss Mitford, who only desired to be beautiful herself, she
somewhere says, to be perfectly contented.
III.
Most people's lives are divided into first, second and third volumes; and
as we read Miss Mitford's history it forms no exception to the rule. The
early enthusiastic volume is there, with its hopes and wild judgments, its
quaint old-fashioned dress and phraseology; then comes the second volume,
full of actual work and serious responsibility, with those childish
parents to provide for, whose lives, though so protracted, never seem to
reach beyond their nurseries. Miss Mitford's third volume is
retrospective; her growing infirmities are courageously endured, there is
the certainty of success well earned and well deserved; we realise her
legitimate hold upon the outer world of readers and writers, besides the
reputation which she won upon the stage by her tragedies.
The literary ladies of the early part of the century in some ways had a
very good time of it. A copy of verses, a small volume of travels, a few
tea-parties, a harp in one corner of the room, and a hat and feathers worn
rather on one side, seemed to be all that was wanted to establish a claim
to fashion and inspiration. They had footstools to rest their satin shoes
upon, they had admirers and panegyrists to their heart's content, and
above all they possessed that peculiar complacency in which (with a few
notable exceptions) our age is singularly deficient. We are earnest, we
are audacious, we are original, but we are not complacent. THEY were dolls
perhaps, and lived in dolls' houses; WE are ghosts without houses at all;
we come and go wrapped in sheets of newspaper, holding flickering lights
in our hands, paraffin lamps, by the light of which we are seeking our
proper sphere. Poor vexed spirits! We do not belong to the old world any
more! The new world is not yet ready for us. Even Mr. Gladstone will not
let us into the House of Commons; the Geographical Society rejects us, so
does the Royal Academy; and yet who could say that any of their standards
rise too high! Some one or two are happily safe, carried by the angels of
the Press to little altars and pinnacles all their own; but the majority
of hard-working, intelligent women, 'contented with little, yet ready for
more,' may they not in moments of depression be allowed to picture to
themselves what their chances might have been had they only been born half
a century earlier?
Miss Mitford, notwithstanding all her troubles (she has been known to say
she had rather be a washerwoman than a literary lady), had opportunities
such as few women can now obtain. One is lost in admiration at the
solidity of one's grandparents' taste, when one attempts to read the
tragedies they delighted in, and yet 'Rienzi' sold four thousand copies
and was acted forty-five times; and at one time Miss Mitford had two
tragedies rehearsed upon the boards together; one at Covent Garden and one
at Drury Lane, with Charles Kemble and Macready disputing for her work.
Has not one also read similar descriptions of the triumphs of Hannah More,
or of Johanna Baillie; cheered by enthusiastic audiences, while men shed
tears.*
*Mem. Hannah More, v.i. p.124.
'Julian' was the first of Miss Mitford's acted plays. It was brought out
at Covent Garden in 1823, when she was thirty-six years old; Macready
played the principal part. 'If the play do reach the ninth night,' Miss
Mitford writes to Macready, 'it will be a very complete refutation of Mr.
Kemble's axiom that no single performer can fill the theatre; for except
our pretty Alfonso (Miss Foote) there is only Julian, one and only one.
Let him imagine how deeply we feel his exertions and his kindness.*...'
*In Macready's diary we find an entry which is not over gracious.
'"Julian" acted March the 15th. Had but moderate success. The C. G.
company was no longer equal to the support of plays containing moral
characters. The authoress in her dedication to me was profuse in her
acknowledgments and compliments, but the performance made little
impression, and was soon forgotten.'
'Julian' was stopped on the eighth night, to her great disappointment, but
she is already engaged on another—on several more—-tragedies;
she wants the money badly; for the editor of her magazine has absconded,
owing her 50 pounds. Some trying and bewildering quarrel then ensues
between Charles Kemble and Macready, which puts off her tragedies, and
sadly affects poor Miss Mitford's nerves and profits. She has one solace.
Her father, partly instigated, she says, by the effect which the terrible
feeling of responsibility and want of power has had upon her health and
spirits, at last resolves to try if he can HIMSELF obtain any employment
that may lighten the burthen of the home. It is a good thing that Dr.
Mitford has braced himself to this heroic determination. 'The addition of
two or even one hundred a year to our little income, joined to what I am,
in a manner, sure of gaining by mere industry, would take a load from my
heart of which I can scarcely give you an idea... even "Julian" was
written under a pressure of anxiety which left me not a moment's rest....'
So she fondly dwells upon the delightful prospects. Then comes the next
letter to Sir William Elford, and we read that her dear father, 'relying
with a blessed sanguineness on my poor endeavours, has not, I believe,
even inquired for a situation, and I do not press the matter, though I
anxiously wish it; being willing to give one more trial to the theatre.'
On one of the many occasions when Miss Mitford writes to her trustee
imploring him to sell out the small remaining fragment of her fortune, she
says, 'My dear father has, years ago, been improvident, is still irritable
and difficult to live with, but he is a person of a thousand virtues...
there are very few half so good in this mixed world; it is my fault that
this money is needed, entirely my fault, and if it be withheld, my dear
father will be overthrown, mind and body, and I shall never know another
happy hour.'
No wonder Mr. Harness, who was behind the scenes, remonstrated against the
filial infatuation which sacrificed health, sleep, peace of mind, to
gratify every passing whim of the Doctor's. At a time when she was sitting
up at night and slaving, hour after hour, to earn the necessary means of
living, Dr. Mitford must needs have a cow, a stable, and dairy implements
procured for his amusement, and when he died he left 1,000 pounds of debts
for the scrupulous woman to pay off. She is determined to pay, if she
sells her clothes to do so. Meanwhile, the Doctor is still alive, and Miss
Mitford is straining every nerve to keep him so. She is engaged (in strict
confidence) on a grand historical subject, Charles and Cromwell, the
finest episode in English history, she says. Here, too, fresh obstacles
arise. This time it is the theatrical censor who interferes. It would be
dangerous for the country to touch upon such topics; Mr. George Colman
dwells upon this theme, although he gives the lady full credit for no evil
intentions; but for the present all her work is again thrown away. While
Miss Mitford is struggling on as best she can against this confusion of
worries and difficulty (she eventually received 200 pounds for 'Julian'
from a Surrey theatre), a new firm 'Whittaker' undertakes to republish the
'village sketches' which had been written for the absconding editor. The
book is to be published under the title of 'Our Village.'
IV.
'Are your characters and descriptions true?' somebody once asked our
authoress. 'Yes, yes, yes, as true, as true as is well possible,' she
answers. 'You, as a great landscape painter, know that in painting a
favourite scene you do a little embellish and can't help it; you avail
yourself of happy accidents of atmosphere; if anything be ugly you strike
it out, or if anything be wanting, you put it in. But still the picture is
a likeness.'
So wrote Miss Mitford, but with all due respect for her and for Sir
William Elford, the great landscape painter, I cannot help thinking that
what is admirable in her book, are not her actual descriptions and
pictures of intelligent villagers and greyhounds, but the more imaginative
things; the sense of space and nature and progress which she knows how to
convey; the sweet and emotional chord she strikes with so true a touch.
Take at hazard her description of the sunset. How simple and yet how
finely felt it is. Her genuine delight reaches us and carries us along; it
is not any embellishing of effects, or exaggeration of facts, but the
reality of a true and very present feeling... 'The narrow line of clouds
which a few minutes ago lay like long vapouring streaks along the horizon,
now lighted with a golden splendour, that the eye can scarcely endure;
those still softer clouds which floated above, wreathing and curling into
a thousand fantastic forms as thin and changeful as summer smoke, defined
and deepened into grandeur, and hedged with ineffable, insufferable light.
Another minute and the brilliant orb totally disappears and the sky above
grows, every moment, more varied and more beautiful, as the dazzling
golden lines are mixed with glowing red and gorgeous purple, dappled with
small dark specks, and mingled with such a blue as the egg of the
hedge-sparrow.... To look up at that glorious sky, and then to see that
magnificent picture reflected in the clear and lovely Loddon water, is a
pleasure never to be described, and never to be forgotten. My heart
swells, and my eyes fill as I write of it, and think of the immeasurable
majesty of nature and the unspeakable goodness of God, who has spread an
enjoyment so pure, so peaceful, and so intense before the meanest and
lowliest of His creatures.'
But it is needless now to go on praising 'Our Village,' or to recount what
a success was in store for the little book. Certain books hold their own
by individual right and might; they are part of everybody's life as a
matter of course. They are not always read, but they tacitly take their
place among us. The editions succeeded editions here and in America;
artists came down to illustrate the scenes. Miss Mitford, who was so
delighted with the drawings by Mr. Baxter, should have lived to see the
charming glimpses of rural life we owe to Mr. Thomson. 'I don't mind 'em,'
says Lizzy to the cows, as they stand with spirited bovine grace behind
the stable door. 'Don't mind them indeed!'
I think the author would assuredly have enjoyed the picture of the baker,
the wheelwright and the shoemaker, each following his special Alderney
along the road to the village, or of the farmer driving his old wife in
the gig.... One design, that of the lady in her pattens, comes home to the
writer of these notes, who has perhaps the distinction of being the only
authoress now alive who has ever walked out in pattens. At the age of
seven years she was provided with a pair by a great-great-aunt, a kind old
lady living at Fareham, in Hampshire, where they were still in use. How
interesting the little circles looked stamped upon the muddy road, and how
nearly down upon one's nose one was at every other step!
But even with all her success, Miss Mitford was not out of her troubles.
She writes to Mr. Harness saying: 'You cannot imagine how perplexed I am.
There are points in my domestic situation too long and too painful to
write about; the terrible improvidence of one dear parent, the failure of
memory and decay of faculty in that other who is still dearer, cast on me
a weight of care and fear that I can hardly bear up against.' Her
difficulties were unending. The new publisher now stopped payment, so that
even 'Our Village' brought in no return for the moment; Charles Kemble was
unable to make any offer for 'Foscari.' She went up to town in the
greatest hurry to try and collect some of the money owing to her from her
various publishers, but, as Mr. Harness says, received little from her
debtors beyond invitations and compliments. She meditates a novel, she
plans an opera, 'Cupid and Psyche.'
At last, better times began to dawn, and she receives 150 pounds down for
a new novel and ten guineas from Blackwood as a retaining fee. Then comes
a letter from Charles Kemble giving her new hope, for her tragedy, which
was soon afterwards produced at Covent Garden.
The tragedies are in tragic English, of course that language of the
boards, but not without a simplicity and music of their own. In the
introduction to them, in some volumes published by Hurst and Blacket in
1854, Miss Mitford describes 'the scene of indescribable chaos preceding
the performance, the vague sense of obscurity and confusion; tragedians,
hatted and coated, skipping about, chatting and joking; the only very
grave person being Liston himself. Ballet-girls walking through their
quadrilles to the sound of a solitary fiddle, striking up as if of its own
accord, from amid the tall stools and music-desks of the orchestra, and
piercing, one hardly knew how, through the din that was going on
incessantly. Oh, that din! Voices from every part; above, below, around,
and in every key. Heavy weights rolling here and falling there. Bells
ringing, one could not tell why, and the ubiquitous call-boy everywhere.'
She describes her astonishment when the play succeeds. 'Not that I had
nerve enough to attend the first representation of my tragedies. I sat
still and trembling in some quiet apartment near, and thither some friend
flew to set my heart at ease. Generally the messenger of good tidings was
poor Haydon, whose quick and ardent spirit lent him wings on such an
occasion.'
We have the letter to her mother about 'Foscari,' from which I have
quoted; and on the occasion of the production of 'Rienzi' at Drury Lane
(two years later in October 1828), the letter to Sir William Elford when
the poor old mother was no longer here to rejoice in her daughter's
success.
Miss Mitford gratefully records the sympathy of her friends, the
warm-hearted muses of the day. Mrs. Trollope, Miss Landon, Miss Edgeworth,
Miss Porden, Mrs. Hofland, Mrs. Opie, who all appear with their
congratulations.
Miss Mitford says that Haydon, above all, sympathised with her love for a
large canvas. The Classics, Spain, Italy, Mediaeval Rome, these are her
favourite scenes and periods. Dukes and tribunes were her heroes; daggers,
dungeons, and executioners her means of effects.
She moralises very sensibly upon Dramatic success. 'It is not,' she says,
'so delicious, so glorious, so complete a gratification as, in our secret
longings, we all expect. It does not fill the heart,—it is an
intoxication followed by a dismal reaction.' She tells a friend that never
in all her life was she so depressed and out of spirits as after 'Rienzi,'
her first really successful venture. But there is also a passing allusion
to her father's state of mind, to his mingled irritation and sulkiness,
which partly explains things. Could it be that the Doctor added petty
jealousy and envy to his other inconvenient qualities? His intolerance for
any author or actor, in short, for any one not belonging to a county
family, his violent annoyance at any acquaintances such as those which she
now necessarily made, would naturally account for some want of spirits on
the daughter's part; overwrought, over-taxed, for ever on the strain, her
work was exhausting indeed. The small pension she afterwards obtained from
the Civil List must have been an unspeakable boon to the poor harassed
woman.
Tragedy seems to have resulted in a substantial pony and a basket carriage
for Miss Mitford, and in various invitations (from the Talfourds, among
the rest) during which she is lionised right and left. It must have been
on this occasion that Serjeant Talfourd complained so bitterly of a review
of 'Ion' which appeared about that time. His guest, to soothe him,
unwarily said, 'she should not have minded such a review of HER Tragedy.'
'YOUR "Rienzi," indeed! I should think not,' says the serjeant. '"Ion" is
very different.' The Talfourd household, as it is described by Mr.
Lestrange, is a droll mixture of poetry and prose, of hospitality, of
untidiness, of petulance, of most genuine kindness and most genuine human
nature.
There are also many mentions of Miss Mitford in the 'Life of Macready' by
Sir F. Pollock. The great tragedian seems not to have liked her with any
cordiality; but he gives a pleasant account of a certain supper-party in
honour of 'Ion' at which she is present, and during which she asks
Macready if he will not now bring out her tragedy. The tragedian does not
answer, but Wordsworth, sitting by, says, 'Ay, keep him to it.'
V.
Besides the 'Life of Miss Mitford' by Messrs. Harness and Lestrange, there
is also a book of the 'Friendships of Mary Russell Mitford,' consisting of
the letters she received rather than of those which she wrote. It
certainly occurs to one, as one looks through the printed correspondence
of celebrated people, how different are written from printed letters. Your
friend's voice sounds, your friend's eyes look out, of the written page,
even its blots and erasures remind you of your human being. But the
magnetism is gone out of these printer's lines with their even margins; in
which everybody's handwriting is exactly alike; in which everybody uses
the same type, the same expressions; in which the eye roams from page to
page untouched, unconvinced. I can imagine the pleasure each one of these
letters may have given to Miss Mitford to receive in turn. They come from
well-known ladies, accustomed to be considered. Mrs. Trollope, Mrs.
Hofland, Mrs. Howitt, Mrs. S. C. Hall, Miss Strickland, Mrs. Opie; there,
too, are Miss Barrett and Mrs. Jamieson and Miss Sedgwick who writes from
America; they are all interesting people, but it must be confessed that
the correspondence is not very enlivening. Miss Barrett's is an exception,
that is almost as good as handwriting to read. But there is no doubt that
compliments to OTHER authoresses are much less amusing, than those one
writes or receives oneself; apologies also for not writing sooner, CAN
pall upon one in print, however soothing they may be to the justly
offended recipient, or to the conscience-stricken correspondent.
'I must have seemed a thankless wretch, my dear Miss Mitford,' etc. etc.
'You, my dear friend, know too well what it is to have to finish a book,
to blame my not attempting,' etc. etc. 'This is the thirty-ninth letter I
have written since yesterday morning,' says Harriet Martineau. 'Oh, I can
scarcely hold the pen! I will not allow my shame for not having written,
to prevent me from writing now.' All these people seem to have been just
as busy as people are now, as amusing, as tiresome. They had the
additional difficulty of having to procure franks, and of having to cover
four pages instead of a post-card. OUR letters may be dull, but at all
events they are not nearly so long. We come sooner to the point and avoid
elegant circumlocutions. But one is struck, among other things, by the
keener literary zest of those days, and by the immense numbers of MSS. and
tragedies in circulation, all of which their authors confidingly send from
one to another. There are also whole flights of travelling poems flapping
their wings and uttering their cries as they go.
An enthusiastic American critic who comes over to England emphasises the
situation. Mr. Willis's 'superlative admiration' seems to give point to
everything, and to all the enthusiasm. Miss Austen's Collins himself could
not have been more appreciative, not even if Miss de Burgh had tried her
hand at a MS.... Could he—Mr. Willis—choose, he would have
tragedy once a year from Miss Mitford's pen. 'WHAT an intoxicating life it
is,' he cries; 'I met Jane Porter and Miss Aikin and Tom Moore and a troop
more beaux esprits at dinner yesterday! I never shall be content
elsewhere.'
Miss Mitford's own letters speak in a much more natural voice.
'I never could understand what people could find to like in my letters,'
Miss Mitford writes, 'unless it be that they have a ROOT to them.' The
root was in her own kind heart. Miss Mitford may have been wanting a
little in discrimination, but she was never wanting in sympathy. She seems
to have loved people for kindness's sake indiscriminately as if they were
creations of her own brain: but to friendliness or to trouble of any sort
she responds with fullest measure. Who shall complain if some rosy veil
coloured the aspects of life for her?
'Among the many blessings I enjoy,—my dear father, my admirable
mother, my tried and excellent friends,—there is nothing for which I
ought to thank God so earnestly as for the constitutional buoyancy of
spirits, the aptness to hope, the will to be happy WHICH I INHERIT FROM MY
FATHER,' she writes. Was ever filial piety so irritating as hers? It is
difficult to bear, with any patience, her praises of Dr. Mitford. His
illusions were no less a part of his nature than his daughter's, the one a
self-centred absolutely selfish existence, the other generous, humble,
beautiful. She is hardly ever really angry except when some reports get
about concerning her marriage. There was an announcement that she was
engaged to one of her own clan, and the news spread among her friends. The
romantic Mrs. Hofland had conjured up the suggestion, to Miss Mitford's
extreme annoyance. It is said Mrs. Hofland also married off Miss Edgeworth
in the same manner.
Mary Mitford found her true romance in friendship, not in love. One day
Mr. Kenyon came to see her while she was staying in London, and offered to
show her the Zoological Gardens, and on the way he proposed calling in
Gloucester Place to take up a young lady, a connection of his own, Miss
Barrett by name. It was thus that Miss Mitford first made the acquaintance
of Mrs. Browning, whose friendship was one of the happiest events of her
whole life. A happy romance indeed, with that added reality which must
have given it endurance. And indeed to make a new friend is like learning
a new language. I myself have a friend who says that we have each one of
us a chosen audience of our own to whom we turn instinctively, and before
whom we rehearse that which is in our minds; whose opinion influences us,
whose approval is our secret aim. All this Mrs. Browning seems to have
been to Miss Mitford.
'I sit and think of you and of the poems that you will write, and of that
strange rainbow crown called fame, until the vision is before me.... My
pride and my hopes seem altogether merged in you. At my time of life and
with so few to love, and with a tendency to body forth images of gladness,
you cannot think what joy it is to anticipate....' So wrote the elder
woman to the younger with romantic devotion. What Miss Mitford once said
of herself was true, hers was the instinct of the bee sucking honey from
the hedge flower. Whatever sweetness and happiness there was to find she
turned to with unerring directness.
It is to Miss Barrett that she sometimes complains. 'It will help you to
understand how impossible it is for me to earn money as I ought to do,
when I tell you that this very day I received your dear letter and sixteen
others; then my father brought into my room the newspaper to hear the ten
or twelve columns of news from India; then I dined and breakfasted in one;
then I got up, and by that time there were three parties of people in the
garden; eight others arrived soon after.... I was forced to leave, being
engaged to call on Lady Madeline Palmer. She took me some six miles on
foot in Mr. Palmer's beautiful plantations, in search of that exquisite
wild-flower the bog-bean, do you know it? most beautiful of flowers,
either wild—or, as K. puts it,—"tame." After long search we
found the plant not yet in bloom.'
Dr. Mitford weeps over his daughters exhaustion, telling everybody that
she is killing herself by her walks and drives. He would like her never to
go beyond the garden and beyond reach of the columns of his newspaper. She
declares that it is only by getting out and afield that she can bear the
strain and the constant alternation of enforced work and anxiety. Nature
was, indeed, a second nature to her. Charles Kingsley himself could
scarcely write better of the East wind....
'We have had nine weeks of drought and east wind, scarcely a flower to be
seen, no verdure in the meadows, no leaves in the hedgerows; if a poor
violet or primrose did make its appearance it was scentless. I have not
once heard my aversion the cuckoo... and in this place, so evidently the
rendezvous of swallows, that it takes its name from them, not a swallow
has yet appeared. The only time that I have heard the nightingale, I
drove, the one mild day we have had, to a wood where I used to find the
woodsorrel in beds; only two blossoms of that could be found, but a whole
chorus of nightingales saluted me the moment I drove into the wood.'
There is something of Madame de Sevigne in her vivid realisation of
natural things.
She nursed her father through a long and trying illness, and when he died
found herself alone in the world with impaired health and very little
besides her pension from the Civil List to live upon. Dr. Mitford left
1000 pounds worth of debts, which this honourable woman then and there set
to work to try and pay. So much courage and devotion touched the hearts of
her many friends and readers, and this sum was actually subscribed by
them. Queens, archbishops, dukes, and marquises subscribe to the
testimonial, so do the literary ladies, Mesdames Bailey, Edgeworth,
Trollope; Mrs. Opie is determined to collect twenty pounds at least,
although she justly says she wishes it were for anything but to pay the
Doctor's debts.
In 1844 it is delightful to read of a little ease at last in this harassed
life; of a school-feast with buns and flags organised by the kind lady,
the children riding in waggons decked with laurel, Miss Mitford leading
the way, followed by eight or ten neighbouring carriages, and the whole
party waiting in Swallowfield Lane to see the Queen and Prince Albert
returning from their visit to the Duke of Wellington. 'Our Duke went to no
great expense,' says Miss Mitford. (Dr. Mitford would have certainly
disapproved had he been still alive.) One strip of carpet the Duke did
buy, the rest of the furniture he hired in Reading for the week. The
ringers, after being hard at work for four hours, sent a can to the house
to ask for some beer, and the can was sent back empty.
It was towards the end of her life that Miss Mitford left Three Mile Cross
and came to Swallowfield to stay altogether. 'The poor cottage was
tumbling around us, and if we had stayed much longer we should have been
buried in the ruins,' she says; 'there I had toiled and striven and tasted
as bitterly of bitter anxiety, of fear and hope, as often falls to the lot
of women.' Then comes a charming description of the three miles of
straight and dusty road. 'I walked from one cottage to the other on an
autumn evening when the vagrant birds, whose habit of assembling there for
their annual departure, gives, I suppose, its name of Swallowfield to the
village, were circling over my head, and I repeated to myself the pathetic
lines of Hayley as he saw those same birds gathering upon his roof during
his last illness:—
'"Ye gentle birds, that perch aloof,
And smooth your pinions on my roof...
'"Prepare for your departure hence
Ere winter's angry threats commence;
Like you my soul would smooth her plume
For longer flights beyond the tomb.
'"May God by whom is seen and heard
Departing men and wandering bird,
In mercy mark us for His own
And guide us to the land unknown!"'
Thoughts soothing and tender came with those touching lines, and gayer
images followed....
It is from Swallowfield that she writes: 'I have fell this blessing of
being able to respond to new friendships very strongly lately, for I have
lost many old and valued connections during this trying spring. I thank
God far more earnestly for such blessings than for my daily bread, for
friendship is the bread of the heart.'
It was late in life to make such warm new ties as those which followed her
removal from Three Mile Cross; but some of the most cordial friendships of
her life date from this time. Mr. James Payn and Mr. Fields she loved with
some real motherly feeling, and Lady Russell who lived at the Hall became
her tender and devoted friend.
VI.
We went down to Reading the other day, as so many of Miss Mitford's
friends have done before, to look at 'our village' with our own eyes, and
at the cottage in which she lived for so long. A phaeton with a
fast-stepping horse met us at the station and whirled us through the busy
town and along the straight dusty road beyond it. As we drove along in the
soft clouded sunshine I looked over the hedges on either side, and I could
see fields and hedgerows and red roofs clustering here and there, while
the low background of blue hills spread towards the horizon. It was an
unpretentious homely prospect intercepted each minute by the detestable
advertisement hoardings recommending this or that rival pill. 'Tongues in
trees' indeed, in a very different sense from the exiled duke's
experience! Then we come within sight of the running brook, uncontaminated
as yet; the river flowing cool and swift, without quack medicines stamped
upon its waters: we reach Whitley presently, with its pretty gabled hostel
(Mrs. Mitford used to drive to Whitley and back for her airing), the dust
rises on the fresh keen wind, the scent of the ripe corn is in the air,
the cows stoop under the elm trees, looking exactly as they do in Mr.
Thomson's pretty pictures, dappled and brown, with delicate legs and
horns. We pass very few people, a baby lugged along in its cart, and
accompanied by its brothers and sisters; a fox-terrier comes barking at
our wheels; at last the phaeton stops abruptly between two or three
roadside houses, and the coachman, pointing with his whip, says, 'That is
"The Mitford," ma'am.—That's where Miss Mitford used to live!'
Was that all? I saw two or three commonplace houses skirting the dusty
road, I saw a comfortable public-house with an elm tree, and beside it
another grey unpretentious little house, with a slate roof and square
walls, and an inscription, 'The Mitford,' painted over the doorway....
I had been expecting I knew not what; a spire, a pump, a green, a winding
street: my preconceived village in the air had immediately to be swept
into space, and in its stead, behold the inn with its sign-post, and these
half-dozen brick tenements, more or less cut to one square pattern! So
this was all! this was 'our village' of which the author had written so
charmingly! These were the sights the kind eyes had dwelt upon, seeing in
them all, the soul of hidden things, rather than dull bricks and slates.
Except for one memory, Three Mile Cross would seem to be one of the
dullest and most uninteresting of country places....
But we have Miss Mitford's own description. 'The Cross is not a borough,
thank Heaven, either rotten or independent. The inhabitants are quiet,
peaceable people who would not think of visiting us, even if we had a
knocker to knock at. Our residence is a cottage' (she is writing to her
correspondent, Sir William Elford), 'no, not a cottage, it does not
deserve the name—a messuage or tenement such as a little farmer who
had made 1400 pounds might retire to when he left off business to live on
his means. It consists of a series of closets, the largest of which may be
about eight feet square, which they call parlours and kitchens and
pantries, some of them minus a corner, which has been unnaturally filched
for a chimney, others deficient in half a side, which has been truncated
by a shelving roof. Behind is a garden about the size of a good
drawing-room, with an arbour, which is a complete sentry-box of privet. On
one side a public-house, on the other a village shop, and right opposite a
cobbler's stall. Notwithstanding all this "the cabin," as Boabdil says,
"is convenient." It is within reach of my dear old walks, the banks where
I find my violets, the meadows full of cowslips, and the woods where the
woodsorrel blows.... Papa has already had the satisfaction of setting the
neighbourhood to rights and committing a disorderly person who was the
pest of "The Cross" to Bridewell.... Mamma has furbished up an old dairy;
I have lost my only key and stuffed the garden with flowers....' So writes
the contented young woman.
How much more delightful is all this than any commonplace stagey effect of
lattice and gable; and with what pleasant unconscious art the writer of
this letter describes what is NOT there and brings in her banks of violets
to perfume the dull rooms. The postscript to this letter is Miss Mitford
all over. 'Pray excuse my blots and interlineations. They have been caused
by my attention being distracted by a nightingale in full song who is
pouring a world of music through my window.'
'Do you not like to meet with good company in your friends' hearts?' Miss
Mitford says somewhere,—to no one better than to herself does this
apply. Her heart was full of gracious things, and the best of company was
ever hers, 'La fleur de la hotte,' as Madame de Sevigne says.
We walked into the small square hall where Dr. Mitford's bed was
established after his illness, whilst visitors and all the rest of the
household came and went through the kitchen door. In the parlour, once
kept for his private use, now sat a party of homely friends from Reading,
resting and drinking tea: we too were served with smoking cups, and poured
our libation to her who once presided in the quiet place; and then the
landlady took us round and about, showed us the kitchen with its
comfortable corners and low window-frames—'I suppose this is
scarcely changed at all?' said one of us.
'Oh yes, ma'am,' says the housekeeper—'WE uses a Kitchener, Miss
Mitford always kept an open range.'
The garden, with its sentry-box of privet, exists no longer; an iron
mission-room stands in its place, with the harmonium, the rows of straw
chairs, the table and the candlesticks de circonstance. Miss Mitford's
picture hangs on the wall, a hand-coloured copy of one of her portraits.
The kindly homely features smile from the oils, in good humour and
attentive intelligence. The sentiment of to-day is assuredly to be found
in the spirit of things rather than in their outward signs.... Any one of
us can feel the romance of a wayside shrine put up to the memory of some
mediaeval well-dressed saint with a nimbus at the back of her head, and a
trailing cloak and veil.... Here, after all, is the same sentiment, only
translated into nineteenth-century language; uses corrogated iron sheds,
and cups of tea, and oakum matting. 'Mr. Palmer, he bought the place,'
says the landlady, 'he made it into a Temperance Hotel, and built the
Temperance Hall in the garden.'....
No romantic marble shrine, but a square meeting-house of good intent, a
tribute not less sincere because it is square, than if it were drawn into
Gothic arch and curve. It speaks, not of a holy and mythical saint, but of
a good and warm-hearted woman; of a life-long penance borne with charity
and cheerfulness; of sweet fancies and blessings which have given innocent
pleasure to many generations!
VII.
There is a note, written in a close and pretty writing, something between
Sir Walter Scott's and Mrs. Browning's, which the present writer has
possessed for years, fastened in a book among other early treasures:—
Thank you, dearest Miss Priscilla, for your great kindness. I return the
ninth volume of [illegible], with the four succeeding ones, all that I
have; probably all that are yet published. You shall have the rest when I
get them. Tell dear Mr. George (I must not call him Vert-Vert) that I have
recollected the name of the author of the clever novel 'Le Rouge et le
Noir' (that is the right title of the book, which has nothing to do with
the name); the author's name is Stendhal, or so he calls himself. I think
that he was either a musician or a musical critic, and that he is dead....
My visitor has not yet arrived (6 o'clock, p.m.), frightened no doubt by
the abruptness of the two notes which I wrote in reply to hers yesterday
morning; and indeed nobody could fancy the hurry in which one is forced to
write by this walking post....
Tell my visitors of yesterday with my kind love that they did me all the
good in the world, as indeed everybody of your house does.
—Ever, dear Miss Priscilla, very affectionately yours,
M. R. MITFORD.
In the present writer's own early days, when the now owner of Swallowfield
was a very young, younger son, she used to hear him and his sister, Mrs.
Brackenbury (the Miss Priscilla of the note), speaking with affectionate
remembrance of the old friend lately gone, who had dwelt at their very
gates; through which friendly gates one is glad, indeed, to realise what
delightful companionship and loving help came to cheer the end of that
long and toilsome life; and when Messrs. Macmillan suggested this preface
the writer looked for her old autograph-book, and at its suggestion wrote
(wondering whether any links existed still) to ask for information
concerning Miss Mitford, and so it happened that she found herself also
kindly entertained at Swallowfield, and invited to visit the scenes of
which the author of 'Our Village' had written with so much delight.
I think I should like to reverse the old proverb about letting those who
run read, my own particular fancy being for reading first and running
afterwards. There are few greater pleasures than to meet with an
Individuality, to listen to it speaking from a printed page, recounting,
suggesting, growing upon you every hour, gaining in life and presence, and
then, while still under its influence, to find oneself suddenly
transported into the very scene of that life, to stand among its familiar
impressions and experiences, realising another distinct existence by some
odd metempsychosis, and what may—or rather, what MUST have been. It
is existing a book rather than reading it when this happens to one.
The house in Swallowfield Park is an old English country home, a fastness
still piled up against time; whose stately walls and halls within, and
beautiful century-old trees in the park without, record great times and
striking figures. The manor was a part of the dowry of Henry the VIII.'s
luckless queens. The modern house was built by Clarendon, and the old
church among the elms dates from 1200, with carved signs and symbols and
brasses of knights and burgesses, and names of strange sound and bygone
fashion.
Lady Russell, who had sent the phaeton with the fast-stepping horse to
meet us, was walking in the park as we drove up, and instead of taking us
back to the house, she first led the way across the grass and by the
stream to the old church, standing in its trim sweet garden, where Death
itself seems smiling and fearless; where kind Mary Mitford's warm heart
rests quiet, and 'her busy hand,' as she says herself, 'is lying in peace
there, where the sun glances through the great elm trees in the beautiful
churchyard of Swallowfield.'
The last baronet, Sir Charles, who fought in the Crimea, and who succeeded
his father, Sir Henry, moved the dividing rail so that his old friend
should be well within the shadow of these elm trees. Lady Russell showed
us the tranquil green place, and told us its story, and how the old church
had once been doomed to destruction when Kingsley came over by chance, and
pleaded that it should be spared; and how, when rubbish and outward signs
of decay had been cleared away, the restorers were rewarded for their
piety, by coming upon noble beams of oak, untouched by time, upon some
fine old buried monuments and brasses and inscriptions, among which the
people still say their prayers in the shrine where their fathers knelt,
and of which the tradition is not yet swept away. The present Lady of the
Manor, who loves old traditions, has done her part to preserve the records
for her children.
So Miss Mitford walked from Three Mile Cross to Swallowfield to end her
days, with these kind friends to cheer and to comfort her. Sir Henry
Russell was alive when she first established herself, but he was already
suffering from some sudden seizure, which she, with her usual impetuosity,
describes in her letters as a chronic state of things. After his death,
his widow, the Lady Russell of those days, was her kindest friend and
comforter.
The little Swallowfield cottage at the meeting of the three roads, to
which Mary Mitford came when she left Three Mile Cross, has thrown out a
room or two, as cottages do, but otherwise I think it can be little
changed. It was here Miss Mitford was visited by so many interesting
people, here she used to sit writing at her big table under the 'tassels
of her acacia tree.' When the present Lady of the Manor brought us to the
gate, the acacia flowers were over, but a balmy breath of summer was
everywhere; a beautiful rose was hanging upon the wall beneath the window
(it must have taken many years to grow to such a height), and beyond the
palings of the garden spread the fields, ripening in the late July, and
turning to gold. The farmer and his son were at work with their scythes;
the birds were still flying, the sweet scents were in the air.
From a lady who had known her, 'my own Miss Anne' of the letters, we heard
something more that day of the author of 'Our Village'; of her charming
intellect, her gift of talk, her impulsiveness, her essential sociability,
and rapid grace of mind. She had the faults of her qualities; she jumped
too easily to conclusions; she was too much under the influence of those
with whom she lived. She was born to be a victim,—even after her old
tyrant father's death, she was more or less over-ridden by her servants.
Neighbours looked somewhat doubtfully on K. and Ben, but they were good to
her, on the whole, and tended her carefully. Miss Russell said that when
she and her brother took refuge in the cottage, one morning from a storm,
while they dried themselves by the fire, they saw the careful meal carried
up to the old lady, the kidneys, the custard, for her dejeuner a la
fourchette.
When Miss Mitford died, she left everything she had to her beloved K. and
to Ben, except that she said she wished that one book from her
well-stocked library should be given to each of her friends. The old
Doctor, with all his faults, had loved books, and bought handsome and
valuable first editions of good authors. K. and Ben also seem to have
loved books and first editions. To the Russells, who had nursed Miss
Mitford, comforted her, by whose gates she dwelt, in whose arms she died,
Ben brought, as a token of remembrance, an old shilling volume of one of
G. P. R. James's novels, which was all he could bear to part with. A
prettier incident was told me by Miss Russell, who once went to visit Miss
Mitford's grave. She found a young man standing there whom she did not
know. 'Don't you know me?' said he; 'I am Henry, ma'am. I have just come
back from Australia.' He was one of the children of the couple who had
lived in the cottage, and his first visit on his return from abroad had
been to the tomb of his old protectress.
I also heard a friend who knew Miss Mitford in her latest days, describe
going to see her within a very few months of her death; she was still
bright and responding as ever, though very ill. The young visitor had
herself been laid up and absent from the invalid's bedside for some time.
They talked over many things,—an authoress among the rest,
concerning whose power of writing a book Miss Mitford seems to have been
very doubtful. After her visitor was gone, the sick woman wrote one of her
delicate pretty little notes and despatched it with its tiny seal (there
it is still unbroken, with its M. R. M. just as she stamped it), and this
is the little letter:—
Thank you, dearest Miss... for once again showing me your fair face by the
side of the dear, dear friend [Lady Russell] for whose goodness I have
neither thanks nor words. To the end of my life I shall go on sinning and
repenting. Heartily sorry have I been ever since you went away to have
spoken so unkindly to Mrs.... Heaven forgive me for it, and send her a
happier conclusion to her life than the beginning might warrant. If you
have an idle lover, my dear, present over to him my sermon, for those were
words of worth.
God bless you all! Ever, most faithfully and affectionately yours,
M. R. MITFORD.
Sunday Evening.
VIII.
When one turns from Miss Mitford's works to the notices in the
biographical dictionary (in which Miss Mitford and Mithridates occupy the
same page), one finds how firmly her reputation is established. 'Dame
auteur,' says my faithful mentor, the Biographic Generale, 'consideree
comme le peintre le plus fidele de la vie rurale en Angleterre.' 'Author
of a remarkable tragedy, "Julian," in which Macready played a principal
part, followed by "Foscari," "Rienzi," and others,' says the English
Biographical Dictionary.
'I am charmed with my new cottage,' she writes soon after her last
installation; 'the neighbours are most kind.' Kingsley was one of the
first to call upon her. 'He took me quite by surprise in his extraordinary
fascination,' says the old lady.
Mr. Fields, the American publisher, also went to see Miss Mitford at
Swallowfield, and immediately became a very great ally of hers. It was to
him that she gave her own portrait, by Lucas. Mr. Fields has left an
interesting account of her in his 'Yesterdays with Authors'—'Her
dogs and her geraniums,' he says, 'were her great glories! She used to
write me long letters about Fanchon, a dog whose personal acquaintance I
had made some time before, while on a visit to her cottage. Every virtue
under heaven she attributed to that canine individual; and I was obliged
to allow in my return letters that since our planet began to spin, nothing
comparable to Fanchon had ever run on four legs. I had also known Flush,
the ancestor of Fanchon, intimately, and had been accustomed to hear
wonderful things of that dog, but Fanchon had graces and genius unique.
Miss Mitford would have joined with Hamerton, when he says, 'I humbly
thank Divine Providence for having invented dogs, and I regard that man
with wondering pity who can lead a dogless life.'
Another of Miss Mitford's great friends was John Ruskin,* and one can well
imagine how much they must have had in common. Of Miss Mitford's writings
Ruskin says, 'They have the playfulness and purity of the﹃Vicar of
Wakefield﹄without the naughtiness of its occasional wit, or the dust of
the world's great road on the other side of the hedge.... '
*It is Mr. Harness who says, writing of Ruskin and Miss Mitford, 'His
kindness cheered her closing days. He sent her every book that would
interest, every delicacy that would strengthen her.'
Neither the dust nor the ethics of the world of men quite belonged to Miss
Mitford's genius. It is always a sort of relief to turn from her criticism
of people, her praise of Louis Napoleon, her facts about Mr. Dickens, whom
she describes as a dull companion, or about my father, whom she looked
upon as an utter heartless worldling, to the natural spontaneous sweet
flow of nature in which she lived and moved instinctively.
Mr. James Payn gives, perhaps, the most charming of all the descriptions
of the author of 'Our Village.' He has many letters from her to quote
from. 'The paper is all odds and ends,' he says, 'and not a scrap of it
but is covered and crossed. The very flaps of the envelopes and the
outsides of them have their message.'
Mr. Payn went to see her at Swallowfield, and describes the small
apartment lined with books from floor to ceiling and fragrant with
flowers. 'Its tenant rose from her arm-chair with difficulty, but with a
sunny smile and a charming manner bade me welcome. My father had been an
old friend of hers, and she spoke of my home and belongings as only a
woman can speak of such things, then we plunged into medea res, into men
and books. She seemed to me to have known everybody worth knowing from the
Duke of Wellington to the last new verse-maker. And she talked like an
angel, but her views upon poetry as a calling in life, shocked me not a
little. She said she preferred a mariage de convenance to a love match,
because it generally turned out better. "This surprises you," she said,
smiling,﹃but then I suppose I am the least romantic person that ever
wrote plays.﹄She was much more proud of her plays, even then well-nigh
forgotten, than of the works by which she was well known, and which at
that time brought people from the ends of the earth to see her....
'Nothing ever destroyed her faith in those she loved. If I had not known
all about him from my own folk I should have thought her father had been a
patriot and a martyr. She spoke of him as if there had never been such a
father—which in a sense was true.'
Mr. Payn quotes Miss Mitford's charming description of K., 'for whom she
had the highest admiration.' 'K. is a great curiosity, by far the
cleverest woman in these parts, not in a literary way [this was not to
disappoint me], but in everything that is useful. She could make a Court
dress for a duchess or cook a dinner for a Lord Mayor, but her principal
talent is shown in managing everybody whom she comes near. Especially her
husband and myself; she keeps the money of both and never allows either of
us to spend sixpence without her knowledge.... You should see the manner
in which she makes Ben reckon with her, and her contempt for all women who
do not manage their husbands.'
Another delightful quotation is from one of Charles Kingsley's letters to
Mr. Payn. It brings the past before us from another point of view.
'I can never forget the little figure rolled up in two chairs in the
little Swallowfield room, packed round with books up to the ceiling—the
little figure with clothes on of no recognised or recognisable pattern;
and somewhere, out of the upper end of the heap, gleaming under a great
deep globular brow, two such eyes as I never perhaps saw in any other
Englishwoman—though I believe she must have had French blood in her
veins to breed such eyes and such a tongue, the beautiful speech which
came out of that ugly (it was that) face, and the glitter and depth too of
the eyes, like live coals—perfectly honest the while....' One would
like to go on quoting and copying, but here my preface must cease, for it
is but a preface after all, one of those many prefaces written out of the
past and when everything is over.
COUNTRY PICTURES.
Of all situations for a constant residence, that which appears to me most
delightful is a little village far in the country; a small neighbourhood,
not of fine mansions finely peopled, but of cottages and cottage-like
houses, 'messuages or tenements,' as a friend of mine calls such ignoble
and nondescript dwellings, with inhabitants whose faces are as familiar to
us as the flowers in our garden; a little world of our own, close-packed
and insulated like ants in an ant-hill, or bees in a hive, or sheep in a
fold, or nuns in a convent, or sailors in a ship; where we know every one,
are known to every one, interested in every one, and authorised to hope
that every one feels an interest in us. How pleasant it is to slide into
these true-hearted feelings from the kindly and unconscious influence of
habit, and to learn to know and to love the people about us, with all
their peculiarities, just as we learn to know and to love the nooks and
turns of the shady lanes and sunny commons that we pass every day. Even in
books I like a confined locality, and so do the critics when they talk of
the unities. Nothing is so tiresome as to be whirled half over Europe at
the chariot-wheels of a hero, to go to sleep at Vienna, and awaken at
Madrid; it produces a real fatigue, a weariness of spirit. On the other
hand, nothing is so delightful as to sit down in a country village in one
of Miss Austen's delicious novels, quite sure before we leave it to become
intimate with every spot and every person it contains; or to ramble with
Mr. White* over his own parish of Selborne, and form a friendship with the
fields and coppices, as well as with the birds, mice, and squirrels, who
inhabit them; or to sail with Robinson Crusoe to his island, and live
there with him and his goats and his man Friday;—how much we dread
any new comers, any fresh importation of savage or sailor! we never
sympathise for a moment in our hero's want of company, and are quite
grieved when he gets away;—or to be shipwrecked with Ferdinand on
that other lovelier island—the island of Prospero, and Miranda, and
Caliban, and Ariel, and nobody else, none of Dryden's exotic inventions:—that
is best of all. And a small neighbourhood is as good in sober waking
reality as in poetry or prose; a village neighbourhood, such as this
Berkshire hamlet in which I write, a long, straggling, winding street at
the bottom of a fine eminence, with a road through it, always abounding in
carts, horsemen, and carriages, and lately enlivened by a stage-coach from
B—— to S——, which passed through about ten days
ago, and will I suppose return some time or other. There are coaches of
all varieties nowadays; perhaps this may be intended for a monthly
diligence, or a fortnight fly. Will you walk with me through our village,
courteous reader? The journey is not long. We will begin at the lower end,
and proceed up the hill.
*White's 'Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne;' one of the most
fascinating books ever written. I wonder that no naturalist has adopted
the same plan.
The tidy, square, red cottage on the right hand, with the long
well-stocked garden by the side of the road, belongs to a retired publican
from a neighbouring town; a substantial person with a comely wife; one who
piques himself on independence and idleness, talks politics, reads
newspapers, hates the minister, and cries out for reform. He introduced
into our peaceful vicinage the rebellious innovation of an illumination on
the Queen's acquittal. Remonstrance and persuasion were in vain; he talked
of liberty and broken windows—so we all lighted up. Oh! how he shone
that night with candles, and laurel, and white bows, and gold paper, and a
transparency (originally designed for a pocket-handkerchief) with a
flaming portrait of her Majesty, hatted and feathered, in red ochre. He
had no rival in the village, that we all acknowledged; the very bonfire
was less splendid; the little boys reserved their best crackers to be
expended in his honour, and he gave them full sixpence more than any one
else. He would like an illumination once a month; for it must not be
concealed that, in spite of gardening, of newspaper reading, of jaunting
about in his little cart, and frequenting both church and meeting, our
worthy neighbour begins to feel the weariness of idleness. He hangs over
his gate, and tries to entice passengers to stop and chat; he volunteers
little jobs all round, smokes cherry trees to cure the blight, and traces
and blows up all the wasps'-nests in the parish. I have seen a great many
wasps in our garden to-day, and shall enchant him with the intelligence.
He even assists his wife in her sweepings and dustings. Poor man! he is a
very respectable person, and would be a very happy one, if he would add a
little employment to his dignity. It would be the salt of life to him.
Next to his house, though parted from it by another long garden with a yew
arbour at the end, is the pretty dwelling of the shoemaker, a pale,
sickly-looking, black-haired man, the very model of sober industry. There
he sits in his little shop from early morning till late at night. An
earthquake would hardly stir him: the illumination did not. He stuck
immovably to his last, from the first lighting up, through the long blaze
and the slow decay, till his large solitary candle was the only light in
the place. One cannot conceive anything more perfect than the contempt
which the man of transparencies and the man of shoes must have felt for
each other on that evening. There was at least as much vanity in the
sturdy industry as in the strenuous idleness, for our shoemaker is a man
of substance; he employs three journeymen, two lame, and one a dwarf, so
that his shop looks like an hospital; he has purchased the lease of his
commodious dwelling, some even say that he has bought it out and out; and
he has only one pretty daughter, a light, delicate, fair-haired girl of
fourteen, the champion, protectress, and playfellow of every brat under
three years old, whom she jumps, dances, dandles, and feeds all day long.
A very attractive person is that child-loving girl. I have never seen any
one in her station who possessed so thoroughly that undefinable charm, the
lady-look. See her on a Sunday in her simplicity and her white frock, and
she might pass for an earl's daughter. She likes flowers too, and has a
profusion of white stocks under her window, as pure and delicate as
herself.
The first house on the opposite side of the way is the blacksmith's; a
gloomy dwelling, where the sun never seems to shine; dark and smoky within
and without, like a forge. The blacksmith is a high officer in our little
state, nothing less than a constable; but, alas! alas! when tumults arise,
and the constable is called for, he will commonly be found in the thickest
of the fray. Lucky would it be for his wife and her eight children if
there were no public-house in the land: an inveterate inclination to enter
those bewitching doors is Mr. Constable's only fault.
Next to this official dwelling is a spruce brick tenement, red, high, and
narrow, boasting, one above another, three sash-windows, the only
sash-windows in the village, with a clematis on one side and a rose on the
other, tall and narrow like itself. That slender mansion has a fine,
genteel look. The little parlour seems made for Hogarth's old maid and her
stunted footboy; for tea and card parties,—it would just hold one
table; for the rustle of faded silks, and the splendour of old china; for
the delight of four by honours, and a little snug, quiet scandal between
the deals; for affected gentility and real starvation. This should have
been its destiny; but fate has been unpropitious: it belongs to a plump,
merry, bustling dame, with four fat, rosy, noisy children, the very
essence of vulgarity and plenty.
Then comes the village shop, like other village shops, multifarious as a
bazaar; a repository for bread, shoes, tea, cheese, tape, ribands, and
bacon; for everything, in short, except the one particular thing which you
happen to want at the moment, and will be sure not to find. The people are
civil and thriving, and frugal withal; they have let the upper part of
their house to two young women (one of them is a pretty blue-eyed girl)
who teach little children their A B C, and make caps and gowns for their
mammas,—parcel schoolmistress, parcel mantua-maker. I believe they
find adorning the body a more profitable vocation than adorning the mind.
Divided from the shop by a narrow yard, and opposite the shoemaker's, is a
habitation of whose inmates I shall say nothing. A cottage—no—a
miniature house, with many additions, little odds and ends of places,
pantries, and what not; all angles, and of a charming in-and-outness; a
little bricked court before one half, and a little flower-yard before the
other; the walls, old and weather-stained, covered with hollyhocks, roses,
honeysuckles, and a great apricot-tree; the casements full of geraniums
(ah! there is our superb white cat peeping out from among them); the
closets (our landlord has the assurance to call them rooms) full of
contrivances and corner-cupboards; and the little garden behind full of
common flowers, tulips, pinks, larkspurs, peonies, stocks, and carnations,
with an arbour of privet, not unlike a sentry-box, where one lives in a
delicious green light, and looks out on the gayest of all gay flower-beds.
That house was built on purpose to show in what an exceeding small compass
comfort may be packed. Well, I will loiter there no longer.
The next tenement is a place of importance, the Rose Inn: a white-washed
building, retired from the road behind its fine swinging sign, with a
little bow-window room coming out on one side, and forming, with our
stable on the other, a sort of open square, which is the constant resort
of carts, waggons, and return chaises. There are two carts there now, and
mine host is serving them with beer in his eternal red waistcoat. He is a
thriving man and a portly, as his waistcoat attests, which has been twice
let out within this twelvemonth. Our landlord has a stirring wife, a
hopeful son, and a daughter, the belle of the village; not so pretty as
the fair nymph of the shoe-shop, and far less elegant, but ten times as
fine; all curl-papers in the morning, like a porcupine, all curls in the
afternoon, like a poodle, with more flounces than curl-papers, and more
lovers than curls. Miss Phoebe is fitter for town than country; and to do
her justice, she has a consciousness of that fitness, and turns her steps
townward as often as she can. She is gone to B—— to-day with
her last and principal lover, a recruiting sergeant—a man as tall as
Sergeant Kite, and as impudent. Some day or other he will carry off Miss
Phoebe.
In a line with the bow-window room is a low garden-wall, belonging to a
house under repair:—the white house opposite the collar-maker's
shop, with four lime-trees before it, and a waggon-load of bricks at the
door. That house is the plaything of a wealthy, well-meaning, whimsical
person who lives about a mile off. He has a passion for brick and mortar,
and, being too wise to meddle with his own residence, diverts himself with
altering and re-altering, improving and re-improving, doing and undoing
here. It is a perfect Penelope's web. Carpenters and bricklayers have been
at work for these eighteen months, and yet I sometimes stand and wonder
whether anything has really been done. One exploit in last June was,
however, by no means equivocal. Our good neighbour fancied that the limes
shaded the rooms, and made them dark (there was not a creature in the
house but the workmen), so he had all the leaves stripped from every tree.
There they stood, poor miserable skeletons, as bare as Christmas under the
glowing midsummer sun. Nature revenged herself, in her own sweet and
gracious manner; fresh leaves sprang out, and at nearly Christmas the
foliage was as brilliant as when the outrage was committed.
Next door lives a carpenter, 'famed ten miles round, and worthy all his
fame,'—few cabinet-makers surpass him, with his excellent wife, and
their little daughter Lizzy, the plaything and queen of the village, a
child three years old according to the register, but six in size and
strength and intellect, in power and in self-will. She manages everybody
in the place, her schoolmistress included; turns the wheeler's children
out of their own little cart, and makes them draw her; seduces cakes and
lollypops from the very shop window; makes the lazy carry her, the silent
talk to her, the grave romp with her; does anything she pleases; is
absolutely irresistible. Her chief attraction lies in her exceeding power
of loving, and her firm reliance on the love and indulgence of others. How
impossible it would be to disappoint the dear little girl when she runs to
meet you, slides her pretty hand into yours, looks up gladly in your face,
and says 'Come!' You must go: you cannot help it. Another part of her
charm is her singular beauty. Together with a good deal of the character
of Napoleon, she has something of his square, sturdy, upright form, with
the finest limbs in the world, a complexion purely English, a round
laughing face, sunburnt and rosy, large merry blue eyes, curling brown
hair, and a wonderful play of countenance. She has the imperial attitudes
too, and loves to stand with her hands behind her, or folded over her
bosom; and sometimes, when she has a little touch of shyness, she clasps
them together on the top of her head, pressing down her shining curls, and
looking so exquisitely pretty! Yes, Lizzy is queen of the village! She has
but one rival in her dominions, a certain white greyhound called
Mayflower, much her friend, who resembles her in beauty and strength, in
playfulness, and almost in sagacity, and reigns over the animal world as
she over the human. They are both coming with me, Lizzy and Lizzy's
'pretty May.' We are now at the end of the street; a cross-lane, a
rope-walk shaded with limes and oaks, and a cool clear pond overhung with
elms, lead us to the bottom of the hill. There is still one house round
the corner, ending in a picturesque wheeler's shop. The dwelling-house is
more ambitious. Look at the fine flowered window-blinds, the green door
with the brass knocker, and the somewhat prim but very civil person, who
is sending off a labouring man with sirs and curtsies enough for a prince
of the blood. Those are the curate's lodgings—apartments his
landlady would call them; he lives with his own family four miles off, but
once or twice a week he comes to his neat little parlour to write sermons,
to marry, or to bury, as the case may require. Never were better or kinder
people than his host and hostess; and there is a reflection of clerical
importance about them since their connection with the Church, which is
quite edifying—a decorum, a gravity, a solemn politeness. Oh, to see
the worthy wheeler carry the gown after his lodger on a Sunday, nicely
pinned up in his wife's best handkerchief!—or to hear him rebuke a
squalling child or a squabbling woman! The curate is nothing to him. He is
fit to be perpetual churchwarden.
We must now cross the lane into the shady rope-walk. That pretty white
cottage opposite, which stands straggling at the end of the village in a
garden full of flowers, belongs to our mason, the shortest of men, and his
handsome, tall wife: he, a dwarf, with the voice of a giant; one starts
when he begins to talk as if he were shouting through a speaking trumpet;
she, the sister, daughter, and grand-daughter, of a long line of
gardeners, and no contemptible one herself. It is very magnanimous in me
not to hate her; for she beats me in my own way, in chrysanthemums, and
dahlias, and the like gauds. Her plants are sure to live; mine have a sad
trick of dying, perhaps because I love them, 'not wisely, but too well,'
and kill them with over-kindness. Half-way up the hill is another detached
cottage, the residence of an officer, and his beautiful family. That
eldest boy, who is hanging over the gate, and looking with such intense
childish admiration at my Lizzy, might be a model for a Cupid.
How pleasantly the road winds up the hill, with its broad green borders
and hedgerows so thickly timbered! How finely the evening sun falls on
that sandy excavated bank, and touches the farmhouse on the top of the
eminence! and how clearly defined and relieved is the figure of the man
who is just coming down! It is poor John Evans, the gardener—an
excellent gardener till about ten years ago, when he lost his wife, and
became insane. He was sent to St. Luke's, and dismissed as cured; but his
power was gone and his strength; he could no longer manage a garden, nor
submit to the restraint, nor encounter the fatigue of regular employment:
so he retreated to the workhouse, the pensioner and factotum of the
village, amongst whom he divides his services. His mind often wanders,
intent on some fantastic and impracticable plan, and lost to present
objects; but he is perfectly harmless, and full of a childlike simplicity,
a smiling contentedness, a most touching gratitude. Every one is kind to
John Evans, for there is that about him which must be loved; and his
unprotectedness, his utter defencelessness, have an irresistible claim on
every better feeling. I know nobody who inspires so deep and tender a
pity; he improves all around him. He is useful, too, to the extent of his
little power; will do anything, but loves gardening best, and still piques
himself on his old arts of pruning fruit-trees, and raising cucumbers. He
is the happiest of men just now, for he has the management of a melon bed—a
melon bed!—fie! What a grand pompous name was that for three melon
plants under a hand-light! John Evans is sure that they will succeed. We
shall see: as the chancellor said, 'I doubt.'
We are now on the very brow of the eminence, close to the Hill-house and
its beautiful garden. On the outer edge of the paling, hanging over the
bank that skirts the road, is an old thorn—such a thorn! The long
sprays covered with snowy blossoms, so graceful, so elegant, so lightsome,
and yet so rich! There only wants a pool under the thorn to give a still
lovelier reflection, quivering and trembling, like a tuft of feathers,
whiter and greener than the life, and more prettily mixed with the bright
blue sky. There should indeed be a pool; but on the dark grass-plat, under
the high bank, which is crowned by that magnificent plume, there is
something that does almost as well,—Lizzy and Mayflower in the midst
of a game at romps, 'making a sunshine in the shady place;' Lizzy rolling,
laughing, clapping her hands, and glowing like a rose; Mayflower playing
about her like summer lightning, dazzling the eyes with her sudden turns,
her leaps, her bounds, her attacks, and her escapes. She darts round the
lovely little girl, with the same momentary touch that the swallow skims
over the water, and has exactly the same power of flight, the same
matchless ease and strength and grace. What a pretty picture they would
make; what a pretty foreground they do make to the real landscape! The
road winding down the hill with a slight bend, like that in the High
Street at Oxford; a waggon slowly ascending, and a horseman passing it at
a full trot—(ah! Lizzy, Mayflower will certainly desert you to have
a gambol with that blood-horse!) half-way down, just at the turn, the red
cottage of the lieutenant, covered with vines, the very image of comfort
and content; farther down, on the opposite side, the small white dwelling
of the little mason; then the limes and the rope-walk; then the village
street, peeping through the trees, whose clustering tops hide all but the
chimneys, and various roofs of the houses, and here and there some angle
of a wall; farther on, the elegant town of B——, with its fine
old church-towers and spires; the whole view shut in by a range of chalky
hills and over every part of the picture, trees so profusely scattered,
that it appears like a woodland scene, with glades and villages
intermixed. The trees are of all kinds and all hues, chiefly the
finely-shaped elm, of so bright and deep a green, the tips of whose high
outer branches drop down with such a crisp and garland-like richness, and
the oak, whose stately form is just now so splendidly adorned by the sunny
colouring of the young leaves. Turning again up the hill, we find
ourselves on that peculiar charm of English scenery, a green common,
divided by the road; the right side fringed by hedgerows and trees, with
cottages and farmhouses irregularly placed, and terminated by a double
avenue of noble oaks; the left, prettier still, dappled by bright pools of
water, and islands of cottages and cottage-gardens, and sinking gradually
down to cornfields and meadows, and an old farmhouse, with pointed roofs
and clustered chimneys, looking out from its blooming orchard, and backed
by woody hills. The common is itself the prettiest part of the prospect;
half covered with low furze, whose golden blossoms reflect so intensely
the last beams of the setting sun, and alive with cows and sheep, and two
sets of cricketers; one of young men, surrounded by spectators, some
standing, some sitting, some stretched on the grass, all taking a
delighted interest in the game; the other, a merry group of little boys,
at a humble distance, for whom even cricket is scarcely lively enough,
shouting, leaping, and enjoying themselves to their hearts' content. But
cricketers and country boys are too important persons in our village to be
talked of merely as figures in the landscape. They deserve an individual
introduction—an essay to themselves—and they shall have it. No
fear of forgetting the good-humoured faces that meet us in our walks every
day.
WALKS IN THE COUNTRY.
Frost.
January 23rd.—At noon to-day I and my white greyhound, Mayflower,
set out for a walk into a very beautiful world,—a sort of silent
fairyland,—a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost.
There had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its covers with
one sheet of pure and uniform white, and just time enough since the snow
had fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load, and
clothed with a delicate coating of rime. The atmosphere was deliciously
calm; soft, even mild, in spite of the thermometer; no perceptible air,
but a stillness that might almost be felt, the sky, rather gray than blue,
throwing out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our village, and the
rimy trees that rise above them, and the sun shining dimly as through a
veil, giving a pale fair light, like the moon, only brighter. There was a
silence, too, that might become the moon, as we stood at our little gate
looking up the quiet street; a Sabbath-like pause of work and play, rare
on a work-day; nothing was audible but the pleasant hum of frost, that low
monotonous sound, which is perhaps the nearest approach that life and
nature can make to absolute silence. The very waggons as they come down
the hill along the beaten track of crisp yellowish frost-dust, glide along
like shadows; even May's bounding footsteps, at her height of glee and of
speed, fall like snow upon snow.
But we shall have noise enough presently: May has stopped at Lizzy's door;
and Lizzy, as she sat on the window-sill with her bright rosy face
laughing through the casement, has seen her and disappeared. She is
coming. No! The key is turning in the door, and sounds of evil omen issue
through the keyhole—sturdy 'let me outs,' and 'I will goes,' mixed
with shrill cries on May and on me from Lizzy, piercing through a low
continuous harangue, of which the prominent parts are apologies,
chilblains, sliding, broken bones, lollypops, rods, and gingerbread, from
Lizzy's careful mother. 'Don't scratch the door, May! Don't roar so, my
Lizzy! We'll call for you as we come back.' 'I'll go now! Let me out! I
will go!' are the last words of Miss Lizzy. Mem. Not to spoil that child—if
I can help it. But I do think her mother might have let the poor little
soul walk with us to-day. Nothing worse for children than coddling.
Nothing better for chilblains than exercise. Besides, I don't believe she
has any—and as to breaking her bones in sliding, I don't suppose
there's a slide on the common. These murmuring cogitations have brought us
up the hill, and half-way across the light and airy common, with its
bright expanse of snow and its clusters of cottages, whose turf fires send
such wreaths of smoke sailing up the air, and diffuse such aromatic
fragrance around. And now comes the delightful sound of childish voices,
ringing with glee and merriment almost from beneath our feet. Ah, Lizzy,
your mother was right! They are shouting from that deep irregular pool,
all glass now, where, on two long, smooth, liny slides, half a dozen
ragged urchins are slipping along in tottering triumph. Half a dozen steps
bring us to the bank right above them. May can hardly resist the
temptation of joining her friends, for most of the varlets are of her
acquaintance, especially the rogue who leads the slide,—he with the
brimless hat, whose bronzed complexion and white flaxen hair, reversing
the usual lights and shadows of the human countenance, give so strange and
foreign a look to his flat and comic features. This hobgoblin, Jack Rapley
by name, is May's great crony; and she stands on the brink of the steep,
irregular descent, her black eyes fixed full upon him, as if she intended
him the favour of jumping on his head. She does: she is down, and upon
him; but Jack Rapley is not easily to be knocked off his feet. He saw her
coming, and in the moment of her leap sprung dexterously off the slide on
the rough ice, steadying himself by the shoulder of the next in the file,
which unlucky follower, thus unexpectedly checked in his career, fell
plump backwards, knocking down the rest of the line like a nest of
card-houses. There is no harm done; but there they lie, roaring, kicking,
sprawling, in every attitude of comic distress, whilst Jack Rapley and
Mayflower, sole authors of this calamity, stand apart from the throng,
fondling, and coquetting, and complimenting each other, and very visibly
laughing, May in her black eyes, Jack in his wide, close-shut mouth, and
his whole monkey-face, at their comrades' mischances. I think, Miss May,
you may as well come up again, and leave Master Rapley to fight your
battles. He'll get out of the scrape. He is a rustic wit—a sort of
Robin Goodfellow—the sauciest, idlest, cleverest, best-natured boy
in the parish; always foremost in mischief, and always ready to do a good
turn. The sages of our village predict sad things of Jack Rapley, so that
I am sometimes a little ashamed to confess, before wise people, that I
have a lurking predilection for him (in common with other naughty ones),
and that I like to hear him talk to May almost as well as she does. 'Come,
May!' and up she springs, as light as a bird. The road is gay now; carts
and post-chaises, and girls in red cloaks, and, afar off, looking almost
like a toy, the coach. It meets us fast and soon. How much happier the
walkers look than the riders—especially the frost-bitten gentleman,
and the shivering lady with the invisible face, sole passengers of that
commodious machine! Hooded, veiled, and bonneted, as she is, one sees from
her attitude how miserable she would look uncovered.
Another pond, and another noise of children. More sliding? Oh no! This is
a sport of higher pretension. Our good neighbour, the lieutenant, skating,
and his own pretty little boys, and two or three other four-year-old
elves, standing on the brink in an ecstasy of joy and wonder! Oh what
happy spectators! And what a happy performer! They admiring, he admired,
with an ardour and sincerity never excited by all the quadrilles and the
spread-eagles of the Seine and the Serpentine. He really skates well
though, and I am glad I came this way; for, with all the father's feelings
sitting gaily at his heart, it must still gratify the pride of skill to
have one spectator at that solitary pond who has seen skating before.
Now we have reached the trees,—the beautiful trees! never so
beautiful as to-day. Imagine the effect of a straight and regular double
avenue of oaks, nearly a mile long, arching overhead, and closing into
perspective like the roof and columns of a cathedral, every tree and
branch incrusted with the bright and delicate congelation of hoar-frost,
white and pure as snow, delicate and defined as carved ivory. How
beautiful it is, how uniform, how various, how filling, how satiating to
the eye and to the mind—above all, how melancholy! There is a
thrilling awfulness, an intense feeling of simple power in that naked and
colourless beauty, which falls on the earth like the thoughts of death—death
pure, and glorious, and smiling,—but still death. Sculpture has
always the same effect on my imagination, and painting never. Colour is
life.—We are now at the end of this magnificent avenue, and at the
top of a steep eminence commanding a wide view over four counties—a
landscape of snow. A deep lane leads abruptly down the hill; a mere narrow
cart-track, sinking between high banks clothed with fern and furze and low
broom, crowned with luxuriant hedgerows, and famous for their summer smell
of thyme. How lovely these banks are now—the tall weeds and the
gorse fixed and stiffened in the hoar-frost, which fringes round the
bright prickly holly, the pendent foliage of the bramble, and the deep
orange leaves of the pollard oaks! Oh, this is rime in its loveliest form!
And there is still a berry here and there on the holly, 'blushing in its
natural coral' through the delicate tracery, still a stray hip or haw for
the birds, who abound here always. The poor birds, how tame they are, how
sadly tame! There is the beautiful and rare crested wren, 'that shadow of
a bird,' as White of Selborne calls it, perched in the middle of the
hedge, nestling as it were amongst the cold bare boughs, seeking, poor
pretty thing, for the warmth it will not find. And there, farther on, just
under the bank, by the slender runlet, which still trickles between its
transparent fantastic margin of thin ice, as if it were a thing of life,—there,
with a swift, scudding motion, flits, in short low flights, the gorgeous
kingfisher, its magnificent plumage of scarlet and blue flashing in the
sun, like the glories of some tropical bird. He is come for water to this
little spring by the hillside,—water which even his long bill and
slender head can hardly reach, so nearly do the fantastic forms of those
garland-like icy margins meet over the tiny stream beneath. It is rarely
that one sees the shy beauty so close or so long; and it is pleasant to
see him in the grace and beauty of his natural liberty, the only way to
look at a bird. We used, before we lived in a street, to fix a little
board outside the parlour window, and cover it with bread crumbs in the
hard weather. It was quite delightful to see the pretty things come and
feed, to conquer their shyness, and do away their mistrust. First came the
more social tribes, 'the robin red-breast and the wren,' cautiously,
suspiciously, picking up a crumb on the wing, with the little keen bright
eye fixed on the window; then they would stop for two pecks; then stay
till they were satisfied. The shyer birds, tamed by their example, came
next; and at last one saucy fellow of a blackbird—a sad glutton, he
would clear the board in two minutes,—used to tap his yellow bill
against the window for more. How we loved the fearless confidence of that
fine, frank-hearted creature! And surely he loved us. I wonder the
practice is not more general. 'May! May! naughty May!' She has frightened
away the kingfisher; and now, in her coaxing penitence, she is covering me
with snow. 'Come, pretty May! it is time to go home.'
Thaw.
January 28th.—We have had rain, and snow, and frost, and rain again
four days of absolute confinement. Now it is a thaw and a flood; but our
light gravelly soil, and country boots, and country hardihood, will carry
us through. What a dripping, comfortless day it is! just like the last
days of November: no sun, no sky, gray or blue; one low, overhanging,
dark, dismal cloud, like London smoke; Mayflower is out coursing too, and
Lizzy gone to school. Never mind. Up the hill again! Walk we must. Oh what
a watery world to look back upon! Thames, Kennet, Loddon—all
overflowed; our famous town, inland once, turned into a sort of Venice; C.
park converted into an island; and the long range of meadows from B. to W.
one huge unnatural lake, with trees growing out of it. Oh what a watery
world!—I will look at it no longer. I will walk on. The road is
alive again. Noise is reborn. Waggons creak, horses splash, carts rattle,
and pattens paddle through the dirt with more than their usual clink. The
common has its old fine tints of green and brown, and its old variety of
inhabitants, horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and donkeys. The ponds are
unfrozen, except where some melancholy piece of melting ice floats
sullenly on the water; and cackling geese and gabbling ducks have replaced
the lieutenant and Jack Rapley. The avenue is chill and dark, the hedges
are dripping, the lanes knee-deep, and all nature is in a state of
'dissolution and thaw.'
THE FIRST PRIMROSE.
March 6th.—Fine March weather: boisterous, blustering, much wind and
squalls of rain; and yet the sky, where the clouds are swept away,
deliciously blue, with snatches of sunshine, bright, and clear, and
healthful, and the roads, in spite of the slight glittering showers,
crisply dry. Altogether the day is tempting, very tempting. It will not do
for the dear common, that windmill of a walk; but the close sheltered
lanes at the bottom of the hill, which keep out just enough of the stormy
air, and let in all the sun, will be delightful. Past our old house, and
round by the winding lanes, and the workhouse, and across the lea, and so
into the turnpike-road again,—that is our route for to-day. Forth we
set, Mayflower and I, rejoicing in the sunshine, and still more in the
wind, which gives such an intense feeling of existence, and, co-operating
with brisk motion, sets our blood and our spirits in a glow. For mere
physical pleasure, there is nothing perhaps equal to the enjoyment of
being drawn, in a light carriage, against such a wind as this, by a
blood-horse at his height of speed. Walking comes next to it; but walking
is not quite so luxurious or so spiritual, not quite so much what one
fancies of flying, or being carried above the clouds in a balloon.
Nevertheless, a walk is a good thing; especially under this southern
hedgerow, where nature is just beginning to live again; the periwinkles,
with their starry blue flowers, and their shining myrtle-like leaves,
garlanding the bushes; woodbines and elder-trees pushing out their small
swelling buds; and grasses and mosses springing forth in every variety of
brown and green. Here we are at the corner where four lanes meet, or
rather where a passable road of stones and gravel crosses an impassable
one of beautiful but treacherous turf, and where the small white
farmhouse, scarcely larger than a cottage, and the well-stocked rick-yard
behind, tell of comfort and order, but leave all unguessed the great
riches of the master. How he became so rich is almost a puzzle; for,
though the farm be his own, it is not large; and though prudent and frugal
on ordinary occasions, Farmer Barnard is no miser. His horses, dogs, and
pigs are the best kept in the parish,—May herself, although her
beauty be injured by her fatness, half envies the plight of his bitch Fly:
his wife's gowns and shawls cost as much again as any shawls or gowns in
the village; his dinner parties (to be sure they are not frequent) display
twice the ordinary quantity of good things—two couples of ducks, two
dishes of green peas, two turkey poults, two gammons of bacon, two
plum-puddings; moreover, he keeps a single-horse chaise, and has built and
endowed a Methodist chapel. Yet is he the richest man in these parts.
Everything prospers with him. Money drifts about him like snow. He looks
like a rich man. There is a sturdy squareness of face and figure; a
good-humoured obstinacy; a civil importance. He never boasts of his
wealth, or gives himself undue airs; but nobody can meet him at market or
vestry without finding out immediately that he is the richest man there.
They have no child to all this money; but there is an adopted nephew, a
fine spirited lad, who may, perhaps, some day or other, play the part of a
fountain to the reservoir.
Now turn up the wide road till we come to the open common, with its
park-like trees, its beautiful stream, wandering and twisting along, and
its rural bridge. Here we turn again, past that other white farmhouse,
half hidden by the magnificent elms which stand before it. Ah! riches
dwell not there, but there is found the next best thing—an
industrious and light-hearted poverty. Twenty years ago Rachel Hilton was
the prettiest and merriest lass in the country. Her father, an old
gamekeeper, had retired to a village alehouse, where his good beer, his
social humour, and his black-eyed daughter, brought much custom. She had
lovers by the score; but Joseph White, the dashing and lively son of an
opulent farmer, carried off the fair Rachel. They married and settled
here, and here they live still, as merrily as ever, with fourteen children
of all ages and sizes, from nineteen years to nineteen months, working
harder than any people in the parish, and enjoying themselves more. I
would match them for labour and laughter against any family in England.
She is a blithe, jolly dame, whose beauty has amplified into comeliness;
he is tall, and thin, and bony, with sinews like whipcord, a strong lively
voice, a sharp weather-beaten face, and eyes and lips that smile and
brighten when he speaks into a most contagious hilarity. They are very
poor, and I often wish them richer; but I don't know—perhaps it
might put them out.
Quite close to Farmer White's is a little ruinous cottage, white-washed
once, and now in a sad state of betweenity, where dangling stockings and
shirts, swelled by the wind, drying in a neglected garden, give signal of
a washerwoman. There dwells, at present in single blessedness, Betty
Adams, the wife of our sometimes gardener. I never saw any one who so much
reminded me in person of that lady whom everybody knows, Mistress Meg
Merrilies;—as tall, as grizzled, as stately, as dark, as
gipsy-looking, bonneted and gowned like her prototype, and almost as
oracular. Here the resemblance ceases. Mrs. Adams is a perfectly honest,
industrious, painstaking person, who earns a good deal of money by washing
and charing, and spends it in other luxuries than tidiness,—in green
tea, and gin, and snuff. Her husband lives in a great family, ten miles
off. He is a capital gardener—or rather he would be so, if he were
not too ambitious. He undertakes all things, and finishes none. But a
smooth tongue, a knowing look, and a great capacity of labour, carry him
through. Let him but like his ale and his master and he will do work
enough for four. Give him his own way, and his full quantum, and nothing
comes amiss to him.
Ah, May is bounding forward! Her silly heart leaps at the sight of the old
place—and so in good truth does mine. What a pretty place it was—or
rather, how pretty I thought it! I suppose I should have thought any place
so where I had spent eighteen happy years. But it was really pretty. A
large, heavy, white house, in the simplest style, surrounded by fine oaks
and elms, and tall massy plantations shaded down into a beautiful lawn by
wild overgrown shrubs, bowery acacias, ragged sweet-briers, promontories
of dogwood, and Portugal laurel, and bays, over-hung by laburnum and
bird-cherry; a long piece of water letting light into the picture, and
looking just like a natural stream, the banks as rude and wild as the
shrubbery, interspersed with broom, and furze, and bramble, and pollard
oaks covered with ivy and honeysuckle; the whole enclosed by an old mossy
park paling, and terminating in a series of rich meadows, richly planted.
This is an exact description of the home which, three years ago, it nearly
broke my heart to leave. What a tearing up by the root it was! I have
pitied cabbage-plants and celery, and all transplantable things, ever
since; though, in common with them, and with other vegetables, the first
agony of the transportation being over, I have taken such firm and
tenacious hold of my new soil, that I would not for the world be pulled up
again, even to be restored to the old beloved ground;—not even if
its beauty were undiminished, which is by no means the case; for in those
three years it has thrice changed masters, and every successive possessor
has brought the curse of improvement upon the place; so that between
filling up the water to cure dampness, cutting down trees to let in
prospects, planting to keep them out, shutting up windows to darken the
inside of the house (by which means one end looks precisely as an eight of
spades would do that should have the misfortune to lose one of his corner
pips), and building colonnades to lighten the out, added to a general
clearance of pollards, and brambles, and ivy, and honeysuckles, and park
palings, and irregular shrubs, the poor place is so transmogrified, that
if it had its old looking-glass, the water, back again, it would not know
its own face. And yet I love to haunt round about it: so does May. Her
particular attraction is a certain broken bank full of rabbit burrows,
into which she insinuates her long pliant head and neck, and tears her
pretty feet by vain scratchings: mine is a warm sunny hedgerow, in the
same remote field, famous for early flowers. Never was a spot more
variously flowery: primroses yellow, lilac white, violets of either hue,
cowslips, oxslips, arums, orchises, wild hyacinths, ground ivy, pansies,
strawberries, heart's-ease, formed a small part of the Flora of that wild
hedgerow. How profusely they covered the sunny open slope under the
weeping birch, 'the lady of the woods'—and how often have I started
to see the early innocent brown snake, who loved the spot as well as I
did, winding along the young blossoms, or rustling amongst the fallen
leaves! There are primrose leaves already, and short green buds, but no
flowers; not even in that furze cradle so full of roots, where they used
to blow as in a basket. No, my May, no rabbits! no primroses! We may as
well get over the gate into the woody winding lane, which will bring us
home again.
Here we are making the best of our way between the old elms that arch so
solemnly over head, dark and sheltered even now. They say that a spirit
haunts this deep pool—a white lady without a head. I cannot say that
I have seen her, often as I have paced this lane at deep midnight, to hear
the nightingales, and look at the glow-worms;—but there, better and
rarer than a thousand ghosts, dearer even than nightingales or glow-worms,
there is a primrose, the first of the year; a tuft of primroses, springing
in yonder sheltered nook, from the mossy roots of an old willow, and
living again in the clear bright pool. Oh, how beautiful they are—three
fully blown, and two bursting buds! How glad I am I came this way! They
are not to be reached. Even Jack Rapley's love of the difficult and the
unattainable would fail him here: May herself could not stand on that
steep bank. So much the better. Who would wish to disturb them? There they
live in their innocent and fragrant beauty, sheltered from the storms, and
rejoicing in the sunshine, and looking as if they could feel their
happiness. Who would disturb them? Oh, how glad I am I came this way home!
VIOLETING.
March 27th.—It is a dull gray morning, with a dewy feeling in the
air; fresh, but not windy; cool, but not cold;—the very day for a
person newly arrived from the heat, the glare, the noise, and the fever of
London, to plunge into the remotest labyrinths of the country, and regain
the repose of mind, the calmness of heart, which has been lost in that
great Babel. I must go violeting—it is a necessity—and I must
go alone: the sound of a voice, even my Lizzy's, the touch of Mayflower's
head, even the bounding of her elastic foot, would disturb the serenity of
feeling which I am trying to recover. I shall go quite alone, with my
little basket, twisted like a bee-hive, which I love so well, because SHE
gave it to me, and kept sacred to violets and to those whom I love; and I
shall get out of the high-road the moment I can. I would not meet any one
just now, even of those whom I best like to meet.
Ha!—Is not that group—a gentleman on a blood-horse, a lady
keeping pace with him so gracefully and easily—see how prettily her
veil waves in the wind created by her own rapid motion!—and that
gay, gallant boy, on the gallant white Arabian, curveting at their side,
but ready to spring before them every instant—is not that
chivalrous-looking party Mr. and Mrs. M. and dear R? No! the servant is in
a different livery. It is some of the ducal family, and one of their young
Etonians. I may go on. I shall meet no one now; for I have fairly left the
road, and am crossing the lea by one of those wandering paths, amidst the
gorse, and the heath, and the low broom, which the sheep and lambs have
made—a path turfy, elastic, thymy, and sweet, even at this season.
We have the good fortune to live in an unenclosed parish, and may thank
the wise obstinacy of two or three sturdy farmers, and the lucky
unpopularity of a ranting madcap lord of the manor, for preserving the
delicious green patches, the islets of wilderness amidst cultivation,
which form, perhaps, the peculiar beauty of English scenery. The common
that I am passing now—the lea, as it is called—is one of the
loveliest of these favoured spots. It is a little sheltered scene,
retiring, as it were, from the village; sunk amidst higher lands, hills
would be almost too grand a word; edged on one side by one gay high-road,
and intersected by another; and surrounded by a most picturesque confusion
of meadows, cottages, farms, and orchards; with a great pond in one
corner, unusually bright and clear, giving a delightful cheerfulness and
daylight to the picture. The swallows haunt that pond; so do the children.
There is a merry group round it now; I have seldom seen it without one.
Children love water, clear, bright, sparkling water; it excites and feeds
their curiosity; it is motion and life.
The path that I am treading leads to a less lively spot, to that large
heavy building on one side of the common, whose solid wings, jutting out
far beyond the main body, occupy three sides of a square, and give a cold,
shadowy look to the court. On one side is a gloomy garden, with an old man
digging in it, laid out in straight dark beds of vegetables, potatoes,
cabbages, onions, beans; all earthy and mouldy as a newly-dug grave. Not a
flower or flowering shrub! Not a rose-tree or currant-bush! Nothing but
for sober, melancholy use. Oh, different from the long irregular slips of
the cottage-gardens, with their gay bunches of polyanthuses and crocuses,
their wallflowers sending sweet odours through the narrow casement, and
their gooseberry-trees bursting into a brilliancy of leaf, whose vivid
greenness has the effect of a blossom on the eye! Oh, how different! On
the other side of this gloomy abode is a meadow of that deep, intense
emerald hue, which denotes the presence of stagnant water, surrounded by
willows at regular distances, and like the garden, separated from the
common by a wide, moat-like ditch. That is the parish workhouse. All about
it is solid, substantial, useful;—but so dreary! so cold! so dark!
There are children in the court, and yet all is silent. I always hurry
past that place as if it were a prison. Restraint, sickness, age, extreme
poverty, misery, which I have no power to remove or alleviate,—these
are the ideas, the feelings, which the sight of those walls excites; yet,
perhaps, if not certainly, they contain less of that extreme desolation
than the morbid fancy is apt to paint. There will be found order,
cleanliness, food, clothing, warmth, refuge for the homeless, medicine and
attendance for the sick, rest and sufficiency for old age, and sympathy,
the true and active sympathy which the poor show to the poor, for the
unhappy. There may be worse places than a parish workhouse—and yet I
hurry past it. The feeling, the prejudice, will not be controlled.
The end of the dreary garden edges off into a close-sheltered lane,
wandering and winding, like a rivulet, in gentle 'sinuosities' (to use a
word once applied by Mr. Wilberforce to the Thames at Henley), amidst
green meadows, all alive with cattle, sheep, and beautiful lambs, in the
very spring and pride of their tottering prettiness; or fields of arable
land, more lively still with troops of stooping bean-setters, women and
children, in all varieties of costume and colour; and ploughs and harrows,
with their whistling boys and steady carters, going through, with a slow
and plodding industry, the main business of this busy season. What work
beansetting is! What a reverse of the position assigned to man to
distinguish him from the beasts of the field! Only think of stooping for
six, eight, ten hours a day, drilling holes in the earth with a little
stick, and then dropping in the beans one by one. They are paid according
to the quantity they plant; and some of the poor women used to be accused
of clumping them—that is to say, of dropping more than one bean into
a hole. It seems to me, considering the temptation, that not to clump is
to be at the very pinnacle of human virtue.
Another turn in the lane, and we come to the old house standing amongst
the high elms—the old farm-house, which always, I don't know why,
carries back my imagination to Shakspeare's days. It is a long, low,
irregular building, with one room, at an angle from the house, covered
with ivy, fine white-veined ivy; the first floor of the main building
projecting and supported by oaken beams, and one of the windows below,
with its old casement and long narrow panes, forming the half of a shallow
hexagon. A porch, with seats in it, surmounted by a pinnacle, pointed
roofs, and clustered chimneys, complete the picture! Alas! it is little
else but a picture! The very walls are crumbling to decay under a careless
landlord and ruined tenant.
Now a few yards farther, and I reach the bank. Ah! I smell them already—their
exquisite perfume steams and lingers in this moist, heavy air. Through
this little gate, and along the green south bank of this green
wheat-field, and they burst upon me, the lovely violets, in tenfold
loveliness. The ground is covered with them, white and purple, enamelling
the short dewy grass, looking but the more vividly coloured under the
dull, leaden sky. There they lie by hundreds, by thousands. In former
years I have been used to watch them from the tiny green bud, till one or
two stole into bloom. They never came on me before in such a sudden and
luxuriant glory of simple beauty,—and I do really owe one pure and
genuine pleasure to feverish London! How beautifully they are placed too,
on this sloping bank, with the palm branches waving over them, full of
early bees, and mixing their honeyed scent with the more delicate violet
odour! How transparent and smooth and lusty are the branches, full of sap
and life! And there, just by the old mossy root, is a superb tuft of
primroses, with a yellow butterfly hovering over them, like a flower
floating on the air. What happiness to sit on this tufty knoll, and fill
my basket with the blossoms! What a renewal of heart and mind! To inhabit
such a scene of peace and sweetness is again to be fearless, gay, and
gentle as a child. Then it is that thought becomes poetry, and feeling
religion. Then it is that we are happy and good. Oh, that my whole life
could pass so, floating on blissful and innocent sensation, enjoying in
peace and gratitude the common blessings of Nature, thankful above all for
the simple habits, the healthful temperament, which render them so dear!
Alas! who may dare expect a life of such happiness? But I can at least
snatch and prolong the fleeting pleasure, can fill my basket with pure
flowers, and my heart with pure thoughts; can gladden my little home with
their sweetness; can divide my treasures with one, a dear one, who cannot
seek them; can see them when I shut my eyes and dream of them when I fall
asleep.
THE COPSE.
April 18th.—Sad wintry weather; a northeast wind; a sun that puts
out one's eyes, without affording the slightest warmth; dryness that chaps
lips and hands like a frost in December; rain that comes chilly and arrowy
like hail in January; nature at a dead pause; no seeds up in the garden;
no leaves out in the hedgerows; no cowslips swinging their pretty bells in
the fields; no nightingales in the dingles; no swallows skimming round the
great pond; no cuckoos (that ever I should miss that rascally sonneteer!)
in any part. Nevertheless there is something of a charm in this wintry
spring, this putting-back of the seasons. If the flower-clock must stand
still for a month or two, could it choose a better time than that of the
primroses and violets? I never remember (and for such gauds my memory, if
not very good for aught of wise or useful, may be trusted) such an
affluence of the one or such a duration of the other. Primrosy is the
epithet which this year will retain in my recollection. Hedge, ditch,
meadow, field, even the very paths and highways, are set with them; but
their chief habitat is a certain copse, about a mile off, where they are
spread like a carpet, and where I go to visit them rather oftener than
quite comports with the dignity of a lady of mature age. I am going
thither this very afternoon, and May and her company are going too.
This Mayflower of mine is a strange animal. Instinct and imitation make in
her an approach to reason which is sometimes almost startling. She mimics
all that she sees us do, with the dexterity of a monkey, and far more of
gravity and apparent purpose; cracks nuts and eats them; gathers currants
and severs them from the stalk with the most delicate nicety; filches and
munches apples and pears; is as dangerous in an orchard as a schoolboy;
smells to flowers; smiles at meeting; answers in a pretty lively voice
when spoken to (sad pity that the language should be unknown!) and has
greatly the advantage of us in a conversation, inasmuch as our meaning is
certainly clear to her;—all this and a thousand amusing prettinesses
(to say nothing of her canine feat of bringing her game straight to her
master's feet, and refusing to resign it to any hand but his), does my
beautiful greyhound perform untaught, by the mere effect of imitation and
sagacity. Well, May, at the end of the coursing season, having lost Brush,
our old spaniel, her great friend, and the blue greyhound, Mariette, her
comrade and rival, both of which four-footed worthies were sent out to
keep for the summer, began to find solitude a weary condition, and to look
abroad for company. Now it so happened that the same suspension of sport
which had reduced our little establishment from three dogs to one, had
also dispersed the splendid kennel of a celebrated courser in our
neighbourhood, three of whose finest young dogs came home to 'their walk'
(as the sporting phrase goes) at the collarmaker's in our village. May,
accordingly, on the first morning of her solitude (she had never taken the
slightest notice of her neighbours before, although they had sojourned in
our street upwards of a fortnight), bethought herself of the timely
resource offered to her by the vicinity of these canine beaux, and went up
boldly and knocked at their stable door, which was already very
commodiously on the half-latch. The three dogs came out with much
alertness and gallantry, and May, declining apparently to enter their
territories, brought them off to her own. This manoeuvre has been repeated
every day, with one variation; of the three dogs, the first a brindle, the
second a yellow, and the third a black, the two first only are now allowed
to walk or consort with her, and the last, poor fellow, for no fault that
I can discover except May's caprice, is driven away not only by the fair
lady, but even by his old companions—is, so to say, sent to
Coventry. Of her two permitted followers, the yellow gentleman, Saladin by
name, is decidedly the favourite. He is, indeed, May's shadow, and will
walk with me whether I choose or not. It is quite impossible to get rid of
him unless by discarding Miss May also;—and to accomplish a walk in
the country without her, would be like an adventure of Don Quixote without
his faithful 'squire Sancho.
So forth we set, May and I, and Saladin and the brindle; May and myself
walking with the sedateness and decorum befitting our sex and age (she is
five years old this grass, rising six)—the young things, for the
soldan and the brindle are (not meaning any disrespect) little better than
puppies, frisking and frolicking as best pleased them.
Our route lay for the first part along the sheltered quiet lanes which
lead to our old habitation; a way never trodden by me without peculiar and
homelike feelings, full of the recollections, the pains and pleasures, of
other days. But we are not to talk sentiment now;—even May would not
understand that maudlin language. We must get on. What a wintry hedgerow
this is for the eighteenth of April! Primrosy to be sure, abundantly
spangled with those stars of the earth,—but so bare, so leafless, so
cold! The wind whistles through the brown boughs as in winter. Even the
early elder shoots, which do make an approach to springiness, look brown,
and the small leaves of the woodbine, which have also ventured to peep
forth, are of a sad purple, frost-bitten, like a dairymaid's elbows on a
snowy morning. The very birds, in this season of pairing and building,
look chilly and uncomfortable, and their nests!—'Oh, Saladin! come
away from the hedge! Don't you see that what puzzles you and makes you
leap up in the air is a redbreast's nest? Don't you see the pretty
speckled eggs? Don't you hear the poor hen calling as it were for help?
Come here this moment, sir!' And by good luck Saladin (who for a paynim
has tolerable qualities) comes, before he has touched the nest, or before
his playmate the brindle, the less manageable of the two, has espied it.
Now we go round the corner and cross the bridge, where the common, with
its clear stream winding between clumps of elms, assumes so park-like an
appearance. Who is this approaching so slowly and majestically, this
square bundle of petticoat and cloak, this road-waggon of a woman? It is,
it must be Mrs. Sally Mearing, the completest specimen within my knowledge
of farmeresses (may I be allowed that innovation in language?) as they
were. It can be nobody else.
Mrs. Sally Mearing, when I first became acquainted with her, occupied,
together with her father (a superannuated man of ninety), a large farm
very near our former habitation. It had been anciently a great manor-farm
or court-house, and was still a stately, substantial building, whose lofty
halls and spacious chambers gave an air of grandeur to the common offices
to which they were applied. Traces of gilding might yet be seen on the
panels which covered the walls, and on the huge carved chimney-pieces
which rose almost to the ceilings; and the marble tables and the inlaid
oak staircase still spoke of the former grandeur of the court. Mrs. Sally
corresponded well with the date of her mansion, although she troubled
herself little with its dignity. She was thoroughly of the old school, and
had a most comfortable contempt for the new: rose at four in winter and
summer, breakfasted at six, dined at eleven in the forenoon, supped at
five, and was regularly in bed before eight, except when the hay-time or
the harvest imperiously required her to sit up till sunset, a necessity to
which she submitted with no very good grace. To a deviation from these
hours, and to the modern iniquities of white aprons, cotton stockings, and
muslin handkerchiefs (Mrs. Sally herself always wore check, black worsted,
and a sort of yellow compound which she was wont to call 'susy'), together
with the invention of drill plough and thrashing-machines, and other
agricultural novelties, she failed not to attribute all the mishaps or
misdoings of the whole parish. The last-mentioned discovery especially
aroused her indignation. Oh to hear her descant on the merits of the
flail, wielded by a stout right arm, such as she had known in her youth
(for by her account there was as great a deterioration in bones and sinews
as in the other implements of husbandry), was enough to make the very
inventor break his machine. She would even take up her favourite
instrument, and thrash the air herself by way of illustrating her
argument, and, to say truth, few men in these degenerate days could have
matched the stout, brawny, muscular limb which Mrs. Sally displayed at
sixty-five.
In spite of this contumacious rejection of agricultural improvements, the
world went well with her at Court Farm. A good landlord, an easy rent,
incessant labour, unremitting frugality, and excellent times, insured a
regular though moderate profit; and she lived on, grumbling and
prospering, flourishing and complaining, till two misfortunes befell her
at once—her father died, and her lease expired. The loss of her
father although a bedridden man, turned of ninety, who could not in the
course of nature have been expected to live long, was a terrible shock to
a daughter, who was not so much younger as to be without fears for her own
life, and who had besides been so used to nursing the good old man, and
looking to his little comforts, that she missed him as a mother would miss
an ailing child. The expiration of the lease was a grievance and a puzzle
of a different nature. Her landlord would have willingly retained his
excellent tenant, but not on the terms on which she then held the land,
which had not varied for fifty years; so that poor Mrs. Sally had the
misfortune to find rent rising and prices sinking both at the same moment—a
terrible solecism in political economy. Even this, however, I believe she
would have endured, rather than have quitted the house where she was born,
and to which all her ways and notions were adapted, had not a priggish
steward, as much addicted to improvement and reform as she was to
precedent and established usages, insisted on binding her by lease to
spread a certain number of loads of chalk on every field. This tremendous
innovation, for never had that novelty in manure whitened the crofts and
pightles of Court Farm, decided her at once. She threw the proposals into
the fire, and left the place in a week.
Her choice of a habitation occasioned some wonder, and much amusement in
our village world. To be sure, upon the verge of seventy, an old maid may
be permitted to dispense with the more rigid punctilio of her class, but
Mrs. Sally had always been so tenacious on the score of character, so very
a prude, so determined an avoider of the 'men folk' (as she was wont
contemptuously to call them), that we all were conscious of something like
astonishment, on finding that she and her little handmaid had taken up
their abode in one end of a spacious farmhouse belonging to the bluff old
bachelor, George Robinson, of the Lea. Now Farmer Robinson was quite as
notorious for his aversion to petticoated things, as Mrs. Sally for her
hatred to the unfeathered bipeds who wear doublet and hose, so that there
was a little astonishment in that quarter too, and plenty of jests, which
the honest farmer speedily silenced, by telling all who joked on the
subject that he had given his lodger fair warning, that, let people say
what they would, he was quite determined not to marry her: so that if she
had any views that way, it would be better for her to go elsewhere. This
declaration, which must be admitted to have been more remarkable for
frankness than civility, made, however, no ill impression on Mrs. Sally.
To the farmer's she went, and at his house she lives still, with her
little maid, her tabby cat, a decrepit sheep-dog, and much of the lumber
of Court Farm, which she could not find in her heart to part from. There
she follows her old ways and her old hours, untempted by matrimony, and
unassailed (as far as I hear) by love or by scandal, with no other
grievance than an occasional dearth of employment for herself and her
young lass (even pewter dishes do not always want scouring), and now and
then a twinge of the rheumatism.
Here she is, that good relique of the olden time—for, in spite of
her whims and prejudices, a better and a kinder woman never lived—here
she is, with the hood of her red cloak pulled over her close black bonnet,
of that silk which once (it may be presumed) was fashionable, since it is
still called mode, and her whole stout figure huddled up in a
miscellaneous and most substantial covering of thick petticoats, gowns,
aprons, shawls, and cloaks—a weight which it requires the strength
of a thrasher to walk under—here she is, with her square honest
visage, and her loud frank voice;—and we hold a pleasant disjointed
chat of rheumatisms and early chickens, bad weather, and hats with
feathers in them;—the last exceedingly sore subject being introduced
by poor Jane Davis (a cousin of Mrs. Sally), who, passing us in a beaver
bonnet, on her road from school, stopped to drop her little curtsy, and
was soundly scolded for her civility. Jane, who is a gentle, humble,
smiling lass, about twelve years old, receives so many rebukes from her
worthy relative, and bears them so meekly, that I should not wonder if
they were to be followed by a legacy: I sincerely wish they may. Well, at
last we said good-bye; when, on inquiring my destination, and hearing that
I was bent to the ten-acre copse (part of the farm which she ruled so
long), she stopped me to tell a dismal story of two sheep-stealers who,
sixty years ago, were found hidden in that copse, and only taken after
great difficulty and resistance, and the maiming of a peace-officer.—'Pray
don't go there, Miss! For mercy's sake don't be so venturesome! Think if
they should kill you!' were the last words of Mrs. Sally.
Many thanks for her care and kindness! But, without being at all foolhardy
in general, I have no great fear of the sheep-stealers of sixty years ago.
Even if they escaped hanging for that exploit, I should greatly doubt
their being in case to attempt another. So on we go: down the short shady
lane, and out on the pretty retired green, shut in by fields and
hedgerows, which we must cross to reach the copse. How lively this green
nook is to-day, half covered with cows, and horses, and sheep! And how
glad these frolicsome greyhounds are to exchange the hard gravel of the
high road for this pleasant short turf, which seems made for their
gambols! How beautifully they are at play, chasing each other round and
round in lessening circles, darting off at all kinds of angles, crossing
and recrossing May, and trying to win her sedateness into a game at romps,
turning round on each other with gay defiance, pursuing the cows and the
colts, leaping up as if to catch the crows in their flight;—all in
their harmless and innocent—'Ah, wretches! villains! rascals!
four-footed mischiefs! canine plagues! Saladin! Brindle!'—They are
after the sheep—'Saladin, I say!'—They have actually singled
out that pretty spotted lamb—'Brutes, if I catch you! Saladin!
Brindle!' We shall be taken up for sheep-stealing presently ourselves.
They have chased the poor little lamb into a ditch, and are mounting guard
over it, standing at bay.—'Ah, wretches, I have you now! for shame,
Saladin! Get away, Brindle! See how good May is. Off with you, brutes! For
shame! For shame!' and brandishing a handkerchief, which could hardly be
an efficient instrument of correction, I succeeded in driving away the two
puppies, who after all meant nothing more than play, although it was
somewhat rough, and rather too much in the style of the old fable of the
boys and the frogs. May is gone after them, perhaps to scold them: for she
has been as grave as a judge during the whole proceeding, keeping
ostentatiously close to me, and taking no part whatever in the mischief.
The poor little pretty lamb! here it lies on the bank quite motionless,
frightened I believe to death, for certainly those villains never touched
it. It does not stir. Does it breathe? Oh yes, it does! It is alive, safe
enough. Look, it opens its eyes, and, finding the coast clear and its
enemies far away, it springs up in a moment and gallops to its dam, who
has stood bleating the whole time at a most respectful distance. Who would
suspect a lamb of so much simple cunning? I really thought the pretty
thing was dead—and now how glad the ewe is to recover her curling
spotted little one! How fluttered they look! Well! this adventure has
flurried me too; between fright and running, I warrant you my heart beats
as fast as the lamb's.
Ah! here is the shameless villain Saladin, the cause of the commotion,
thrusting his slender nose into my hand to beg pardon and make up! 'Oh
wickedest of soldans! Most iniquitous pagan! Soul of a Turk!'—but
there is no resisting the good-humoured creature's penitence. I must pat
him. 'There! there! Now we will go to the copse; I am sure we shall find
no worse malefactors than ourselves—shall we, May?—and the
sooner we get out of sight of the sheep the better; for Brindle seems
meditating another attack. Allons, messieurs, over this gate, across this
meadow, and here is the copse.'
How boldly that superb ash-tree with its fine silver bark rises from the
bank, and what a fine entrance it makes with the holly beside it, which
also deserves to be called a tree! But here we are in the copse. Ah! only
one half of the underwood was cut last year, and the other is at its full
growth: hazel, brier, woodbine, bramble, forming one impenetrable thicket,
and almost uniting with the lower branches of the elms, and oaks, and
beeches, which rise at regular distances overhead. No foot can penetrate
that dense and thorny entanglement; but there is a walk all round by the
side of the wide sloping bank, walk and bank and copse carpeted with
primroses, whose fresh and balmy odour impregnates the very air. Oh how
exquisitely beautiful! and it is not the primroses only, those gems of
flowers, but the natural mosaic of which they form a part; that network of
ground-ivy, with its lilac blossoms and the subdued tint of its purplish
leaves, those rich mosses, those enamelled wild hyacinths, those spotted
arums, and above all those wreaths of ivy linking all those flowers
together with chains of leaves more beautiful than blossoms, whose white
veins seem swelling amidst the deep green or splendid brown;—it is
the whole earth that is so beautiful! Never surely were primroses so
richly set, and never did primroses better deserve such a setting. There
they are of their own lovely yellow, the hue to which they have given a
name, the exact tint of the butterfly that overhangs them (the first I
have seen this year! can spring really be coming at last?)—sprinkled
here and there with tufts of a reddish purple, and others of the purest
white, as some accident of soil affects that strange and inscrutable
operation of nature, the colouring of flowers. Oh how fragrant they are,
and how pleasant it is to sit in this sheltered copse, listening to the
fine creaking of the wind amongst the branches, the most unearthly of
sounds, with this gay tapestry under our feet, and the wood-pigeons
flitting from tree to tree, and mixing the deep note of love with the
elemental music.
Yes! spring is coming. Wood-pigeons, butterflies, and sweet flowers, all
give token of the sweetest of the seasons. Spring is coming. The hazel
stalks are swelling and putting forth their pale tassels, the satin palms
with their honeyed odours are out on the willow, and the last lingering
winter berries are dropping from the hawthorn, and making way for the
bright and blossomy leaves.
THE WOOD.
April 20th.—Spring is actually come now, with the fulness and almost
the suddenness of a northern summer. To-day is completely April;—clouds
and sunshine, wind and showers; blossoms on the trees, grass in the
fields, swallows by the ponds, snakes in the hedgerows, nightingales in
the thickets, and cuckoos everywhere. My young friend Ellen G. is going
with me this evening to gather wood-sorrel. She never saw that most
elegant plant, and is so delicate an artist that the introduction will be
a mutual benefit; Ellen will gain a subject worthy of her pencil, and the
pretty weed will live;—no small favour to a flower almost as
transitory as the gum cistus: duration is the only charm which it wants,
and that Ellen will give it. The weather is, to be sure, a little
threatening, but we are not people to mind the weather when we have an
object in view; we shall certainly go in quest of the wood-sorrel, and
will take May, provided we can escape May's followers; for since the
adventure of the lamb, Saladin has had an affair with a gander, furious in
defence of his goslings, in which rencontre the gander came off conqueror;
and as geese abound in the wood to which we are going (called by the
country people the Pinge), and the victory may not always incline to the
right side, I should be very sorry to lead the Soldan to fight his battles
over again. We will take nobody but May.
So saying, we proceeded on our way through winding lanes, between
hedgerows tenderly green, till we reached the hatch-gate, with the white
cottage beside it embosomed in fruit-trees, which forms the entrance to
the Pinge, and in a moment the whole scene was before our eyes.
'Is not this beautiful, Ellen?' The answer could hardly be other than a
glowing rapid 'Yes!'—A wood is generally a pretty place; but this
wood—Imagine a smaller forest, full of glades and sheep-walks,
surrounded by irregular cottages with their blooming orchards, a clear
stream winding about the brakes, and a road intersecting it, and giving
life and light to the picture; and you will have a faint idea of the
Pinge. Every step was opening a new point of view, a fresh combination of
glade and path and thicket. The accessories too were changing every
moment. Ducks, geese, pigs, and children, giving way, as we advanced into
the wood, to sheep and forest ponies; and they again disappearing as we
became more entangled in its mazes, till we heard nothing but the song of
the nightingale, and saw only the silent flowers.
What a piece of fairy land! The tall elms overhead just bursting into
tender vivid leaf, with here and there a hoary oak or a silver-barked
beech, every twig swelling with the brown buds, and yet not quite stripped
of the tawny foliage of autumn; tall hollies and hawthorn beneath, with
their crisp brilliant leaves mixed with the white blossoms of the sloe,
and woven together with garlands of woodbines and wild-briers;—what
a fairy land!
Primroses, cowslips, pansies, and the regular open-eyed white blossom of
the wood anemone (or, to use the more elegant Hampshire name, the
windflower), were set under our feet as thick as daisies in a meadow; but
the pretty weed that we came to seek was coyer; and Ellen began to fear
that we had mistaken the place or the season.—At last she had
herself the pleasure of finding it under a brake of holly—'Oh, look!
look! I am sure that this is the wood-sorrel! Look at the pendent white
flower, shaped like a snowdrop and veined with purple streaks, and the
beautiful trefoil leaves folded like a heart,—some, the young ones,
so vividly yet tenderly green that the foliage of the elm and the hawthorn
would show dully at their side,—others of a deeper tint, and lined,
as it were, with a rich and changeful purple!—Don't you see them?'
pursued my dear young friend, who is a delightful piece of life and
sunshine, and was half inclined to scold me for the calmness with which,
amused by her enthusiasm, I stood listening to her ardent exclamations—'Don't
you see them? Oh how beautiful! and in what quantity! what profusion! See
how the dark shade of the holly sets off the light and delicate colouring
of the flower!—And see that other bed of them springing from the
rich moss in the roots of that old beech-tree! Pray, let us gather some.
Here are baskets.' So, quickly and carefully we began gathering, leaves,
blossoms, roots and all, for the plant is so fragile that it will not
brook separation;—quickly and carefully we gathered, encountering
divers petty misfortunes in spite of all our care, now caught by the veil
in a holly bush, now hitching our shawls in a bramble, still gathering on,
in spite of scratched fingers, till we had nearly filled our baskets and
began to talk of our departure:—
'But where is May? May! May! No going home without her. May! Here she
comes galloping, the beauty!'—(Ellen is almost as fond of May as I
am.)—'What has she got in her mouth? that rough, round, brown
substance which she touches so tenderly? What can it be? A bird's nest?
Naughty May!'
'No! as I live, a hedgehog! Look, Ellen, how it has coiled itself into a
thorny ball! Off with it, May! Don't bring it to me!'—And May,
somewhat reluctant to part with her prickly prize, however troublesome of
carriage, whose change of shape seemed to me to have puzzled her sagacity
more than any event I ever witnessed, for in general she has perfectly the
air of understanding all that is going forward—May at last dropt the
hedgehog; continuing, however, to pat it with her delicate cat-like paw,
cautiously and daintily applied, and caught back suddenly and rapidly
after every touch, as if her poor captive had been a red-hot coal. Finding
that these pats entirely failed in solving the riddle (for the hedgehog
shammed dead, like the lamb the other day, and appeared entirely
motionless), she gave him so spirited a nudge with her pretty black nose,
that she not only turned him over, but sent him rolling some little way
along the turfy path,—an operation which that sagacious quadruped
endured with the most perfect passiveness, the most admirable
non-resistance. No wonder that May's discernment was at fault, I myself,
if I had not been aware of the trick, should have said that the ugly rough
thing which she was trundling along, like a bowl or a cricket-ball, was an
inanimate substance, something devoid of sensation and of will. At last my
poor pet, thoroughly perplexed and tired out, fairly relinquished the
contest, and came slowly away, turning back once or twice to look at the
object of her curiosity, as if half inclined to return and try the event
of another shove. The sudden flight of a wood-pigeon effectually diverted
her attention; and Ellen amused herself by fancying how the hedgehog was
scuttling away, till our notice was also attracted by a very different
object.
We had nearly threaded the wood, and were approaching an open grove of
magnificent oaks on the other side, when sounds other than of nightingales
burst on our ear, the deep and frequent strokes of the woodman's axe, and
emerging from the Pinge we discovered the havoc which that axe had
committed. Above twenty of the finest trees lay stretched on the velvet
turf. There they lay in every shape and form of devastation: some, bare
trunks stripped ready for the timber carriage, with the bark built up in
long piles at the side; some with the spoilers busy about them, stripping,
hacking, hewing; others with their noble branches, their brown and
fragrant shoots all fresh as if they were alive—majestic corses, the
slain of to-day! The grove was like a field of battle. The young lads who
were stripping the bark, the very children who were picking up the chips,
seemed awed and silent, as if conscious that death was around them. The
nightingales sang faintly and interruptedly—a few low frightened
notes like a requiem.
Ah! here we are at the very scene of murder, the very tree that they are
felling; they have just hewn round the trunk with those slaughtering axes,
and are about to saw it asunder. After all, it is a fine and thrilling
operation, as the work of death usually is. Into how grand an attitude was
that young man thrown as he gave the final strokes round the root; and how
wonderful is the effect of that supple and apparently powerless saw,
bending like a riband, and yet overmastering that giant of the woods,
conquering and overthrowing that thing of life! Now it has passed half
through the trunk, and the woodman has begun to calculate which way the
tree will fall; he drives a wedge to direct its course;—now a few
more movements of the noiseless saw; and then a larger wedge. See how the
branches tremble! Hark how the trunk begins to crack! Another stroke of
the huge hammer on the wedge, and the tree quivers, as with a mortal
agony, shakes, reels, and falls. How slow, and solemn, and awful it is!
How like to death, to human death in its grandest form! Caesar in the
Capitol, Seneca in the bath, could not fall more sublimely than that oak.
Even the heavens seem to sympathise with the devastation. The clouds have
gathered into one thick low canopy, dark and vapoury as the smoke which
overhangs London; the setting sun is just gleaming underneath with a dim
and bloody glare, and the crimson rays spreading upward with a lurid and
portentous grandeur, a subdued and dusky glow, like the light reflected on
the sky from some vast conflagration. The deep flush fades away, and the
rain begins to descend; and we hurry homeward rapidly, yet sadly,
forgetful alike of the flowers, the hedgehog, and the wetting, thinking
and talking only of the fallen tree.
THE DELL.
May 2nd.—A delicious evening;—bright sunshine; light summer
air; a sky almost cloudless; and a fresh yet delicate verdure on the
hedges and in the fields;—an evening that seems made for a visit to
my newly-discovered haunt, the mossy dell, one of the most beautiful spots
in the neighbourhood, which after passing, times out of number, the field
which it terminates, we found out about two months ago from the accident
of May's killing a rabbit there. May has had a fancy for the place ever
since; and so have I.
Thither accordingly we bend our way;—through the village;—up
the hill;—along the common;—past the avenue;—across the
bridge; and by the hill. How deserted the road is to-night! We have not
seen a single acquaintance, except poor blind Robert, laden with his sack
of grass plucked from the hedges, and the little boy that leads him. A
singular division of labour! Little Jem guides Robert to the spots where
the long grass grows, and tells him where it is most plentiful; and then
the old man cuts it close to the roots, and between them they fill the
sack, and sell the contents in the village. Half the cows in the street—for
our baker, our wheelwright, and our shoemaker has each his Alderney—owe
the best part of their maintenance to blind Robert's industry.
Here we are at the entrance of the cornfield which leads to the dell, and
which commands so fine a view of the Loddon, the mill, the great farm,
with its picturesque outbuildings, and the range of woody hills beyond. It
is impossible not to pause a moment at that gate, the landscape, always
beautiful, is so suited to the season and the hour,—so bright, and
gay, and spring-like. But May, who has the chance of another rabbit in her
pretty head, has galloped forward to the dingle, and poor May, who follows
me so faithfully in all my wanderings, has a right to a little indulgence
in hers. So to the dingle we go.
At the end of the field, which when seen from the road seems terminated by
a thick dark coppice, we come suddenly to the edge of a ravine, on one
side fringed with a low growth of alder, birch, and willow, on the other
mossy, turfy, and bare, or only broken by bright tufts of blossomed broom.
One or two old pollards almost conceal the winding road that leads down
the descent, by the side of which a spring as bright as crystal runs
gurgling along. The dell itself is an irregular piece of broken ground, in
some parts very deep, intersected by two or three high banks of equal
irregularity, now abrupt and bare, and rocklike, now crowned with tufts of
the feathery willow or magnificent old thorns. Everywhere the earth is
covered by short, fine turf, mixed with mosses, soft, beautiful, and
various, and embossed with the speckled leaves and lilac flowers of the
arum, the paler blossoms of the common orchis, the enamelled blue of the
wild hyacinth, so splendid in this evening light, and large tufts of
oxslips and cowslips rising like nosegays from the short turf.
The ground on the other side of the dell is much lower than the field
through which we came, so that it is mainly to the labyrinthine intricacy
of these high banks that it owes its singular character of wildness and
variety. Now we seem hemmed in by those green cliffs, shut out from all
the world, with nothing visible but those verdant mounds and the deep blue
sky; now by some sudden turn we get a peep at an adjoining meadow, where
the sheep are lying, dappling its sloping surface like the small clouds on
the summer heaven. Poor harmless, quiet creatures, how still they are!
Some socially lying side by side; some grouped in threes and fours; some
quite apart. Ah! there are lambs amongst them—pretty, pretty lambs—nestled
in by their mothers. Soft, quiet, sleepy things! Not all so quiet, though!
There is a party of these young lambs as wide awake as heart can desire;
half a dozen of them playing together, frisking, dancing, leaping,
butting, and crying in the young voice, which is so pretty a diminutive of
the full-grown bleat. How beautiful they are with their innocent spotted
faces, their mottled feet, their long curly tails, and their light
flexible forms, frolicking like so many kittens, but with a gentleness, an
assurance of sweetness and innocence, which no kitten, nothing that ever
is to be a cat, can have. How complete and perfect is their enjoyment of
existence! Ah! little rogues! your play has been too noisy; you have
awakened your mammas; and two or three of the old ewes are getting up; and
one of them marching gravely to the troop of lambs has selected her own,
given her a gentle butt, and trotted off; the poor rebuked lamb following
meekly, but every now and then stopping and casting a longing look at its
playmates; who, after a moment's awed pause, had resumed their gambols;
whilst the stately dame every now and then looked back in her turn, to see
that her little one was following. At last she lay down, and the lamb by
her side. I never saw so pretty a pastoral scene in my life.*
*I have seen one which affected me much more. Walking in the Church-lane
with one of the young ladies of the vicarage, we met a large flock of
sheep, with the usual retinue of shepherds and dogs. Lingering after them
and almost out of sight, we encountered a straggling ewe, now trotting
along, now walking, and every now and then stopping to look back, and
bleating. A little behind her came a lame lamb, bleating occasionally, as
if in answer to its dam, and doing its very best to keep up with her. It
was a lameness of both the fore-feet; the knees were bent, and it seemed
to walk on the very edge of the hoof—on tip-toe, if I may venture
such an expression. My young friend thought that the lameness proceeded
from original malformation, I am rather of opinion that it was accidental,
and that the poor creature was wretchedly foot-sore. However that might
be, the pain and difficulty with which it took every step were not to be
mistaken; and the distress and fondness of the mother, her perplexity as
the flock passed gradually out of sight, the effort with which the poor
lamb contrived to keep up a sort of trot, and their mutual calls and
lamentations were really so affecting, that Ellen and I, although not at
all lachrymose sort of people, had much ado not to cry. We could not find
a boy to carry the lamb, which was too big for us to manage;—but I
was quite sure that the ewe would not desert it, and as the dark was
coming on, we both trusted that the shepherds on folding their flock would
miss them and return for them;—and so I am happy to say it proved.
Another turning of the dell gives a glimpse of the dark coppice by which
it is backed, and from which we are separated by some marshy, rushy
ground, where the springs have formed into a pool, and where the moor-hen
loves to build her nest. Ay, there is one scudding away now;—I can
hear her plash into the water, and the rustling of her wings amongst the
rushes. This is the deepest part of the wild dingle. How uneven the ground
is! Surely these excavations, now so thoroughly clothed with vegetation,
must originally have been huge gravel pits; there is no other way of
accounting for the labyrinth, for they do dig gravel in such capricious
meanders; but the quantity seems incredible. Well! there is no end of
guessing! We are getting amongst the springs, and must turn back. Round
this corner, where on ledges like fairy terraces the orchises and arums
grow, and we emerge suddenly on a new side of the dell, just fronting the
small homestead of our good neighbour Farmer Allen.
This rustic dwelling belongs to what used to be called in this part of the
country 'a little bargain': thirty or forty acres, perhaps, of arable
land, which the owner and his sons cultivated themselves, whilst the wife
and daughters assisted in the husbandry, and eked out the slender earnings
by the produce of the dairy, the poultry yard, and the orchard;—an
order of cultivators now passing rapidly away, but in which much of the
best part of the English character, its industry, its frugality, its sound
sense, and its kindness might be found. Farmer Allen himself is an
excellent specimen, the cheerful venerable old man with his long white
hair, and his bright grey eye, and his wife is a still finer. They have
had a hard struggle to win through the world and keep their little
property undivided; but good management and good principles, and the
assistance afforded them by an admirable son, who left our village a poor
'prentice boy, and is now a partner in a great house in London have
enabled them to overcome all the difficulties of these trying times, and
they are now enjoying the peaceful evenings of a well-spent life as free
from care and anxiety as their best friends could desire.
Ah! there is Mr. Allen in the orchard, the beautiful orchard, with its
glorious gardens of pink and white, its pearly pear-blossoms and coral
apple-buds. What a flush of bloom it is! How brightly delicate it appears,
thrown into strong relief by the dark house and the weather-stained barn,
in this soft evening light! The very grass is strewed with the snowy
petals of the pear and the cherry. And there sits Mrs. Allen, feeding her
poultry, with her three little grand-daughters from London, pretty fairies
from three years old to five (only two-and-twenty months elapsed between
the birth of the eldest and the youngest) playing round her feet.
Mrs. Allen, my dear Mrs. Allen, has been that rare thing a beauty, and
although she be now an old woman I had almost said that she is so still.
Why should I not say so? Nobleness of feature and sweetness of expression
are surely as delightful in age as in youth. Her face and figure are much
like those which are stamped indelibly on the memory of every one who ever
saw that grand specimen of woman—Mrs. Siddons. The outline of Mrs.
Allen's face is exactly the same; but there is more softness, more
gentleness, a more feminine composure in the eye and in the smile. Mrs.
Allen never played Lady Macbeth. Her hair, almost as black as at twenty,
is parted on her large fair forehead, and combed under her exquisitely
neat and snowy cap; a muslin neckerchief, a grey stuff gown and a white
apron complete the picture.
There she sits under an old elder-tree which flings its branches over her
like a canopy, whilst the setting sun illumines her venerable figure and
touches the leaves with an emerald light; there she sits, placid and
smiling, with her spectacles in her hand and a measure of barley on her
lap, into which the little girls are dipping their chubby hands and
scattering the corn amongst the ducks and chickens with unspeakable glee.
But those ingrates the poultry don't seem so pleased and thankful as they
ought to be; they mistrust their young feeders. All domestic animals
dislike children, partly from an instinctive fear of their tricks and
their thoughtlessness; partly, I suspect, from jealousy. Jealousy seems a
strange tragic passion to attribute to the inmates of the basse cour,—but
only look at that strutting fellow of a bantam cock (evidently a
favourite), who sidles up to his old mistress with an air half affronted
and half tender, turning so scornfully from the barley-corns which Annie
is flinging towards him, and say if he be not as jealous as Othello?
Nothing can pacify him but Mrs. Allen's notice and a dole from her hand.
See, she is calling to him and feeding him, and now how he swells out his
feathers, and flutters his wings, and erects his glossy neck, and struts
and crows and pecks, proudest and happiest of bantams, the pet and glory
of the poultry yard!
In the meantime my own pet May, who has all this while been peeping into
every hole, and penetrating every nook and winding of the dell, in hopes
to find another rabbit, has returned to my side, and is sliding her
snake-like head into my hand, at once to invite the caress which she likes
so well, and to intimate, with all due respect, that it is time to go
home. The setting sun gives the same warning; and in a moment we are
through the dell, the field, and the gate, past the farm and the mill, and
hanging over the bridge that crosses the Loddon river.
What a sunset! how golden! how beautiful! The sun just disappearing, and
the narrow liny clouds, which a few minutes ago lay like soft vapoury
streaks along the horizon, lighted up with a golden splendour that the eye
can scarcely endure, and those still softer clouds which floated above
them wreathing and curling into a thousand fantastic forms, as thin and
changeful as summer smoke, now defined and deepened into grandeur, and
edged with ineffable, insufferable light! Another minute and the brilliant
orb totally disappears, and the sky above grows every moment more varied
and more beautiful as the dazzling golden lines are mixed with glowing red
and gorgeous purple, dappled with small dark specks, and mingled with such
a blue as the egg of the hedge-sparrow. To look up at that glorious sky,
and then to see that magnificent picture reflected in the clear and lovely
Loddon water, is a pleasure never to be described and never forgotten. My
heart swells and my eyes fill as I write of it, and think of the
immeasurable majesty of nature, and the unspeakable goodness of God, who
has spread an enjoyment so pure, so peaceful, and so intense before the
meanest and the lowliest of His creatures.
THE COWSLIP-BALL.
May 16th.—There are moments in life when, without any visible or
immediate cause, the spirits sink and fail, as it were, under the mere
pressure of existence: moments of unaccountable depression, when one is
weary of one's very thoughts, haunted by images that will not depart—images
many and various, but all painful; friends lost, or changed, or dead;
hopes disappointed even in their accomplishment; fruitless regrets,
powerless wishes, doubt and fear, and self-distrust, and
self-disapprobation. They who have known these feelings (and who is there
so happy as not to have known some of them?) will understand why Alfieri
became powerless, and Froissart dull; and why even needle-work, the most
effectual sedative, that grand soother and composer of woman's distress,
fails to comfort me to-day. I will go out into the air this cool, pleasant
afternoon, and try what that will do. I fancy that exercise or exertion of
any kind, is the true specific for nervousness. 'Fling but a stone, the
giant dies.' I will go to the meadows, the beautiful meadows! and I will
have my materials of happiness, Lizzy and May, and a basket for flowers,
and we will make a cowslip-ball. 'Did you ever see a cowslip-ball, my
Lizzy?'—'No.'—'Come away, then; make haste! run, Lizzy!'
And on we go, fast, fast! down the road, across the lea, past the
workhouse, along by the great pond, till we slide into the deep narrow
lane, whose hedges seem to meet over the water, and win our way to the
little farmhouse at the end. 'Through the farmyard, Lizzy; over the gate;
never mind the cows; they are quiet enough.'—'I don't mind 'em,'
said Miss Lizzy, boldly and truly, and with a proud affronted air,
displeased at being thought to mind anything, and showing by her attitude
and manner some design of proving her courage by an attack on the largest
of the herd, in the shape of a pull by the tail. 'I don't mind 'em.'—'I
know you don't, Lizzy; but let them alone, and don't chase the
turkey-cock. Come to me, my dear!' and, for a wonder, Lizzy came.
In the meantime, my other pet, Mayflower, had also gotten into a scrape.
She had driven about a huge unwieldy sow, till the animal's grunting had
disturbed the repose of a still more enormous Newfoundland dog, the
guardian of the yard. Out he sallied, growling, from the depth of his
kennel, erecting his tail, and shaking his long chain. May's attention was
instantly diverted from the sow to this new playmate, friend or foe, she
cared not which; and he of the kennel, seeing his charge unhurt, and out
of danger, was at leisure to observe the charms of his fair enemy, as she
frolicked round him, always beyond the reach of his chain, yet always,
with the natural instinctive coquetry of her sex, alluring him to the
pursuit which she knew to be vain. I never saw a prettier flirtation. At
last the noble animal, wearied out, retired to the inmost recesses of his
habitation, and would not even approach her when she stood right before
the entrance. 'You are properly served, May. Come along, Lizzy. Across
this wheatfield, and now over the gate. Stop! let me lift you down. No
jumping, no breaking of necks, Lizzy!' And here we are in the meadows, and
out of the world. Robinson Crusoe, in his lonely island, had scarcely a
more complete, or a more beautiful solitude.
These meadows consist of a double row of small enclosures of rich
grass-land, a mile or two in length, sloping down from high arable grounds
on either side, to a little nameless brook that winds between them with a
course which, in its infinite variety, clearness, and rapidity, seems to
emulate the bold rivers of the north, of whom, far more than of our lazy
southern streams, our rivulet presents a miniature likeness. Never was
water more exquisitely tricksy:—now darting over the bright pebbles,
sparkling and flashing in the light with a bubbling music, as sweet and
wild as the song of the woodlark; now stretching quietly along, giving
back the rich tufts of the golden marsh-marigolds which grow on its
margin; now sweeping round a fine reach of green grass, rising steeply
into a high mound, a mimic promontory, whilst the other side sinks softly
away, like some tiny bay, and the water flows between, so clear, so wide,
so shallow, that Lizzy, longing for adventure, is sure she could cross
unwetted; now dashing through two sand-banks, a torrent deep and narrow,
which May clears at a bound; now sleeping, half hidden, beneath the
alders, and hawthorns, and wild roses, with which the banks are so
profusely and variously fringed, whilst flags,* lilies, and other aquatic
plants, almost cover the surface of the stream. In good truth, it is a
beautiful brook, and one that Walton himself might have sitten by and
loved, for trout are there; we see them as they dart up the stream, and
hear and start at the sudden plunge when they spring to the surface for
the summer flies. Izaak Walton would have loved our brook and our quiet
meadows; they breathe the very spirit of his own peacefulness, a soothing
quietude that sinks into the soul. There is no path through them, not one;
we might wander a whole spring day, and not see a trace of human
habitation. They belong to a number of small proprietors, who allow each
other access through their respective grounds, from pure kindness and
neighbourly feeling; a privilege never abused: and the fields on the other
side of the water are reached by a rough plank, or a tree thrown across,
or some such homely bridge. We ourselves possess one of the most
beautiful; so that the strange pleasure of property, that instinct which
makes Lizzy delight in her broken doll, and May in the bare bone which she
has pilfered from the kennel of her recreant admirer of Newfoundland, is
added to the other charms of this enchanting scenery; a strange pleasure
it is, when one so poor as I can feel it! Perhaps it is felt most by the
poor, with the rich it may be less intense—too much diffused and
spread out, becoming thin by expansion, like leaf-gold; the little of the
poor may be not only more precious, but more pleasant to them: certain
that bit of grassy and blossomy earth, with its green knolls and tufted
bushes, its old pollards wreathed with ivy, and its bright and babbling
waters, is very dear to me. But I must always have loved these meadows, so
fresh, and cool, and delicious to the eye and to the tread, full of
cowslips, and of all vernal flowers: Shakspeare's 'Song of Spring' bursts
irrepressibly from our lips as we step on them.
*Walking along these meadows one bright sunny afternoon, a year or two
back, and rather later in the season, I had an opportunity of noticing a
curious circumstance in natural history. Standing close to the edge of the
stream, I remarked a singular appearance on a large tuft of flags. It
looked like bunches of flowers, the leaves of which seemed dark, yet
transparent, intermingled with brilliant tubes of bright blue or shining
green. On examining this phenomenon more closely, it turned out to be
several clusters of dragon-flies, just emerged from their deformed
chrysalis state, and still torpid and motionless from the wetness of their
filmy wings. Half an hour later we returned to the spot and they were
gone. We had seen them at the very moment when beauty was complete and
animation dormant. I have since found nearly a similar account of this
curious process in Mr. Bingley's very entertaining work, called 'Animal
Biography.'
'When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree—'
'Cuckoo! cuckoo!' cried Lizzy, breaking in with her clear childish voice;
and immediately, as if at her call, the real bird, from a neighbouring
tree (for these meadows are dotted with timber like a park), began to echo
my lovely little girl, 'cuckoo! cuckoo!' I have a prejudice very
unpastoral and unpoetical (but I cannot help it, I have many such) against
this 'harbinger of spring.' His note is so monotonous, so melancholy; and
then the boys mimic him; one hears 'cuckoo! cuckoo!' in dirty streets,
amongst smoky houses, and the bird is hated for faults not his own. But
prejudices of taste, likings and dislikings, are not always vanquishable
by reason; so, to escape the serenade from the tree, which promised to be
of considerable duration (when once that eternal song begins, on it goes
ticking like a clock)—to escape that noise I determined to excite
another, and challenged Lizzy to a cowslip-gathering; a trial of skill and
speed, to see which should soonest fill her basket. My stratagem succeeded
completely. What scrambling, what shouting, what glee from Lizzy! twenty
cuckoos might have sung unheard whilst she was pulling her own flowers,
and stealing mine, and laughing, screaming, and talking through all.
At last the baskets were filled, and Lizzy declared victor: and down we
sat, on the brink of the stream, under a spreading hawthorn, just
disclosing its own pearly buds, and surrounded with the rich and enamelled
flowers of the wild hyacinth, blue and white, to make our cowslip-ball.
Every one knows the process: to nip off the tuft of flowerets just below
the top of the stalk, and hang each cluster nicely balanced across a
riband, till you have a long string like a garland; then to press them
closely together, and tie them tightly up. We went on very prosperously,
CONSIDERING; as people say of a young lady's drawing, or a Frenchman's
English, or a woman's tragedy, or of the poor little dwarf who works
without fingers, or the ingenious sailor who writes with his toes, or
generally of any performance which is accomplished by means seemingly
inadequate to its production. To be sure we met with a few accidents.
First, Lizzy spoiled nearly all her cowslips by snapping them off too
short; so there was a fresh gathering; in the next place, May overset my
full basket, and sent the blossoms floating, like so many fairy favours,
down the brook; then, when we were going on pretty steadily, just as we
had made a superb wreath, and were thinking of tying it together, Lizzy,
who held the riband, caught a glimpse of a gorgeous butterfly, all brown
and red and purple, and, skipping off to pursue the new object, let go her
hold; so all our treasures were abroad again. At last, however, by dint of
taking a branch of alder as a substitute for Lizzy, and hanging the basket
in a pollard-ash, out of sight of May, the cowslip-ball was finished. What
a concentration of fragrance and beauty it was! golden and sweet to
satiety! rich to sight, and touch, and smell! Lizzy was enchanted, and ran
off with her prize, hiding amongst the trees in the very coyness of
ecstasy, as if any human eye, even mine, would be a restraint on her
innocent raptures.
In the meanwhile I sat listening, not to my enemy the cuckoo, but to a
whole concert of nightingales, scarcely interrupted by any meaner bird,
answering and vying with each other in those short delicious strains which
are to the ear as roses to the eye: those snatches of lovely sound which
come across us as airs from heaven. Pleasant thoughts, delightful
associations, awoke as I listened; and almost unconsciously I repeated to
myself the beautiful story of the Lutist and the Nightingale, from Ford's
'Lover's Melancholy.' Here it is. Is there in English poetry anything
finer?
'Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me
Desire of visiting Paradise.
To Thessaly I came, and living private,
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
I day by day frequented silent groves
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encounter'd me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art and nature ever were at strife in.
A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather
Indeed entranced my soul; as I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw
This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute
With strains of strange variety and harmony
Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds,
That as they flock'd about him, all stood silent,
Wondering at what they heard. I wonder'd too.
A nightingale,
Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes
The challenge; and for every several strain
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang him down.
He could not run divisions with more art
Upon his quaking instrument than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird,
Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice.
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.
The bird (ordain'd to be
Music's first martyr) strove to imitate
These several sounds; which when her warbling throat
Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute,
And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness
To see the conqueror upon her hearse
To weep a funeral elegy of tears.
He look'd upon the trophies of his art,
Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes; then sigh'd, and cry'd
『Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge
This cruelty upon the author of it.
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end:』 and in that sorrow,
As he was pashing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in.'
When I had finished the recitation of this exquisite passage, the sky,
which had been all the afternoon dull and heavy, began to look more and
more threatening; darker clouds, like wreaths of black smoke, flew across
the dead leaden tint; a cooler, damper air blew over the meadows, and a
few large heavy drops splashed in the water. 'We shall have a storm.
Lizzy! May! where are ye? Quick, quick, my Lizzy! run, run! faster,
faster!'
And off we ran; Lizzy not at all displeased at the thoughts of a wetting,
to which indeed she is almost as familiar as a duck; May, on the other
hand, peering up at the weather, and shaking her pretty ears with manifest
dismay. Of all animals, next to a cat, a greyhound dreads rain. She might
have escaped it; her light feet would have borne her home long before the
shower; but May is too faithful for that, too true a comrade, understands
too well the laws of good-fellowship; so she waited for us. She did, to be
sure, gallop on before, and then stop and look back, and beckon, as it
were, with some scorn in her black eyes at the slowness of our progress.
We in the meanwhile got on as fast as we could, encouraging and
reproaching each other. 'Faster, my Lizzy! Oh, what a bad runner!'—'Faster,
faster! Oh, what a bad runner!' echoed my saucebox. 'You are so fat,
Lizzy, you make no way!'—'Ah! who else is fat?' retorted the
darling. Certainly her mother is right; I do spoil that child.
By this time we were thoroughly soaked, all three. It was a pelting
shower, that drove through our thin summer clothing and poor May's short
glossy coat in a moment. And then, when we were wet to the skin, the sun
came out, actually the sun, as if to laugh at our plight; and then, more
provoking still, when the sun was shining, and the shower over, came a
maid and a boy to look after us, loaded with cloaks and umbrellas enough
to fence us against a whole day's rain. Never mind! on we go, faster and
faster; Lizzy obliged to be most ignobly carried, having had the
misfortune to lose a shoe in the mud, which we left the boy to look after.
Here we are at home—dripping; but glowing and laughing, and bearing
our calamity most manfully. May, a dog of excellent sense, went instantly
to bed in the stable, and is at this moment over head and ears in straw;
Lizzy is gone to bed too, coaxed into that wise measure by a promise of
tea and toast, and of not going home till to-morrow, and the story of
Little Red Riding Hood; and I am enjoying the luxury of dry clothing by a
good fire. Really getting wet through now and then is no bad thing, finery
apart; for one should not like spoiling a new pelisse, or a handsome
plume; but when there is nothing in question but a white gown and a straw
bonnet, as was the case to-day, it is rather pleasant than not. The little
chill refreshes, and our enjoyment of the subsequent warmth and dryness is
positive and absolute. Besides, the stimulus and exertion do good to the
mind as well as body. How melancholy I was all the morning! how cheerful I
am now! Nothing like a shower-bath—a real shower-bath, such as Lizzy
and May and I have undergone, to cure low spirits. Try it, my dear
readers, if ever ye be nervous—I will answer for its success.
THE OLD HOUSE AT ABERLEIGH.
June 25th.—What a glowing glorious day! Summer in its richest prime,
noon in its most sparkling brightness, little white clouds dappling the
deep blue sky, and the sun, now partially veiled, and now bursting through
them with an intensity of light! It would not do to walk to-day,
professedly to walk,—we should be frightened at the very sound! and
yet it is probable that we may be beguiled into a pretty long stroll
before we return home. We are going to drive to the old house at
Aberleigh, to spend the morning under the shade of those balmy firs, and
amongst those luxuriant rose trees, and by the side of that brimming
Loddon river. 'Do not expect us before six o'clock,' said I, as I left the
house; 'Six at soonest!' added my charming companion; and off we drove in
our little pony chaise, drawn by our old mare, and with the good humoured
urchin, Henry's successor, a sort of younger Scrub, who takes care of
horse and chaise, and cow and garden, for our charioteer.
My comrade in this homely equipage was a young lady of high family and
higher endowments, to whom the novelty of the thing, and her own
naturalness of character and simplicity of taste, gave an unspeakable
enjoyment. She danced the little chaise up and down as she got into it,
and laughed for very glee like a child, Lizzy herself could not have been
more delighted. She praised the horse and the driver, and the roads and
the scenery, and gave herself fully up to the enchantment of a rural
excursion in the sweetest weather of this sweet season. I enjoyed all this
too; for the road was pleasant to every sense, winding through narrow
lanes, under high elms, and between hedges garlanded with woodbine and
rose trees, whilst the air was scented with the delicious fragrance of
blossomed beans. I enjoyed it all,—but, I believe, my principal
pleasure was derived from my companion herself.
Emily I. is a person whom it is a privilege to know. She is quite like a
creation of the older poets, and might pass for one of Shakspeare's or
Fletcher's women stepped into life; just as tender, as playful, as gentle,
and as kind. She is clever too, and has all the knowledge and
accomplishments that a carefully-conducted education, acting on a mind of
singular clearness and ductility, matured and improved by the very best
company, can bestow. But one never thinks of her acquirements. It is the
charming artless character, the bewitching sweetness of manner, the real
and universal sympathy, the quick taste and the ardent feeling, that one
loves in Emily. She is Irish by birth, and has in perfection the melting
voice and soft caressing accent by which her fair countrywomen are
distinguished. Moreover she is pretty—I think her beautiful, and so
do all who have heard as well as seen her,—but pretty, very pretty,
all the world must confess; and perhaps that is a distinction more
enviable, because less envied, than the 'palmy state' of beauty. Her
prettiness is of the prettiest kind—that of which the chief
character is youthfulness. A short but pleasing figure, all grace and
symmetry, a fair blooming face, beaming with intelligence and good-humour;
the prettiest little feet and the whitest hands in the world;—such
is Emily I.
She resides with her maternal grandmother, a venerable old lady, slightly
shaken with the palsy; and when together (and they are so fondly attached
to each other that they are seldom parted), it is one of the loveliest
combinations of youth and age ever witnessed. There is no seeing them
without feeling an increase of respect and affection for both grandmother
and granddaughter—always one of the tenderest and most beautiful of
natural connections—as Richardson knew when he made such exquisite
use of it in his matchless book. I fancy that grandmamma Shirley must have
been just such another venerable lady as Mrs. S., and our sweet Emily—Oh
no! Harriet Byron is not half good enough for her! There is nothing like
her in the whole seven volumes.
But here we are at the bridge! Here we must alight! 'This is the Loddon,
Emily. Is it not a beautiful river? rising level with its banks, so clear,
and smooth, and peaceful, giving back the verdant landscape and the bright
blue sky, and bearing on its pellucid stream the snowy water-lily, the
purest of flowers, which sits enthroned on its own cool leaves, looking
chastity itself, like the lady in Comus. That queenly flower becomes the
water, and so do the stately swans who are sailing so majestically down
the stream, like those who
"'On St. Mary's lake
Float double, swan and shadow."
We must dismount here, and leave Richard to take care of our equipage
under the shade of these trees, whilst we walk up to the house:—See,
there it is! We must cross this stile; there is no other way now.'
And crossing the stile we were immediately in what had been a drive round
a spacious park, and still retained something of the character, though the
park itself had long been broken into arable fields,—and in full
view of the Great House, a beautiful structure of James the First's time,
whose glassless windows and dilapidated doors form a melancholy contrast
with the strength and entireness of the rich and massive front.
The story of that ruin—for such it is—is always to me
singularly affecting. It is that of the decay of an ancient and
distinguished family, gradually reduced from the highest wealth and
station to actual poverty. The house and park, and a small estate around
it, were entailed on a distant cousin, and could not be alienated; and the
late owner, the last of his name and lineage, after long struggling with
debt and difficulty, farming his own lands, and clinging to his
magnificent home with a love of place almost as tenacious as that of the
younger Foscari, was at last forced to abandon it, retired to a paltry
lodging in a paltry town, and died there about twenty years ago,
broken-hearted. His successor, bound by no ties of association to the
spot, and rightly judging the residence to be much too large for the
diminished estate, immediately sold the superb fixtures, and would have
entirely taken down the house, if, on making the attempt, the masonry had
not been found so solid that the materials were not worth the labour. A
great part, however, of one side is laid open, and the splendid chambers,
with their carving and gilding, are exposed to the wind and rain—sad
memorials of past grandeur! The grounds have been left in a merciful
neglect; the park, indeed, is broken up, the lawn mown twice a year like a
common hayfield, the grotto mouldering into ruin, and the fishponds choked
with rushes and aquatic plants; but the shrubs and flowering trees are
undestroyed, and have grown into a magnificence of size and wildness of
beauty, such as we may imagine them to attain in their native forests.
Nothing can exceed their luxuriance, especially in the spring, when the
lilac, and laburnum, and double-cherry put forth their gorgeous blossoms.
There is a sweet sadness in the sight of such floweriness amidst such
desolation; it seems the triumph of nature over the destructive power of
man. The whole place, in that season more particularly, is full of a soft
and soothing melancholy, reminding me, I scarcely know why, of some of the
descriptions of natural scenery in the novels of Charlotte Smith, which I
read when a girl, and which, perhaps, for that reason hang on my memory.
But here we are, in the smooth grassy ride, on the top of a steep turfy
slope descending to the river, crowned with enormous firs and limes of
equal growth, looking across the winding waters into a sweet peaceful
landscape of quiet meadows, shut in by distant woods. What a fragrance is
in the air from the balmy fir trees and the blossomed limes! What an
intensity of odour! And what a murmur of bees in the lime trees! What a
coil those little winged people make over our heads! And what a pleasant
sound it is! the pleasantest of busy sounds, that which comes associated
with all that is good and beautiful—industry and forecast, and
sunshine and flowers. Surely these lime trees might store a hundred hives;
the very odour is of a honeyed richness, cloying, satiating.
Emily exclaimed in admiration as we stood under the deep, strong, leafy
shadow, and still more when honeysuckles trailed their untrimmed profusion
in our path, and roses, really trees, almost intercepted our passage.
'On, Emily! farther yet! Force your way by that jessamine—it will
yield; I will take care of this stubborn white rose bough.'—'Take
care of yourself! Pray take care,' said my fairest friend; 'let me hold
back the branches.'—After we had won our way through the strait, at
some expense of veils and flounces, she stopped to contemplate and admire
the tall, graceful shrub, whose long thorny stems, spreading in every
direction, had opposed our progress, and now waved their delicate clusters
over our heads. 'Did I ever think,' exclaimed she, 'of standing under the
shadow of a white rose tree! What an exquisite fragrance! And what a
beautiful flower! so pale, and white, and tender, and the petals thin and
smooth as silk! What rose is it?'—'Don't you know? Did you never see
it before? It is rare now, I believe, and seems rarer than it is, because
it only blossoms in very hot summers; but this, Emily, is the musk rose,—that
very musk rose of which Titania talks, and which is worthy of Shakspeare
and of her. Is it not?—No! do not smell to it; it is less sweet so
than other roses; but one cluster in a vase, or even that bunch in your
bosom, will perfume a large room, as it does the summer air.'—'Oh!
we will take twenty clusters,' said Emily. 'I wish grandmamma were here!
She talks so often of a musk rose tree that grew against one end of her
father's house. I wish she were here to see this!'
Echoing her wish, and well laden with musk roses, planted perhaps in the
days of Shakspeare, we reached the steps that led to a square summer-house
or banqueting-room, overhanging the river: the under part was a
boat-house, whose projecting roof, as well as the walls and the very top
of the little tower, was covered with ivy and woodbine, and surmounted by
tufted barberries, bird cherries, acacias, covered with their snowy
chains, and other pendent and flowering trees. Beyond rose two poplars of
unrivalled magnitude, towering like stately columns over the dark tall
firs, and giving a sort of pillared and architectural grandeur to the
scene.
We were now close to the mansion; but it looked sad and desolate, and the
entrance, choked with brambles and nettles, seemed almost to repel our
steps. The summer-house, the beautiful summer-house, was free and open,
and inviting, commanding from the unglazed windows, which hung high above
the water, a reach of the river terminated by a rustic mill.
There we sat, emptying our little basket of fruit and country cakes, till
Emily was seized with a desire of viewing, from the other side of the
Loddon, the scenery which had so much enchanted her. 'I must,' said she,
'take a sketch of the ivied boat-house, and of this sweet room, and this
pleasant window;—grandmamma would never be able to walk from the
road to see the place itself, but she must see its likeness.' So forth we
sallied, not forgetting the dear musk roses.
We had no way of reaching the desired spot but by retracing our steps a
mile, during the heat of the hottest hour of the day, and then following
the course of the river to an equal distance on the other side; nor had we
any materials for sketching, except the rumpled paper which had contained
our repast, and a pencil without a point which I happened to have about
me. But these small difficulties are pleasures to gay and happy youth.
Regardless of such obstacles, the sweet Emily bounded on like a fawn, and
I followed delighting in her delight. The sun went in, and the walk was
delicious; a reviving coolness seemed to breathe over the water, wafting
the balmy scent of the firs and limes; we found a point of view presenting
the boat-house, the water, the poplars, and the mill, in a most felicitous
combination; the little straw fruit basket made a capital table; and
refreshed and sharpened and pointed by our trusty lacquey's excellent
knife (your country boy is never without a good knife, it is his prime
treasure), the pencil did double duty;—first in the skilful hands of
Emily, whose faithful and spirited sketch does equal honour to the scene
and to the artist, and then in the humbler office of attempting a faint
transcript of my own impressions in the following sonnet:—
It was an hour of calmest noon, at day
Of ripest summer: o'er the deep blue sky
White speckled clouds came sailing peacefully,
Half-shrouding in a chequer'd veil the ray
Of the sun, too ardent else,—what time we lay
By the smooth Loddon, opposite the high
Steep bank, which as a coronet gloriously
Wore its rich crest of firs and lime trees, gay
With their pale tassels; while from out a bower
Of ivy (where those column'd poplars rear
Their heads) the ruin'd boat-house, like a tower,
Flung its deep shadow on the waters clear.
My Emily! forget not that calm hour,
Nor that fair scene, by thee made doubly dear!
THE HARD SUMMER.
August 15th.—Cold, cloudy, windy, wet. Here we are, in the midst of
the dog-days, clustering merrily round the warm hearth like so many
crickets, instead of chirruping in the green fields like that other merry
insect the grasshopper; shivering under the influence of the Jupiter
Pluvius of England, the watery St. Swithin; peering at that scarce
personage the sun, when he happens to make his appearance, as intently as
astronomers look after a comet, or the common people stare at a balloon;
exclaiming against the cold weather, just as we used to exclaim against
the warm. 'What a change from last year!' is the first sentence you hear,
go where you may. Everybody remarks it, and everybody complains of it; and
yet in my mind it has its advantages, or at least its compensations, as
everything in nature has, if we would only take the trouble to seek for
them.
Last year, in spite of the love which we are now pleased to profess
towards that ardent luminary, not one of the sun's numerous admirers had
courage to look him in the face: there was no bearing the world till he
had said 'Good-night' to it. Then we might stir: then we began to wake and
to live. All day long we languished under his influence in a strange
dreaminess, too hot to work, too hot to read, too hot to write, too hot
even to talk; sitting hour after hour in a green arbour, embowered in
leafiness, letting thought and fancy float as they would. Those day-dreams
were pretty things in their way; there is no denying that. But then, if
one half of the world were to dream through a whole summer, like the
sleeping Beauty in the wood, what would become of the other?
The only office requiring the slightest exertion, which I performed in
that warm weather, was watering my flowers. Common sympathy called for
that labour. The poor things withered, and faded, and pined away; they
almost, so to say, panted for draught. Moreover, if I had not watered them
myself, I suspect that no one else would; for water last year was nearly
as precious hereabout as wine. Our land-springs were dried up; our wells
were exhausted; our deep ponds were dwindling into mud; and geese, and
ducks, and pigs, and laundresses, used to look with a jealous and
suspicious eye on the few and scanty half-buckets of that impure element,
which my trusty lacquey was fain to filch for my poor geraniums and
campanulas and tuberoses. We were forced to smuggle them in through my
faithful adherent's territories, the stable, to avoid lectures within
doors and at last even that resource failed; my garden, my blooming
garden, the joy of my eyes, was forced to go waterless like its
neighbours, and became shrivelled, scorched, and sunburnt, like them. It
really went to my heart to look at it.
On the other side of the house matters were still worse. What a dusty
world it was, when about sunset we became cool enough to creep into it!
Flowers in the court looking fit for a 'hortus siccus;' mummies of plants,
dried as in an oven; hollyhocks, once pink, turned into Quakers; cloves
smelling of dust. Oh, dusty world! May herself looked of that complexion;
so did Lizzy; so did all the houses, windows, chickens, children, trees,
and pigs in the village; so above all did the shoes. No foot could make
three plunges into that abyss of pulverised gravel, which had the
impudence to call itself a hard road, without being clothed with a coat a
quarter of an inch thick. Woe to white gowns! woe to black! Drab was your
only wear.
Then, when we were out of the street, what a toil it was to mount the
hill, climbing with weary steps and slow upon the brown turf by the
wayside, slippery, hot, and hard as a rock! And then if we happened to
meet a carriage coming along the middle of the road,—the bottomless
middle,—what a sandy whirlwind it was! What choking! what
suffocation! No state could be more pitiable, except indeed that of the
travellers who carried this misery about with them. I shall never forget
the plight in which we met the coach one evening in last August, full an
hour after its time, steeds and driver, carriage and passengers, all one
dust. The outsides, and the horses, and the coachman, seemed reduced to a
torpid quietness, the resignation of despair. They had left off trying to
better their condition, and taken refuge in a wise and patient
hopelessness, bent to endure in silence the extremity of ill. The six
insides, on the contrary, were still fighting against their fate, vainly
struggling to ameliorate their hapless destiny. They were visibly
grumbling at the weather, scolding at the dust, and heating themselves
like a furnace, by striving against the heat. How well I remember the fat
gentleman without his coat, who was wiping his forehead, heaving up his
wig, and certainly uttering that English ejaculation, which, to our
national reproach, is the phrase of our language best known on the
continent. And that poor boy, red-hot, all in a flame, whose mamma, having
divested her own person of all superfluous apparel, was trying to relieve
his sufferings by the removal of his neckerchief—an operation which
he resisted with all his might. How perfectly I remember him, as well as
the pale girl who sat opposite, fanning herself with her bonnet into an
absolute fever! They vanished after a while into their own dust; but I
have them all before my eyes at this moment, a companion picture to
Hogarth's 'Afternoon,' a standing lesson to the grumblers at cold summers.
For my part, I really like this wet season. It keeps us within, to be
sure, rather more than is quite agreeable; but then we are at least awake
and alive there, and the world out of doors is so much the pleasanter when
we can get abroad. Everything does well, except those fastidious bipeds,
men and women; corn ripens, grass grows, fruit is plentiful; there is no
lack of birds to eat it, and there has not been such a wasp-season these
dozen years. My garden wants no watering, and is more beautiful than ever,
beating my old rival in that primitive art, the pretty wife of the little
mason, out and out. Measured with mine, her flowers are naught. Look at
those hollyhocks, like pyramids of roses; those garlands of the
convolvulus major of all colours, hanging around that tall pole, like the
wreathy hop-bine; those magnificent dusky cloves, breathing of the Spice
Islands; those flaunting double dahlias; those splendid scarlet geraniums,
and those fierce and warlike flowers the tiger-lilies. Oh, how beautiful
they are! Besides, the weather clears sometimes—it has cleared this
evening; and here are we, after a merry walk up the hill, almost as quick
as in the winter, bounding lightly along the bright green turf of the
pleasant common, enticed by the gay shouts of a dozen clear young voices,
to linger awhile, and see the boys play at cricket.
I plead guilty to a strong partiality towards that unpopular class of
beings, country boys: I have a large acquaintance amongst them, and I can
almost say, that I know good of many and harm of none. In general they are
an open, spirited, good-humoured race, with a proneness to embrace the
pleasures and eschew the evils of their condition, a capacity for
happiness, quite unmatched in man, or woman, or a girl. They are patient,
too, and bear their fate as scape-goats (for all sins whatsoever are laid
as matters of course to their door), whether at home or abroad, with
amazing resignation and, considering the many lies of which they are the
objects, they tell wonderfully few in return. The worst that can be said
of them is, that they seldom, when grown to man's estate, keep the promise
of their boyhood; but that is a fault to come—a fault that may not
come, and ought not to be anticipated. It is astonishing how sensible they
are to notice from their betters, or those whom they think such. I do not
speak of money, or gifts, or praise, or the more coarse and common
briberies—they are more delicate courtiers; a word, a nod, a smile,
or the mere calling of them by their names, is enough to ensure their
hearts and their services. Half a dozen of them, poor urchins, have run
away now to bring us chairs from their several homes. 'Thank you, Joe
Kirby!—you are always first—yes, that is just the place—I
shall see everything there. Have you been in yet, Joe?'—'No, ma'am!
I go in next.'—'Ah, I am glad of that—and now's the time.
Really that was a pretty ball of Jem Eusden's!—I was sure it would
go to the wicket. Run, Joe! They are waiting for you.' There was small
need to bid Joe Kirby make haste; I think he is, next to a race-horse, or
a greyhound, or a deer, the fastest creature that runs—the most
completely alert and active. Joe is mine especial friend, and leader of
the 'tender juveniles,' as Joel Brent is of the adults. In both instances
this post of honour was gained by merit, even more remarkably so in Joe's
case than in Joel's; for Joe is a less boy than many of his companions
(some of whom are fifteeners and sixteeners, quite as tall and nearly as
old as Tom Coper), and a poorer than all, as may be conjectured from the
lamentable state of that patched round frock, and the ragged condition of
those unpatched shoes, which would encumber, if anything could, the light
feet that wear them. But why should I lament the poverty that never
troubles him? Joe is the merriest and happiest creature that ever lived
twelve years in this wicked world. Care cannot come near him. He hath a
perpetual smile on his round ruddy face, and a laugh in his hazel eye,
that drives the witch away. He works at yonder farm on the top of the
hill, where he is in such repute for intelligence and good-humour, that he
has the honour of performing all the errands of the house, of helping the
maid, the mistress, and the master, in addition to his own stated office
of carter's boy. There he works hard from five till seven, and then he
comes here to work still harder, under the name of play—batting,
bowling, and fielding, as if for life, filling the place of four boys;
being, at a pinch, a whole eleven. The late Mr. Knyvett, the king's
organist, who used in his own person to sing twenty parts at once of the
Hallelujah Chorus, so that you would have thought he had a nest of
nightingales in his throat, was but a type of Joe Kirby. There is a sort
of ubiquity about him; he thinks nothing of being in two places at once,
and for pitching a ball, William Grey himself is nothing to him. It goes
straight to the mark like a bullet. He is king of the cricketers from
eight to sixteen, both inclusive, and an excellent ruler he makes.
Nevertheless, in the best-ordered states there will be grumblers, and we
have an opposition here in the shape of Jem Eusden.
Jem Eusden is a stunted lad of thirteen, or thereabout, lean, small, and
short, yet strong and active. His face is of an extraordinary ugliness,
colourless, withered, haggard, with a look of extreme age, much increased
by hair so light that it might rather pass for white than flaxen. He is
constantly arrayed in the blue cap and old-fashioned coat, the costume of
an endowed school to which he belongs; where he sits still all day, and
rushes into the field at night, fresh, untired, and ripe for action, to
scold and brawl, and storm, and bluster. He hates Joe Kirby, whose
immovable good-humour, broad smiles, and knowing nods, must certainly be
very provoking to so fierce and turbulent a spirit; and he has himself
(being, except by rare accident, no great player) the preposterous
ambition of wishing to be manager of the sports. In short, he is a
demagogue in embryo, with every quality necessary to a splendid success in
that vocation,—a strong voice, a fluent utterance, an incessant
iteration, and a frontless impudence. He is a great 'scholar' too, to use
the country phrase; his 'piece,' as our village schoolmaster terms a fine
sheet of flourishing writing, something between a valentine and a sampler,
enclosed within a border of little coloured prints—his last, I
remember, was encircled by an engraved history of Moses, beginning at the
finding in the bulrushes, with Pharaoh's daughter dressed in a
rose-coloured gown and blue feathers—his piece is not only the
admiration of the school, but of the parish, and is sent triumphantly
round from house to house at Christmas, to extort halfpence and sixpences
from all encouragers of learning—Montem in miniature. The Mosaic
history was so successful, that the produce enabled Jem to purchase a bat
and ball, which, besides adding to his natural arrogance (for the little
pedant actually began to mutter against being eclipsed by a dunce, and
went so far as to challenge Joe Kirby to a trial in Practice, or the Rule
of Three), gave him, when compared with the general poverty, a most
unnatural preponderance in the cricket state. He had the ways and means in
his hands (for alas! the hard winter had made sad havoc among the bats,
and the best ball was a bad one)—he had the ways and means, could
withhold the supplies, and his party was beginning to wax strong, when Joe
received a present of two bats and a ball for the youngsters in general
and himself in particular—and Jem's adherents left him on the spot—they
ratted, to a man, that very evening. Notwithstanding this desertion, their
forsaken leader has in nothing relaxed from his pretensions, or his
ill-humour. He stills quarrels and brawls as if he had a faction to back
him, and thinks nothing of contending with both sides, the ins and the
outs, secure of out-talking the whole field. He has been squabbling these
ten minutes, and is just marching off now with his own bat (he has never
deigned to use one of Joe's) in his hand. What an ill-conditioned
hobgoblin it is! And yet there is something bold and sturdy about him too.
I should miss Jem Eusden.
Ah, there is another deserter from the party! my friend the little hussar—I
do not know his name, and call him after his cap and jacket. He is a very
remarkable person, about the age of eight years, the youngest piece of
gravity and dignity I ever encountered; short, and square, and upright,
and slow, with a fine bronzed flat visage, resembling those convertible
signs the Broad-Face and the Saracen's-Head, which, happening to be
next-door neighbours in the town of B., I never knew apart, resembling,
indeed, any face that is open-eyed and immovable, the very sign of a boy!
He stalks about with his hands in his breeches pockets, like a piece of
machinery; sits leisurely down when he ought to field, and never gets
farther in batting than to stop the ball. His is the only voice never
heard in the melee: I doubt, indeed, if he have one, which may be partly
the reason of a circumstance that I record to his honour, his fidelity to
Jem Eusden, to whom he has adhered through every change of fortune, with a
tenacity proceeding perhaps from an instinctive consciousness that the
loquacious leader talks enough for two. He is the only thing resembling a
follower that our demagogue possesses, and is cherished by him
accordingly. Jem quarrels for him, scolds for him, pushes for him; and but
for Joe Kirby's invincible good-humour, and a just discrimination of the
innocent from the guilty, the activity of Jem's friendship would get the
poor hussar ten drubbings a day.
But it is growing late. The sun has set a long time. Only see what a
gorgeous colouring has spread itself over those parting masses of clouds
in the west,—what a train of rosy light! We shall have a fine
sunshiny day to-morrow,—a blessing not to be undervalued, in spite
of my late vituperation of heat. Shall we go home now? And shall we take
the longest but prettiest road, that by the green lanes? This way, to the
left, round the corner of the common, past Mr. Welles's cottage, and our
path lies straight before us. How snug and comfortable that cottage looks!
Its little yard all alive with the cow, and the mare, and the colt almost
as large as the mare, and the young foal, and the great yard-dog, all so
fat! Fenced in with hay-rick, and wheat-rick, and bean-stack, and backed
by the long garden, the spacious drying-ground, the fine orchard, and that
large field quartered into four different crops. How comfortable this
cottage looks, and how well the owners earn their comforts! They are the
most prosperous pair in the parish—she a laundress with twenty times
more work than she can do, unrivalled in flounces and shirt-frills, and
such delicacies of the craft; he, partly a farmer, partly a farmer's man,
tilling his own ground, and then tilling other people's;—affording a
proof, even in this declining age, when the circumstances of so many
worthy members of the community seem to have 'an alacrity in sinking,'
that it is possible to amend them by sheer industry. He, who was born in
the workhouse, and bred up as a parish boy, has now, by mere manual
labour, risen to the rank of a land-owner, pays rates and taxes, grumbles
at the times, and is called Master Welles,—the title next to Mister—that
by which Shakspeare was called;—what would man have more? His wife,
besides being the best laundress in the county, is a comely woman still.
There she stands at the spring, dipping up water for to-morrow,—the
clear, deep, silent spring, which sleeps so peacefully under its high
flowery bank, red with the tall spiral stalks of the foxglove and their
rich pendent bells, blue with the beautiful forget-me-not, that gem-like
blossom, which looks like a living jewel of turquoise and topaz. It is
almost too late to see its beauty; and here is the pleasant shady lane,
where the high elms will shut out the little twilight that remains. Ah,
but we shall have the fairies' lamps to guide us, the stars of the earth,
the glow-worms! Here they are, three almost together. Do you not see them?
One seems tremulous, vibrating, as if on the extremity of a leaf of grass;
the others are deeper in the hedge, in some green cell on which their
light falls with an emerald lustre. I hope my friends the cricketers will
not come this way home. I would not have the pretty creatures removed for
more than I care to say, and in this matter I would hardly trust Joe Kirby—boys
so love to stick them in their hats. But this lane is quite deserted. It
is only a road from field to field. No one comes here at this hour. They
are quite safe; and I shall walk here to-morrow and visit them again. And
now, goodnight! beautiful insects, lamps of the fairies, good-night!
THE SHAW.
September 9th.—A bright sunshiny afternoon. What a comfort it is to
get out again—to see once more that rarity of rarities, a fine day!
We English people are accused of talking overmuch of the weather; but the
weather, this summer, has forced people to talk of it. Summer! did I say?
Oh! season most unworthy of that sweet, sunny name! Season of coldness and
cloudiness, of gloom and rain! A worse November!—for in November the
days are short; and shut up in a warm room, lighted by that household sun,
a lamp, one feels through the long evenings comfortably independent of the
out-of-door tempests. But though we may have, and did have, fires all
through the dog-days, there is no shutting out daylight; and sixteen hours
of rain, pattering against the windows and dripping from the eaves—sixteen
hours of rain, not merely audible, but visible for seven days in the week—would
be enough to exhaust the patience of Job or Grizzel; especially if Job
were a farmer, and Grizzel a country gentlewoman. Never was known such a
season! Hay swimming, cattle drowning, fruit rotting, corn spoiling! and
that naughty river, the Loddon, who never can take Puff's advice, and
'keep between its banks,' running about the country, fields, roads,
gardens, and houses, like mad! The weather would be talked of. Indeed, it
was not easy to talk of anything else. A friend of mine having occasion to
write me a letter, thought it worth abusing in rhyme, and bepommelled it
through three pages of Bath-guide verse; of which I subjoin a specimen:—
'Aquarius surely REIGNS over the world,
And of late he his water-pot strangely has twirl'd;
Or he's taken a cullender up by mistake,
And unceasingly dips it in some mighty lake;
Though it is not in Lethe—for who can forget
The annoyance of getting most thoroughly wet?
It must be in the river called Styx, I declare,
For the moment it drizzles it makes the men swear.
"It did rain to-morrow," is growing good grammar;
Vauxhall and camp-stools have been brought to the hammer;
A pony-gondola is all I can keep,
And I use my umbrella and pattens in sleep:
Row out of my window, whene'er 'tis my whim
To visit a friend, and just ask, "Can you swim?"'
So far my friend. * In short, whether in prose or in verse, everybody
railed at the weather. But this is over now. The sun has come to dry the
world; mud is turned into dust; rivers have retreated to their proper
limits; farmers have left off grumbling; and we are about to take a walk,
as usual, as far as the Shaw, a pretty wood about a mile off. But one of
our companions being a stranger to the gentle reader, we must do him the
honour of an introduction.
*This friend of mine is a person of great quickness and
talent, who, if she were not a beauty and a woman of
fortune—that is to say, if she were prompted by either of
those two powerful stimuli, want of money or want of
admiration, to take due pains—would inevitably become a
clever writer. As it is, her notes and 'jeux d'esprit'
struck off 'a trait de plume,' have great point and
neatness. Take the following billet, which formed the label
to a closed basket, containing the ponderous present alluded
to, last Michaelmas day:—
'To Miss M.
"When this you see
Remember me,"
Was long a phrase in use;
And so I send
To you, dear friend,
My proxy, "What?"—A goose!'
Dogs, when they are sure of having their own way, have sometimes ways as
odd as those of the unfurred, unfeathered animals, who walk on two legs,
and talk, and are called rational. My beautiful white greyhound,
Mayflower,* for instance, is as whimsical as the finest lady in the land.
Amongst her other fancies, she has taken a violent affection for a most
hideous stray dog, who made his appearance here about six months ago, and
contrived to pick up a living in the village, one can hardly tell how. Now
appealing to the charity of old Rachael Strong, the laundress—a
dog-lover by profession; now winning a meal from the lightfooted and
open-hearted lasses at the Rose; now standing on his hind-legs, to extort
by sheer beggary a scanty morsel from some pair of 'drouthy cronies,' or
solitary drover, discussing his dinner or supper on the alehouse-bench;
now catching a mouthful, flung to him in pure contempt by some scornful
gentleman of the shoulder-knot, mounted on his throne, the coach-box,
whose notice he had attracted by dint of ugliness; now sharing the commons
of Master Keep the shoemaker's pigs; now succeeding to the reversion of
the well-gnawed bone of Master Brown the shopkeeper's fierce house-dog;
now filching the skim-milk of Dame Wheeler's cat:—spit at by the
cat; worried by the mastiff; chased by the pigs; screamed at by the dame;
stormed at by the shoemaker; flogged by the shopkeeper; teased by all the
children, and scouted by all the animals of the parish;—but yet
living through his griefs, and bearing them patiently, 'for sufferance is
the badge of all his tribe;'—and even seeming to find, in an
occasional full meal, or a gleam of sunshine, or a wisp of dry straw on
which to repose his sorry carcase, some comfort in his disconsolate
condition.
*Dead, alas, since this was written.
In this plight was he found by May, the most high-blooded and aristocratic
of greyhounds; and from this plight did May rescue him;—invited him
into her territory, the stable; resisted all attempts to turn him out;
reinstated him there, in spite of maid and boy, and mistress and master;
wore out everybody's opposition, by the activity of her protection, and
the pertinacity of her self-will; made him sharer of her bed and of her
mess; and, finally, established him as one of the family as firmly as
herself.
Dash—for he has even won himself a name amongst us, before he was
anonymous—Dash is a sort of a kind of a spaniel; at least there is
in his mongrel composition some sign of that beautiful race. Besides his
ugliness, which is of the worst sort—that is to say, the shabbiest—he
has a limp on one leg that gives a peculiar one-sided awkwardness to his
gait; but independently of his great merit in being May's pet, he has
other merits which serve to account for that phenomenon—being,
beyond all comparison, the most faithful, attached, and affectionate
animal that I have ever known; and that is saying much. He seems to think
it necessary to atone for his ugliness by extra good conduct, and does so
dance on his lame leg, and so wag his scrubby tail, that it does any one
who has a taste for happiness good to look at him—so that he may now
be said to stand on his own footing. We are all rather ashamed of him when
strangers come in the way, and think it necessary to explain that he is
May's pet; but amongst ourselves, and those who are used to his
appearance, he has reached the point of favouritism in his own person. I
have, in common with wiser women, the feminine weakness of loving whatever
loves me—and, therefore, I like Dash. His master has found out that
he is a capital finder, and in spite of his lameness will hunt a field or
beat a cover with any spaniel in England—and, therefore, HE likes
Dash. The boy has fought a battle, in defence of his beauty, with another
boy, bigger than himself, and beat his opponent most handsomely—and,
therefore, HE likes Dash; and the maids like him, or pretend to like him,
because we do—as is the fashion of that pliant and imitative class.
And now Dash and May follow us everywhere, and are going with us to the
Shaw, as I said before—or rather to the cottage by the Shaw, to
bespeak milk and butter of our little dairy-woman, Hannah Bint—a
housewifely occupation, to which we owe some of our pleasantest rambles.
And now we pass the sunny, dusty village street—who would have
thought, a month ago, that we should complain of sun and dust again!—and
turn the corner where the two great oaks hang so beautifully over the
clear deep pond, mixing their cool green shadows with the bright blue sky,
and the white clouds that flit over it; and loiter at the wheeler's shop,
always picturesque, with its tools, and its work, and its materials, all
so various in form, and so harmonious in colour; and its noise, merry
workmen, hammering and singing, and making a various harmony also. The
shop is rather empty to-day, for its usual inmates are busy on the green
beyond the pond—one set building a cart, another painting a waggon.
And then we leave the village quite behind, and proceed slowly up the
cool, quiet lane, between tall hedgerows of the darkest verdure,
overshadowing banks green and fresh as an emerald.
Not so quick as I expected, though—for they are shooting here
to-day, as Dash and I have both discovered: he with great delight, for a
gun to him is as a trumpet to a war-horse; I with no less annoyance, for I
don't think that a partridge itself, barring the accident of being killed,
can be more startled than I at that abominable explosion. Dash has
certainly better blood in his veins than any one would guess to look at
him. He even shows some inclination to elope into the fields, in pursuit
of those noisy iniquities. But he is an orderly person after all, and a
word has checked him.
Ah! here is a shriller din mingling with the small artillery—a
shriller and more continuous. We are not yet arrived within sight of
Master Weston's cottage, snugly hidden behind a clump of elms; but we are
in full hearing of Dame Weston's tongue, raised as usual to scolding
pitch. The Westons are new arrivals in our neighbourhood, and the first
thing heard of them was a complaint from the wife to our magistrate of her
husband's beating her: it was a regular charge of assault—an
information in full form. A most piteous case did Dame Weston make of it,
softening her voice for the nonce into a shrill tremulous whine, and
exciting the mingled pity and anger—pity towards herself, anger
towards her husband—of the whole female world, pitiful and indignant
as the female world is wont to be on such occasions. Every woman in the
parish railed at Master Weston; and poor Master Weston was summoned to
attend the bench on the ensuing Saturday, and answer the charge; and such
was the clamour abroad and at home, that the unlucky culprit, terrified at
the sound of a warrant and a constable, ran away, and was not heard of for
a fortnight.
At the end of that time he was discovered, and brought to the bench; and
Dame Weston again told her story, and, as before, on the full cry. She had
no witnesses, and the bruises of which she made complaint had disappeared,
and there were no women present to make common cause with the sex. Still,
however, the general feeling was against Master Weston; and it would have
gone hard with him when he was called in, if a most unexpected witness had
not risen up in his favour. His wife had brought in her arms a little girl
about eighteen months old, partly perhaps to move compassion in her
favour; for a woman with a child in her arms is always an object that
excites kind feelings. The little girl had looked shy and frightened, and
had been as quiet as a lamb during her mother's examination; but she no
sooner saw her father, from whom she had been a fortnight separated, than
she clapped her hands, and laughed, and cried, 'Daddy! daddy!' and sprang
into his arms, and hung round his neck, and covered him with kisses—again
shouting, 'Daddy, come home! daddy! daddy!'—and finally nestled her
little head in his bosom, with a fulness of contentment, an assurance of
tenderness and protection such as no wife-beating tyrant ever did inspire,
or ever could inspire, since the days of King Solomon. Our magistrates
acted in the very spirit of the Jewish monarch: they accepted the evidence
of nature, and dismissed the complaint. And subsequent events have fully
justified their decision; Mistress Weston proving not only renowned for
the feminine accomplishment of scolding (tongue-banging, it is called in
our parts, a compound word which deserves to be Greek), but is actually
herself addicted to administering the conjugal discipline, the infliction
of which she was pleased to impute to her luckless husband.
Now we cross the stile, and walk up the fields to the Shaw. How
beautifully green this pasture looks! and how finely the evening sun
glances between the boles of that clump of trees, beech, and ash, and
aspen! and how sweet the hedgerows are with woodbine and wild scabious,
or, as the country people call it, the gipsy-rose! Here is little Dolly
Weston, the unconscious witness, with cheeks as red as a real rose,
tottering up the path to meet her father. And here is the carroty-poled
urchin, George Coper, returning from work, and singing 'Home! sweet Home!'
at the top of his voice; and then, when the notes prove too high for him,
continuing the air in a whistle, until he has turned the impassable
corner; then taking up again the song and the words, 'Home! sweet Home!'
and looking as if he felt their full import, ploughboy though he be. And
so he does; for he is one of a large, an honest, a kind, and an
industrious family, where all goes well, and where the poor ploughboy is
sure of finding cheerful faces and coarse comforts—all that he has
learned to desire. Oh, to be as cheaply and as thoroughly contented as
George Coper! All his luxuries a cricket-match!—all his wants
satisfied in 'home! sweet home!'
Nothing but noises to-day! They are clearing Farmer Brooke's great
bean-field, and crying the 'Harvest Home!' in a chorus, before which all
other sounds—the song, the scolding, the gunnery—fade away,
and become faint echoes. A pleasant noise is that! though, for one's ears'
sake, one makes some haste to get away from it. And here, in happy time,
is that pretty wood, the Shaw, with its broad pathway, its tangled
dingles, its nuts and its honeysuckles;—and, carrying away a faggot
of those sweetest flowers, we reach Hannah Bint's: of whom, and of whose
doings, we shall say more another time.
NOTE.—Poor Dash is also dead. We did not keep him long, indeed I
believe that he died of the transition from starvation to good feed, as
dangerous to a dog's stomach, and to most stomachs, as the less agreeable
change from good feed to starvation. He has been succeeded in place and
favour by another Dash, not less amiable in demeanour and far more
creditable in appearance, bearing no small resemblance to the pet spaniel
of my friend Master Dinely, he who stole the bone from the magpies, and
who figures as the first Dash of this volume. Let not the unwary reader
opine, that in assigning the same name to three several individuals, I am
acting as an humble imitator of the inimitable writer who has given
immortality to the Peppers and the Mustards, on the one hand; or showing a
poverty of invention or a want of acquaintance with the bead-roll of
canine appellations on the other. I merely, with my usual scrupulous
fidelity, take the names as I find them. The fact is that half the
handsome spaniels in England are called Dash, just as half the tall
footmen are called Thomas. The name belongs to the species. Sitting in an
open carriage one day last summer at the door of a farmhouse where my
father had some business, I saw a noble and beautiful animal of this kind
lying in great state and laziness on the steps, and felt an immediate
desire to make acquaintance with him. My father, who had had the same
fancy, had patted him and called him 'poor fellow' in passing, without
eliciting the smallest notice in return. 'Dash!' cried I at a venture,
'good Dash! noble Dash!' and up he started in a moment, making but one
spring from the door into the gig. Of course I was right in my guess. The
gentleman's name was Dash.
NUTTING.
September 26th.—One of those delicious autumnal days, when the air,
the sky, and the earth seem lulled into a universal calm, softer and
milder even than May. We sallied forth for a walk, in a mood congenial to
the weather and the season, avoiding, by mutual consent, the bright and
sunny common, and the gay highroad, and stealing through shady,
unfrequented lanes, where we were not likely to meet any one,—not
even the pretty family procession which in other years we used to
contemplate with so much interest—the father, mother, and children,
returning from the wheat-field, the little ones laden with bristling
close-tied bunches of wheat-ears, their own gleanings, or a bottle and a
basket which had contained their frugal dinner, whilst the mother would
carry her babe hushing and lulling it, and the father and an elder child
trudged after with the cradle, all seeming weary and all happy. We shall
not see such a procession as this to-day; for the harvest is nearly over,
the fields are deserted, the silence may almost be felt. Except the wintry
notes of the redbreast, nature herself is mute. But how beautiful, how
gentle, how harmonious, how rich! The rain has preserved to the herbage
all the freshness and verdure of spring, and the world of leaves has lost
nothing of its midsummer brightness, and the harebell is on the banks, and
the woodbine in the hedges, and the low furze, which the lambs cropped in
the spring, has burst again into its golden blossoms.
All is beautiful that the eye can see; perhaps the more beautiful for
being shut in with a forest-like closeness. We have no prospect in this
labyrinth of lanes, cross-roads, mere cart-ways, leading to the
innumerable little farms into which this part of the parish is divided.
Up-hill or down, these quiet woody lanes scarcely give us a peep at the
world, except when, leaning over a gate, we look into one of the small
enclosures, hemmed in with hedgerows, so closely set with growing timber,
that the meady opening looks almost like a glade in a wood; or when some
cottage, planted at a corner of one of the little greens formed by the
meeting of these cross-ways, almost startles us by the unexpected sight of
the dwellings of men in such a solitude. But that we have more of hill and
dale, and that our cross-roads are excellent in their kind, this side of
our parish would resemble the description given of La Vendee, in Madame
Laroche-Jacquelin's most interesting book.* I am sure if wood can entitle
a country to be called Le Bocage, none can have a better right to the
name. Even this pretty snug farmhouse on the hillside, with its front
covered with the rich vine, which goes wreathing up to the very top of the
clustered chimney, and its sloping orchard full of fruit—even this
pretty quiet nest can hardly peep out of its leaves. Ah! they are
gathering in the orchard harvest. Look at that young rogue in the old
mossy apple-tree—that great tree, bending with the weight of its
golden-rennets—see how he pelts his little sister beneath with
apples as red and as round as her own cheeks, while she, with her
outstretched frock, is trying to catch them, and laughing and offering to
pelt again as often as one bobs against her; and look at that still
younger imp, who, as grave as a judge, is creeping on hands and knees
under the tree, picking up the apples as they fall so deedily,** and
depositing them so honestly in the great basket on the grass, already
fixed so firmly and opened so widely, and filled almost to overflowing by
the brown rough fruitage of the golden-rennet's next neighbour the
russeting; and see that smallest urchin of all, seated apart in infantine
state on the turfy bank, with that toothsome piece of deformity a
crumpling in each hand, now biting from one sweet, hard, juicy morsel and
now from another—Is not that a pretty English picture? And then,
farther up the orchard, that bold hardy lad, the eldest born, who has
scaled (Heaven knows how) the tall, straight upper branch of that great
pear-tree, and is sitting there as securely and as fearlessly, in as much
real safety and apparent danger, as a sailor on the top-mast. Now he
shakes the tree with a mighty swing that brings down a pelting shower of
stony bergamots, which the father gathers rapidly up, whilst the mother
can hardly assist for her motherly fear—a fear which only spurs the
spirited boy to bolder ventures. Is not that a pretty picture? And they
are such a handsome family too, the Brookers. I do not know that there is
any gipsy blood, but there is the true gipsy complexion, richly brown,
with cheeks and lips so red, black hair curling close to their heads in
short crisp rings, white shining teeth—and such eyes!—That
sort of beauty entirely eclipses your mere roses and lilies. Even Lizzy,
the prettiest of fair children, would look poor and watery by the side of
Willy Brooker, the sober little personage who is picking up the apples
with his small chubby hands, and filling the basket so orderly, next to
his father the most useful man in the field. 'Willy!' He hears without
seeing; for we are quite hidden by the high bank, and a spreading hawthorn
bush that overtops it, though between the lower branches and the grass we
have found a convenient peep-hole. 'Willy!' The voice sounds to him like
some fairy dream, and the black eyes are raised from the ground with
sudden wonder, the long silky eyelashes thrown back till they rest on the
delicate brow, and a deeper blush is burning on those dark cheeks, and a
smile is dimpling about those scarlet lips. But the voice is silent now,
and the little quiet boy, after a moment's pause, is gone coolly to work
again. He is indeed a most lovely child. I think some day or other he must
marry Lizzy; I shall propose the match to their respective mammas. At
present the parties are rather too young for a wedding—the intended
bridegroom being, as I should judge, six, or thereabout, and the fair
bride barely five,—but at least we might have a betrothment after
the royal fashion,—there could be no harm in that. Miss Lizzy, I
have no doubt, would be as demure and coquettish as if ten winters more
had gone over her head, and poor Willy would open his innocent black eyes,
and wonder what was going forward. They would be the very Oberon and
Titania of the village, the fairy king and queen.
*An almost equally interesting account of that very peculiar and
interesting scenery, may be found in The Maid of La Vendee, an English
novel, remarkable for its simplicity and truth of painting, written by
Mrs. Le Noir, the daughter of Christopher Smart, an inheritrix of much of
his talent. Her works deserve to be better known.
**'Deedily,'—I am not quite sure that this word is good English; but
it is genuine Hampshire, and is used by the most correct of female
writers, Miss Austen. It means (and it is no small merit that it has no
exact synonym) anything done with a profound and plodding attention, an
action which engrosses all the powers of mind and body.
Ah! here is the hedge along which the periwinkle wreathes and twines so
profusely, with its evergreen leaves shining like the myrtle, and its
starry blue flowers. It is seldom found wild in this part of England; but,
when we do meet with it, it is so abundant and so welcome,—the very
robin-redbreast of flowers, a winter friend. Unless in those unfrequent
frosts which destroy all vegetation, it blossoms from September to June,
surviving the last lingering crane's-bill, forerunning the earliest
primrose, hardier even than the mountain daisy,—peeping out from
beneath the snow, looking at itself in the ice, smiling through the
tempests of life, and yet welcoming and enjoying the sunbeams. Oh, to be
like that flower!
The little spring that has been bubbling under the hedge all along the
hillside, begins, now that we have mounted the eminence and are
imperceptibly descending, to deviate into a capricious variety of clear
deep pools and channels, so narrow and so choked with weeds, that a child
might overstep them. The hedge has also changed its character. It is no
longer the close compact vegetable wall of hawthorn, and maple, and
brier-roses, intertwined with bramble and woodbine, and crowned with large
elms or thickly-set saplings. No! the pretty meadow which rises high above
us, backed and almost surrounded by a tall coppice, needs no defence on
our side but its own steep bank, garnished with tufts of broom, with
pollard oaks wreathed with ivy, and here and there with long patches of
hazel overhanging the water. 'Ah, there are still nuts on that bough!' and
in an instant my dear companion, active and eager and delighted as a boy,
has hooked down with his walking-stick one of the lissome hazel stalks,
and cleared it of its tawny clusters, and in another moment he has mounted
the bank, and is in the midst of the nuttery, now transferring the spoil
from the lower branches into that vast variety of pockets which gentlemen
carry about them, now bending the tall tops into the lane, holding them
down by main force, so that I might reach them and enjoy the pleasure of
collecting some of the plunder myself. A very great pleasure he knew it
would be. I doffed my shawl, tucked up my flounces, turned my straw bonnet
into a basket, and began gathering and scrambling—for, manage it how
you may, nutting is scrambling work,—those boughs, however tightly
you may grasp them by the young fragrant twigs and the bright green
leaves, will recoil and burst away; but there is a pleasure even in that:
so on we go, scrambling and gathering with all our might and all our glee.
Oh, what an enjoyment! All my life long I have had a passion for that sort
of seeking which implies finding (the secret, I believe, of the love of
field-sports, which is in man's mind a natural impulse)—therefore I
love violeting,—therefore, when we had a fine garden, I used to love
to gather strawberries, and cut asparagus, and above all, to collect the
filberts from the shrubberies: but this hedgerow nutting beats that sport
all to nothing. That was a make-believe thing, compared with this; there
was no surprise, no suspense, no unexpectedness—it was as inferior
to this wild nutting, as the turning out of a bag-fox is to unearthing the
fellow, in the eyes of a staunch foxhunter.
Oh, what enjoyment this nut-gathering is! They are in such abundance, that
it seems as if there were not a boy in the parish, nor a young man, nor a
young woman,—for a basket of nuts is the universal tribute of
country gallantry; our pretty damsel Harriet has had at least half a dozen
this season; but no one has found out these. And they are so full too, we
lose half of them from over-ripeness; they drop from the socket at the
slightest motion. If we lose, there is one who finds. May is as fond of
nuts as a squirrel, and cracks the shell and extracts the kernel with
equal dexterity. Her white glossy head is upturned now to watch them as
they fall. See how her neck is thrown back like that of a swan, and how
beautifully her folded ears quiver with expectation, and how her quick eye
follows the rustling noise, and her light feet dance and pat the ground,
and leap up with eagerness, seeming almost sustained in the air, just as I
have seen her when Brush is beating a hedgerow, and she knows from his
questing that there is a hare afoot. See, she has caught that nut just
before it touched the water; but the water would have been no defence,—she
fishes them from the bottom, she delves after them amongst the matted
grass—even my bonnet—how beggingly she looks at that! 'Oh,
what a pleasure nutting is!—Is it not, May? But the pockets are
almost full, and so is the basket-bonnet, and that bright watch the sun
says it is late; and after all it is wrong to rob the poor boys—is
it not, May?'—May shakes her graceful head denyingly, as if she
understood the question—'And we must go home now—must we not?
But we will come nutting again some time or other—shall we not, my
May?'
THE VISIT.
October 27th.—A lovely autumnal day; the air soft, balmy, genial;
the sky of that softened and delicate blue upon which the eye loves to
rest,—the blue which gives such relief to the rich beauty of the
earth, all around glowing in the ripe and mellow tints of the most
gorgeous of the seasons. Really such an autumn may well compensate our
English climate for the fine spring of the south, that spring of which the
poets talk, but which we so seldom enjoy. Such an autumn glows upon us
like a splendid evening; it is the very sunset of the year; and I have
been tempted forth into a wider range of enjoyment than usual. This WALK
(if I may use the Irish figure of speech called a bull) will be a RIDE. A
very dear friend has beguiled me into accompanying her in her pretty
equipage to her beautiful home, four miles off; and having sent forward in
the style of a running footman the servant who had driven her, she assumes
the reins, and off we set.
My fair companion is a person whom nature and fortune would have spoiled
if they could. She is one of those striking women whom a stranger cannot
pass without turning to look again; tall and finely proportioned, with a
bold Roman contour of figure and feature, a delicate English complexion,
and an air of distinction altogether her own. Her beauty is duchess-like.
She seems born to wear feathers and diamonds, and to form the grace and
ornament of a court; and the noble frankness and simplicity of her
countenance and manner confirm the impression. Destiny has, however, dealt
more kindly by her. She is the wife of a rich country gentleman of high
descent and higher attainments, to whom she is most devotedly attached,—the
mother of a little girl as lovely as herself, and the delight of all who
have the happiness of her acquaintance, to whom she is endeared not merely
by her remarkable sweetness of temper and kindness of heart, but by the
singular ingenuousness and openness of character which communicate an
indescribable charm to her conversation. She is as transparent as water.
You may see every colour, every shade of a mind as lofty and beautiful as
her person. Talking with her is like being in the Palace of Truth
described by Madame de Genlis; and yet so kindly are her feelings, so
great her indulgence to the little failings and foibles of our common
nature, so intense her sympathy with the wants, the wishes, the sorrows,
and the happiness of her fellow-creatures, that, with all her
frank-speaking, I never knew her make an enemy or lose a friend.
But we must get on. What would she say if she knew I was putting her into
print? We must get on up the hill. Ah! that is precisely what we are not
likely to do! This horse, this beautiful and high-bred horse, well-fed,
and fat and glossy, who stood prancing at our gate like an Arabian, has
suddenly turned sulky. He does not indeed stand quite still, but his way
of moving is little better—the slowest and most sullen of all walks.
Even they who ply the hearse at funerals, sad-looking beasts who totter
under black feathers, go faster. It is of no use to admonish him by whip,
or rein, or word. The rogue has found out that it is a weak and tender
hand that guides him now. Oh, for one pull, one stroke of his old driver,
the groom! how he would fly! But there is the groom half a mile before us,
out of earshot, clearing the ground at a capital rate, beating us hollow.
He has just turned the top of the hill;—and in a moment—ay,
NOW he is out of sight, and will undoubtedly so continue till he meets us
at the lawn gate. Well! there is no great harm. It is only prolonging the
pleasure of enjoying together this charming scenery in this fine weather.
If once we make up our minds not to care how slowly our steed goes, not to
fret ourselves by vain exertions, it is no matter what his pace may be.
There is little doubt of his getting home by sunset, and that will content
us. He is, after all, a fine noble animal; and perhaps when he finds that
we are determined to give him his way, he may relent and give us ours. All
his sex are sticklers for dominion, though, when it is undisputed, some of
them are generous enough to abandon it. Two or three of the most discreet
wives of my acquaintance contrive to manage their husbands sufficiently
with no better secret than this seeming submission; and in our case the
example has the more weight since we have no possible way of helping
ourselves.
Thus philosophising, we reached the top of the hill, and viewed with
'reverted eyes' the beautiful prospect that lay bathed in golden sunshine
behind us. Cowper says, with that boldness of expressing in poetry the
commonest and simplest feelings, which is perhaps one great secret of his
originality,
'Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily seen,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.'
Every day I walk up this hill—every day I pause at the top to admire
the broad winding road with the green waste on each side, uniting it with
the thickly timbered hedgerows; the two pretty cottages at unequal
distances, placed so as to mark the bends; the village beyond, with its
mass of roofs and clustered chimneys peeping through the trees; and the
rich distance, where cottages, mansions, churches, towns, seem embowered
in some wide forest, and shut in by blue shadowy hills. Every day I admire
this most beautiful landscape; yet never did it seem to me so fine or so
glowing as now. All the tints of the glorious autumn, orange, tawny,
yellow, red, are poured in profusion among the bright greens of the
meadows and turnip fields, till the eyes are satiated with colour; and
then before us we have the common with its picturesque roughness of
surface tufted with cottages, dappled with water, edging off on one side
into fields and farms and orchards, and terminated on the other by the
princely oak avenue. What a richness and variety the wild broken ground
gives to the luxuriant cultivation of the rest of the landscape! Cowper
has described it for me. How perpetually, as we walk in the country, his
vivid pictures recur to the memory! Here is his common and mine!
'The common overgrown with fern, and rough
With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd
And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,
And decks itself with ornaments of gold;—
———————- there the turf
Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense
With luxury of unexpected sweets.'
The description is exact. There, too, to the left is my cricket-ground
(Cowper's common wanted that finishing grace); and there stands one
solitary urchin, as if in contemplation of its past and future glories;
for, alas! cricket is over for the season. Ah! it is Ben Kirby, next
brother to Joe, king of the youngsters, and probably his successor—for
this Michaelmas has cost us Joe! He is promoted from the farm to the
mansion-house, two miles off; there he cleans shoes, rubs knives, and runs
on errands, and is, as his mother expresses it, 'a sort of 'prentice to
the footman.' I should not wonder if Joe, some day or other, should
overtop the footman, and rise to be butler; and his splendid prospects
must be our consolation for the loss of this great favourite. In the
meantime we have Ben.
Ben Kirby is a year younger than Joe, and the school-fellow and rival of
Jem Eusden. To be sure his abilities lie in rather a different line: Jem
is a scholar, Ben is a wag: Jem is great in figures and writing, Ben in
faces and mischief. His master says of him, that, if there were two such
in the school, he must resign his office; and as far as my observation
goes, the worthy pedagogue is right. Ben is, it must be confessed, a great
corrupter of gravity. He hath an exceeding aversion to authority and
decorum, and a wonderful boldness and dexterity in overthrowing the one
and puzzling the other. His contortions of visage are astounding. His
'power over his own muscles and those of other people' is almost equal to
that of Liston; and indeed the original face, flat and square and Chinese
in its shape, of a fine tan complexion, with a snub nose, and a slit for a
mouth, is nearly as comical as that matchless performer's. When aided by
Ben's singular mobility of feature, his knowing winks and grins and shrugs
and nods, together with a certain dry shrewdness, a habit of saying sharp
things, and a marvellous gift of impudence, it forms as fine a specimen as
possible of a humorous country boy, an oddity in embryo. Everybody likes
Ben, except his butts (which may perhaps comprise half his acquaintance);
and of them no one so thoroughly hates and dreads him as our parish
schoolmaster, a most worthy King Log, whom Ben dumbfounds twenty times a
day. He is a great ornament of the cricket-ground, has a real genius for
the game, and displays it after a very original manner, under the disguise
of awkwardness—as the clown shows off his agility in a pantomime.
Nothing comes amiss to him. By the bye, he would have been the very lad
for us in our present dilemma; not a horse in England could master Ben
Kirby. But we are too far from him now—and perhaps it is as well
that we are so. I believe the rogue has a kindness for me, in remembrance
of certain apples and nuts, which my usual companion, who delights in his
wit, is accustomed to dole out to him. But it is a Robin Goodfellow
nevertheless, a perfect Puck, that loves nothing on earth so well as
mischief. Perhaps the horse may be the safer conductor of the two.
The avenue is quite alive to-day. Old women are picking up twigs and
acorns, and pigs of all sizes doing their utmost to spare them the latter
part of the trouble; boys and girls groping for beech-nuts under yonder
clump; and a group of younger elves collecting as many dead leaves as they
can find to feed the bonfire which is smoking away so briskly amongst the
trees,—a sort of rehearsal of the grand bonfire nine days hence; of
the loyal conflagration of the arch-traitor Guy Vaux, which is annually
solemnised in the avenue, accompanied with as much of squibbery and
crackery as our boys can beg or borrow—not to say steal. Ben Kirby
is a great man on the 5th of November. All the savings of a month, the
hoarded halfpence, the new farthings, the very luck-penny, go off in fumo
on that night. For my part, I like this daylight mockery better. There is
no gunpowder—odious gunpowder! no noise but the merry shouts of the
small fry, so shrill and happy, and the cawing of the rooks, who are
wheeling in large circles overhead, and wondering what is going forward in
their territory—seeming in their loud clamour to ask what that light
smoke may mean that curls so prettily amongst their old oaks, towering as
if to meet the clouds. There is something very intelligent in the ways of
that black people the rooks, particularly in their wonder. I suppose it
results from their numbers and their unity of purpose, a sort of
collective and corporate wisdom. Yet geese congregate also; and geese
never by any chance look wise. But then geese are a domestic fowl; we have
spoiled them; and rooks are free commoners of nature, who use the
habitations we provide for them, tenant our groves and our avenues, but
never dream of becoming our subjects.
What a labyrinth of a road this is! I do think there are four turnings in
the short half-mile between the avenue and the mill. And what a pity, as
my companion observes—not that our good and jolly miller, the very
representative of the old English yeomanry, should be so rich, but that
one consequence of his riches should be the pulling down of the prettiest
old mill that ever looked at itself in the Loddon, with the picturesque,
low-browed, irregular cottage, which stood with its light-pointed roof,
its clustered chimneys, and its ever-open door, looking like the real
abode of comfort and hospitality, to build this huge, staring, frightful,
red-brick mill, as ugly as a manufactory, and this great square house,
ugly and red to match, just behind. The old buildings always used to
remind me of Wollett's beautiful engraving of a scene in the Maid of the
Mill. It will be long before any artist will make a drawing of this. Only
think of this redness in a picture! this boiled lobster of a house!
Falstaff's description of Bardolph's nose would look pale in the
comparison.
Here is that monstrous machine of a tilted waggon, with its load of flour,
and its four fat horses. I wonder whether our horse will have the decency
to get out of the way. If he does not, I am sure we cannot make him; and
that enormous ship upon wheels, that ark on dry land, would roll over us
like the car of Juggernaut. Really—Oh no! there is no danger now. I
should have remembered that it is my friend Samuel Long who drives the
mill team. He will take care of us. 'Thank you, Samuel!' And Samuel has
put us on our way, steered us safely past his waggon, escorted us over the
bridge and now, having seen us through our immediate difficulties, has
parted from us with a very civil bow and good-humoured smile, as one who
is always civil and good-humoured, but with a certain triumphant masterful
look in his eyes, which I have noted in men, even the best of them, when a
woman gets into straits by attempting manly employments. He has done us
great good though, and may be allowed his little feeling of superiority.
The parting salute he bestowed on our steed, in the shape of an astounding
crack of his huge whip, has put that refractory animal on his mettle. On
we go! past the glazier's pretty house, with its porch and its filbert
walk; along the narrow lane bordered with elms, whose fallen leaves have
made the road one yellow; past that little farmhouse with the
horse-chestnut trees before, glowing like oranges; past the whitewashed
school on the other side, gay with October roses; past the park, and the
lodge, and the mansion, where once dwelt the great Earl of Clarendon;—and
now the rascal has begun to discover that Samuel Long and his whip are a
mile off, and that his mistress is driving him, and he slackens his pace
accordingly. Perhaps he feels the beauty of the road just here, and goes
slowly to enjoy it. Very beautiful it certainly is. The park paling forms
the boundary on one side, with fine clumps of oak, and deer in all
attitudes; the water, tufted with alders, flowing along on the other.
Another turn, and the water winds away, succeeded by a low hedge, and a
sweep of green meadows; whilst the park and its palings are replaced by a
steep bank, on which stands a small, quiet, village alehouse; and higher
up, embosomed in wood, is the little country church, with its sloping
churchyard and its low white steeple, peeping out from amongst magnificent
yew-trees:—
'Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and invet'rately convolved.'
WORDSWORTH.
No village church was ever more happily placed. It is the very image of
the peace and humbleness inculcated within its walls.
Ah! here is a higher hill rising before us, almost like a mountain. How
grandly the view opens as we ascend over that wild bank, overgrown with
fern, and heath, and gorse, and between those tall hollies, glowing with
their coral berries! What an expanse! But we have little time to gaze at
present; for that piece of perversity, our horse, who has walked over so
much level ground, has now, inspired, I presume, by a desire to revisit
his stable, taken it into that unaccountable noddle of his to trot up
this, the very steepest hill in the county. Here we are on the top; and in
five minutes we have reached the lawn gate, and are in the very midst of
that beautiful piece of art or nature (I do not know to which class it
belongs), the pleasure-ground of F. Hill. Never was the 'prophetic eye of
taste' exerted with more magical skill than in these plantations. Thirty
years ago this place had no existence; it was a mere undistinguished tract
of field and meadow and common land; now it is a mimic forest, delighting
the eye with the finest combinations of trees and shrubs, the rarest
effects of form and foliage, and bewildering the mind with its green
glades, and impervious recesses, and apparently interminable extent. It is
the triumph of landscape gardening, and never more beautiful than in this
autumn sunset, lighting up the ruddy beech and the spotted sycamore, and
gilding the shining fir-cones that hang so thickly amongst the dark pines.
The robins are singing around us, as if they too felt the magic of the
hour. How gracefully the road winds through the leafy labyrinth, leading
imperceptibly to the more ornamented sweep. Here we are at the door amidst
geraniums, and carnations, and jasmines, still in flower. Ah! here is a
flower sweeter than all, a bird gayer than the robin, the little bird that
chirps to the tune of 'mamma! mamma!', the bright-faced fairy, whose tiny
feet come pattering along, making a merry music, mamma's own Frances! And
following her guidance, here we are in the dear round room time enough to
catch the last rays of the sun, as they light the noble landscape which
lies like a panorama around us, lingering longest on that long island of
old thorns and stunted oaks, the oasis of B. Heath, and then vanishing in
a succession of gorgeous clouds.
October 28th.—Another soft and brilliant morning. But the pleasures
of to-day must be written in shorthand. I have left myself no room for
notes of admiration.
First we drove about the coppice: an extensive wood of oak, and elm, and
beech, chiefly the former, which adjoins the park-paling of F. Hill, of
which demesne, indeed, it forms one of the most delightful parts. The
roads through the coppice are studiously wild; so that they have the
appearance of mere cart-tracks: and the manner in which the ground is
tumbled about, the steep declivities, the sunny slopes, the sudden swells
and falls, now a close narrow valley, then a sharp ascent to an eminence
commanding an immense extent of prospect, have a striking air of natural
beauty, developed and heightened by the perfection of art. All this,
indeed, was familiar to me; the colouring only was new. I had been there
in early spring, when the fragrant palms were on the willow, and the
yellow tassels on the hazel, and every twig was swelling with renewed
life; and I had been there again and again in the green leafiness of
midsummer; but never as now, when the dark verdure of the fir-plantations,
hanging over the picturesque and unequal paling, partly covered with moss
and ivy, contrasts so remarkably with the shining orange-leaves of the
beech, already half fallen, the pale yellow of the scattering elm, the
deeper and richer tints of the oak, and the glossy stems of the 'lady of
the woods,' the delicate weeping birch. The underwood is no less
picturesque. The red-spotted leaves and redder berries of the old thorns,
the scarlet festoons of the bramble, the tall fern of every hue, seem to
vie with the brilliant mosaic of the ground, now covered with dead leaves
and strewn with fir-cones, now, where a little glade intervenes, gay with
various mosses and splendid fungi. How beautiful is this coppice to-day!
especially where the little spring, as clear as crystal, comes bubbling
out from the old 'fantastic' beech root, and trickles over the grass,
bright and silent as the dew in a May morning. The wood-pigeons (who are
just returned from their summer migration, and are cropping the ivy
berries) add their low cooings, the very note of love, to the slight
fluttering of the falling leaves in the quiet air, giving a voice to the
sunshine and the beauty. This coppice is a place to live and die in. But
we must go. And how fine is the ascent which leads us again into the
world, past those cottages hidden as in a pit, and by that hanging orchard
and that rough heathy bank! The scenery in this one spot has a wildness,
an abruptness of rise and fall, rare in any part of England, rare above
all in this rich and lovely but monotonous county. It is Switzerland in
miniature.
And now we cross the hill to pay a morning visit to the family at the
great house,—another fine place, commanding another fine sweep of
country. The park, studded with old trees, and sinking gently into a
valley, rich in wood and water, is in the best style of ornamental
landscape, though more according to the common routine of gentlemen's
seats than the singularly original place which we have just left. There
is, however, one distinctive beauty in the grounds of the great house;—the
magnificent firs which shade the terraces and surround the sweep, giving
out in summer odours really Sabaean, and now in this low autumn sun
producing an effect almost magical, as the huge red trunks, garlanded with
ivy, stand out from the deep shadows like an army of giants. Indoors—Oh
I must not take my readers indoors, or we shall never get away! Indoors
the sunshine is brighter still; for there, in a lofty, lightsome room, sat
a damsel fair and arch and piquante, one whom Titian or Velasquez should
be born again to paint, leaning over an instrument* as sparkling and
fanciful as herself, singing pretty French romances, and Scottish Jacobite
songs, and all sorts of graceful and airy drolleries picked up I know not
where—an English improvisatrice! a gayer Annot Lyle! whilst her
sister, of a higher order of beauty, and with an earnest kindness in her
smile that deepens its power, lends to the piano, as her father to the
violin, an expression, a sensibility, a spirit, an eloquence almost
superhuman—almost divine! Oh to hear these two instruments
accompanying my dear companion (I forgot to say that she is a singer
worthy to be so accompanied) in Haydn's exquisite canzonet, "She never
told her love,"—to hear her voice, with all its power, its
sweetness, its gush of sound, so sustained and assisted by modulations
that rivalled its intensity of expression; to hear at once such poetry,
such music, such execution, is a pleasure never to be forgotten, or mixed
with meaner things. I seem to hear it still.
As in the bursting spring time o'er the eye
Of one who haunts the fields fair visions creep
Beneath the closed lids (afore dull sleep
Dims the quick fancy) of sweet flowers that lie
On grassy banks, oxlip of orient dye,
And palest primrose and blue violet,
All in their fresh and dewy beauty set,
Pictured within the sense, and will not fly:
So in mine ear resounds and lives again
One mingled melody,—a voice, a pair
Of instruments most voice-like! Of the air
Rather than of the earth seems that high strain,
A spirit's song, and worthy of the train
That soothed old Prospero with music rare.
*The dital harp.
HANNAH BINT.
The Shaw, leading to Hannah Bint's habitation, is, as I perhaps have said
before, a very pretty mixture of wood and coppice; that is to say, a tract
of thirty or forty acres covered with fine growing timber—ash, and
oak, and elm, very regularly planted; and interspersed here and there with
large patches of underwood, hazel, maple, birch, holly, and hawthorn,
woven into almost impenetrable thickets by long wreaths of the bramble,
the briony, and the brier-rose, or by the pliant and twisting garlands of
the wild honeysuckle. In other parts, the Shaw is quite clear of its bosky
undergrowth, and clothed only with large beds of feathery fern, or carpets
of flowers, primroses, orchises, cowslips, ground-ivy, crane's-bill,
cotton-grass, Solomon's seal, and forget-me-not, crowded together with a
profusion and brilliancy of colour, such as I have rarely seen equalled
even in a garden. Here the wild hyacinth really enamels the ground with
its fresh and lovely purple; there,
'On aged roots, with bright green mosses clad,
Dwells the wood-sorrel, with its bright thin leaves
Heart-shaped and triply folded, and its root
Creeping like beaded coral; whilst around
Flourish the copse's pride, anemones,
With rays like golden studs on ivory laid
Most delicate; but touch'd with purple clouds,
Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow.'
The variety is much greater than I have enumerated; for the ground is so
unequal, now swelling in gentle ascents, now dimpling into dells and
hollows, and the soil so different in different parts, that the sylvan
Flora is unusually extensive and complete.
The season is, however, now too late for this floweriness; and except the
tufted woodbines, which have continued in bloom during the whole of this
lovely autumn, and some lingering garlands of the purple wild vetch,
wreathing round the thickets, and uniting with the ruddy leaves of the
bramble, and the pale festoons of the briony, there is little to call
one's attention from the grander beauties of the trees—the sycamore,
its broad leaves already spotted—the oak, heavy with acorns—and
the delicate shining rind of the weeping birch, 'the lady of the woods,'
thrown out in strong relief from a background of holly and hawthorn, each
studded with coral berries, and backed with old beeches, beginning to
assume the rich tawny hue which makes them perhaps the most picturesque of
autumnal trees, as the transparent freshness of their young foliage is
undoubtedly the choicest ornament of the forest in spring.
A sudden turn round one of these magnificent beeches brings us to the
boundary of the Shaw, and leaning upon a rude gate, we look over an open
space of about ten acres of ground, still more varied and broken than that
which we have passed, and surrounded on all sides by thick woodland. As a
piece of colour, nothing can be well finer. The ruddy glow of the
heath-flower, contrasting, on the one hand, with the golden-blossomed
furze—on the other, with a patch of buck-wheat, of which the bloom
is not past, although the grain be ripening, the beautiful buck-wheat,
whose transparent leaves and stalks are so brightly tinged with vermilion,
while the delicate pink-white of the flower, a paler persicaria, has a
feathery fall, at once so rich and so graceful, and a fresh and reviving
odour, like that of birch trees in the dew of a May evening. The bank that
surmounts this attempt at cultivation is crowned with the late foxglove
and the stately mullein; the pasture of which so great a part of the waste
consists, looks as green as an emerald; a clear pond, with the bright sky
reflected in it, lets light into the picture; the white cottage of the
keeper peeps from the opposite coppice; and the vine-covered dwelling of
Hannah Bint rises from amidst the pretty garden, which lies bathed in the
sunshine around it.
The living and moving accessories are all in keeping with the cheerfulness
and repose of the landscape. Hannah's cow grazing quietly beside the
keeper's pony; a brace of fat pointer puppies holding amicable intercourse
with a litter of young pigs; ducks, geese, cocks, hens, and chickens
scattered over the turf; Hannah herself sallying forth from the
cottage-door, with her milk-bucket in her hand, and her little brother
following with the milking-stool.
My friend, Hannah Bint, is by no means an ordinary person. Her father,
Jack Bint (for in all his life he never arrived at the dignity of being
called John, indeed in our parts he was commonly known by the cognomen of
London Jack), was a drover of high repute in his profession. No man,
between Salisbury Plain and Smithfield, was thought to conduct a flock of
sheep so skilfully through all the difficulties of lanes and commons,
streets and high-roads, as Jack Bint, aided by Jack Bint's famous dog,
Watch; for Watch's rough, honest face, black, with a little white about
the muzzle, and one white ear, was as well known at fairs and markets as
his master's equally honest and weather-beaten visage. Lucky was the
dealer that could secure their services; Watch being renowned for keeping
a flock together better than any shepherd's dog on the road—Jack,
for delivering them more punctually, and in better condition. No man had a
more thorough knowledge of the proper night stations, where good feed
might be procured for his charge, and good liquor for Watch and himself;
Watch, like other sheep dogs, being accustomed to live chiefly on bread
and beer. His master, though not averse to a pot of good double X,
preferred gin; and they who plod slowly along, through wet and weary ways,
in frost and in fog, have undoubtedly a stronger temptation to indulge in
that cordial and reviving stimulus, than we water-drinkers, sitting in
warm and comfortable rooms, can readily imagine. For certain, our drover
could never resist the gentle seduction of the gin-bottle, and being of a
free, merry, jovial temperament, one of those persons commonly called good
fellows, who like to see others happy in the same way with themselves, he
was apt to circulate it at his own expense, to the great improvement of
his popularity, and the great detriment of his finances.
All this did vastly well whilst his earnings continued proportionate to
his spendings, and the little family at home were comfortably supported by
his industry: but when a rheumatic fever came on, one hard winter, and
finally settled in his limbs, reducing the most active and hardy man in
the parish to the state of a confirmed cripple, then his reckless
improvidence stared him in the face; and poor Jack, a thoughtless, but
kind creature, and a most affectionate father, looked at his three
motherless children with the acute misery of a parent who has brought
those whom he loves best in the world to abject destitution. He found
help, where he probably least expected it, in the sense and spirit of his
young daughter, a girl of twelve years old.
Hannah was the eldest of the family, and had, ever since her mother's
death, which event had occurred two or three years before, been accustomed
to take the direction of their domestic concerns, to manage her two
brothers, to feed the pigs and the poultry, and to keep house during the
almost constant absence of her father. She was a quick, clever lass, of a
high spirit, a firm temper, some pride, and a horror of accepting
parochial relief, which is every day becoming rarer amongst the peasantry;
but which forms the surest safeguard to the sturdy independence of the
English character. Our little damsel possessed this quality in perfection;
and when her father talked of giving up their comfortable cottage, and
removing to the workhouse, whilst she and her brothers must go to service,
Hannah formed a bold resolution, and without disturbing the sick man by
any participation of her hopes and fears, proceeded after settling their
trifling affairs to act at once on her own plans and designs.
Careless of the future as the poor drover had seemed, he had yet kept
clear of debt, and by subscribing constantly to a benefit club, had
secured a pittance that might at least assist in supporting him during the
long years of sickness and helplessness to which he was doomed to look
forward. This his daughter knew. She knew also, that the employer in whose
service his health had suffered so severely, was a rich and liberal
cattle-dealer in the neighbourhood, who would willingly aid an old and
faithful servant, and had, indeed, come forward with offers of money. To
assistance from such a quarter Hannah saw no objection. Farmer Oakley and
the parish were quite distinct things. Of him, accordingly, she asked, not
money, but something much more in his own way—'a cow! any cow! old
or lame, or what not, so that it were a cow! she would be bound to keep it
well; if she did not, he might take it back again. She even hoped to pay
for it by and by, by instalments, but that she would not promise!' and,
partly amused, partly interested by the child's earnestness, the wealthy
yeoman gave her, not as a purchase, but as a present, a very fine young
Alderney. She then went to the lord of the manor, and, with equal
knowledge of character, begged his permission to keep her cow on the Shaw
common. 'Farmer Oakley had given her a fine Alderney, and she would be
bound to pay the rent, and keep her father off the parish, if he would
only let it graze on the waste;' and he too, half from real good nature—half,
not to be outdone in liberality by his tenant, not only granted the
requested permission, but reduced the rent so much, that the produce of
the vine seldom fails to satisfy their kind landlord.
Now Hannah showed great judgment in setting up as a dairy-woman. She could
not have chosen an occupation more completely unoccupied, or more loudly
called for. One of the most provoking of the petty difficulties which
beset people with a small establishment in this neighbourhood, is the
trouble, almost the impossibility, of procuring the pastoral luxuries of
milk, eggs, and butter, which rank, unfortunately, amongst the
indispensable necessaries of housekeeping. To your thoroughbred Londoner,
who, whilst grumbling over his own breakfast, is apt to fancy that thick
cream, and fresh butter, and new-laid eggs, grow, so to say, in the
country—form an actual part of its natural produce—it may be
some comfort to learn, that in this great grazing district, however the
calves and the farmers may be the better for cows, nobody else is; that
farmers' wives have ceased to keep poultry; and that we unlucky villagers
sit down often to our first meal in a state of destitution, which may well
make him content with his thin milk and his Cambridge butter, when
compared to our imputed pastoralities.
Hannah's Alderney restored us to one rural privilege. Never was so cleanly
a little milkmaid. She changed away some of the cottage finery, which, in
his prosperous days, poor Jack had pleased himself with bringing home, the
china tea-service, the gilded mugs, and the painted waiters, for the
useful utensils of the dairy, and speedily established a regular and
gainful trade in milk, eggs, butter, honey, and poultry—for poultry
they had always kept.
Her domestic management prospered equally. Her father, who retained the
perfect use of his hands, began a manufacture of mats and baskets, which
he constructed with great nicety and adroitness; the eldest boy, a sharp
and clever lad, cut for him his rushes and osiers; erected, under his
sister's direction, a shed for the cow, and enlarged and cultivated the
garden (always with the good leave of her kind patron the lord of the
manor) until it became so ample, that the produce not only kept the pig,
and half kept the family, but afforded another branch of merchandise to
the indefatigable directress of the establishment. For the younger boy,
less quick and active, Hannah contrived to obtain an admission to the
charity-school, where he made great progress—retaining him at home,
however, in the hay-making and leasing season, or whenever his services
could be made available, to the great annoyance of the schoolmaster, whose
favourite he is, and who piques himself so much on George's scholarship
(your heavy sluggish boy at country work often turns out quick at his
book), that it is the general opinion that this much-vaunted pupil will,
in process of time, be promoted to the post of assistant, and may,
possibly, in course of years, rise to the dignity of a parish pedagogue in
his own person; so that his sister, although still making him useful at
odd times, now considers George as pretty well off her hands, whilst his
elder brother, Tom, could take an under-gardener's place directly, if he
were not too important at home to be spared even for a day.
In short, during the five years that she has ruled at the Shaw cottage,
the world has gone well with Hannah Bint. Her cow, her calves, her pigs,
her bees, her poultry, have each, in their several ways, thriven and
prospered. She has even brought Watch to like butter-milk, as well as
strong beer, and has nearly persuaded her father (to whose wants and
wishes she is most anxiously attentive) to accept of milk as a substitute
for gin. Not but Hannah hath had her enemies as well as her betters. Why
should she not? The old woman at the lodge, who always piqued herself on
being spiteful, and crying down new ways, foretold from the first she
would come to no good, and could not forgive her for falsifying her
prediction; and Betty Barnes, the slatternly widow of a tippling farmer,
who rented a field, and set up a cow herself, and was universally
discarded for insufferable dirt, said all that the wit of an envious woman
could devise against Hannah and her Alderney; nay, even Ned Miles, the
keeper, her next neighbour, who had whilom held entire sway over the Shaw
common, as well as its coppices, grumbled as much as so good-natured and
genial a person could grumble, when he found a little girl sharing his
dominion, a cow grazing beside his pony, and vulgar cocks and hens
hovering around the buck-wheat destined to feed his noble pheasants.
Nobody that had been accustomed to see that paragon of keepers, so tall
and manly, and pleasant looking, with his merry eye, and his knowing
smile, striding gaily along, in his green coat, and his gold-laced hat,
with Neptune, his noble Newfoundland dog (a retriever is the sporting
word), and his beautiful spaniel Flirt at his heels, could conceive how
askew he looked, when he first found Hannah and Watch holding equal reign
over his old territory, the Shaw common.
Yes! Hannah hath had her enemies; but they are passing away. The old woman
at the lodge is dead, poor creature; and Betty Barnes, having herself
taken to tippling, has lost the few friends she once possessed, and looks,
luckless wretch, as if she would soon die too!—and the keeper?—why,
he is not dead, or like to die; but the change that has taken place there
is the most astonishing of all—except, perhaps, the change in Hannah
herself.
Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were less
pretty than Hannah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, thin in face,
sharp in feature, with a muddled complexion, wild sunburnt hair, and eyes
whose very brightness had in them something startling, over-informed,
super-subtle, too clever for her age,—at twelve years old she had
quite the air of a little old fairy. Now, at seventeen, matters are
mended. Her complexion has cleared; her countenance has developed itself;
her figure has shot up into height and lightness, and a sort of rustic
grace; her bright, acute eye is softened and sweetened by the womanly wish
to please; her hair is trimmed, and curled and brushed, with exquisite
neatness; and her whole dress arranged with that nice attention to the
becoming, the suitable both in form and texture, which would be called the
highest degree of coquetry, if it did not deserve the better name of
propriety. Never was such a transmogrification beheld. The lass is really
pretty, and Ned Miles has discovered that she is so. There he stands, the
rogue, close at her side (for he hath joined her whilst we have been
telling her little story, and the milking is over!)—there he stands—holding
her milk-pail in one hand, and stroking Watch with the other; whilst she
is returning the compliment by patting Neptune's magnificent head. There
they stand, as much like lovers as may be; he smiling, and she blushing—he
never looking so handsome nor she so pretty in all their lives. There they
stand, in blessed forgetfulness of all except each other; as happy a
couple as ever trod the earth. There they stand, and one would not disturb
them for all the milk and butter in Christendom. I should not wonder if
they were fixing the wedding day.
THE FALL OF THE LEAF.
November 6th.—The weather is as peaceful to-day, as calm, and as
mild, as in early April; and, perhaps, an autumn afternoon and a spring
morning do resemble each other more in feeling, and even in appearance,
than any two periods of the year. There is in both the same freshness and
dewiness of the herbage; the same balmy softness in the air; and the same
pure and lovely blue sky, with white fleecy clouds floating across it. The
chief difference lies in the absence of flowers, and the presence of
leaves. But then the foliage of November is so rich, and glowing, and
varied, that it may well supply the place of the gay blossoms of the
spring; whilst all the flowers of the field or the garden could never make
amends for the want of leaves,—that beautiful and graceful attire in
which nature has clothed the rugged forms of trees—the verdant
drapery to which the landscape owes its loveliness, and the forests their
glory.
If choice must be between two seasons, each so full of charm, it is at
least no bad philosophy to prefer the present good, even whilst looking
gratefully back, and hopefully forward, to the past and the future. And of
a surety, no fairer specimen of a November day could well be found than
this,—a day made to wander
'By yellow commons and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes;'
nor could a prettier country be found for our walk than this shady and yet
sunny Berkshire, where the scenery, without rising into grandeur or
breaking into wildness, is so peaceful, so cheerful, so varied, and so
thoroughly English.
We must bend our steps towards the water side, for I have a message to
leave at Farmer Riley's: and sooth to say, it is no unpleasant necessity;
for the road thither is smooth and dry, retired, as one likes a country
walk to be, but not too lonely, which women never like; leading past the
Loddon—the bright, brimming, transparent Loddon—a fitting
mirror for this bright blue sky, and terminating at one of the prettiest
and most comfortable farmhouses in the neighbourhood.
How beautiful the lane is to-day, decorated with a thousand colours! The
brown road, and the rich verdure that borders it, strewed with the pale
yellow leaves of the elm, just beginning to fall; hedgerows glowing with
long wreaths of the bramble in every variety of purplish red; and overhead
the unchanged green of the fir, contrasting with the spotted sycamore, the
tawny beech, and the dry sere leaves of the oak, which rustle as the light
wind passes through them; a few common hardy yellow flowers (for yellow is
the common colour of flowers, whether wild or cultivated, as blue is the
rare one), flowers of many sorts, but almost of one tint, still blowing in
spite of the season, and ruddy berries glowing through all. How very
beautiful is the lane!
And how pleasant is this hill where the road widens, with the group of
cattle by the wayside, and George Hearn, the little post-boy, trundling
his hoop at full speed, making all the better haste in his work, because
he cheats himself into thinking it play! And how beautiful, again, is this
patch of common at the hilltop with the clear pool, where Martha Pither's
children,—elves of three, and four, and five years old,—without
any distinction of sex in their sunburnt faces and tattered drapery, are
dipping up water in their little homely cups shining with cleanliness, and
a small brown pitcher with the lip broken, to fill that great kettle,
which, when it is filled, their united strength will never be able to
lift! They are quite a group for a painter, with their rosy cheeks, and
chubby hands, and round merry faces; and the low cottage in the
background, peeping out of its vine leaves and china roses, with Martha at
the door, tidy, and comely, and smiling, preparing the potatoes for the
pot, and watching the progress of dipping and filling that useful utensil,
completes the picture.
But we must go on. No time for more sketches in these short days. It is
getting cold too. We must proceed in our walk. Dash is showing us the way
and beating the thick double hedgerow that runs along the side of the
meadows, at a rate that indicates game astir, and causes the leaves to fly
as fast as an east-wind after a hard frost. Ah! a pheasant! a superb cock
pheasant! Nothing is more certain than Dash's questing, whether in a
hedgerow or covert, for a better spaniel never went into the field; but I
fancied that it was a hare afoot, and was almost as much startled to hear
the whirring of those splendid wings, as the princely bird himself would
have been at the report of a gun. Indeed, I believe that the way in which
a pheasant goes off, does sometimes make young sportsmen a little nervous,
(they don't own it very readily, but the observation may be relied on
nevertheless), until they get as it were broken in to the sound; and then
that grand and sudden burst of wing becomes as pleasant to them as it
seems to be to Dash, who is beating the hedgerow with might and main, and
giving tongue louder, and sending the leaves about faster than ever—very
proud of finding the pheasant, and perhaps a little angry with me for not
shooting it; at least looking as if he would be angry if I were a man; for
Dash is a dog of great sagacity, and has doubtless not lived four years in
the sporting world without making the discovery, that although gentlemen
do shoot, ladies do not.
The Loddon at last! the beautiful Loddon! and the bridge, where every one
stops, as by instinct, to lean over the rails, and gaze a moment on a
landscape of surpassing loveliness,—the fine grounds of the Great
House, with their magnificent groups of limes, and firs, and poplars
grander than ever poplars were; the green meadows opposite, studded with
oaks and elms; the clear winding river; the mill with its picturesque old
buildings, bounding the scene; all glowing with the rich colouring of
autumn, and harmonised by the soft beauty of the clear blue sky, and the
delicious calmness of the hour. The very peasant whose daily path it is,
cannot cross that bridge without a pause.
But the day is wearing fast, and it grows colder and colder. I really
think it will be a frost. After all, spring is the pleasantest season,
beautiful as this scenery is. We must get on. Down that broad yet shadowy
lane, between the park, dark with evergreens and dappled with deer, and
the meadows where sheep, and cows, and horses are grazing under the tall
elms; that lane, where the wild bank, clothed with fern, and tufted with
furze, and crowned by rich berried thorn, and thick shining holly on the
one side, seems to vie in beauty with the picturesque old paling, the
bright laurels, and the plumy cedars, on the other;—down that shady
lane, until the sudden turn brings us to an opening where four roads meet,
where a noble avenue turns down to the Great House; where the village
church rears its modest spire from amidst its venerable yew trees: and
where, embosomed in orchards and gardens, and backed by barns and ricks,
and all the wealth of the farmyard, stands the spacious and comfortable
abode of good Farmer Riley,—the end and object of our walk.
And in happy time the message is said and the answer given, for this
beautiful mild day is edging off into a dense frosty evening; the leaves
of the elm and the linden in the old avenue are quivering and vibrating
and fluttering in the air, and at length falling crisply on the earth, as
if Dash were beating for pheasants in the tree-tops; the sun gleams dimly
through the fog, giving little more of light and heat than his fair sister
the lady moon;—I don't know a more disappointing person than a cold
sun; and I am beginning to wrap my cloak closely round me, and to
calculate the distance to my own fireside, recanting all the way my
praises of November, and longing for the showery, flowery April, as much
as if I were a half-chilled butterfly, or a dahlia knocked down by the
frost.
Ah, dear me! what a climate this is, that one cannot keep in the same mind
about it for half an hour together! I wonder, by the way, whether the
fault is in the weather, which Dash does not seem to care for, or in me?
If I should happen to be wet through in a shower next spring, and should
catch myself longing for autumn, that would settle the question.
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