Part 25

1827.—The winds of this autumn have been violent and distressing, but of all variable things, we know of none more so than our seasons and temperatures, produced probably by causes and combinations of which we have no comprehension, or power of foreseeing, “for these things come not by observation; we cannot say, Lo here! or Lo there!” What can be more extraordinary, or inexplicable by table or computation, than the sudden visitation, in the midst of storms and frosts, of such a day of brightness and warmth as we sometimes witness, cheering the aspect of all things,—a portrait of summer, brought from we know not what region, in a framework of winter. All these things assuredly have their effects upon the products of the earth, and by their means upon the creatures that are nourished by them, carrying on that imperceptible line of influences and intelligences that is maintained throughout nature. We know that vegetation and the atmosphere are in a constant state of barter and exchange, receiving and modifying; and possibly, from the unseen effects of a frosty morning, a fall of snow, or a few hours’ temperature of the air, a fruitful or an unproductive season may arise. We notice the effects of spring changes, because vegetation has so far advanced as to render influences manifest; but we cannot perceive the injuries of benefits accruing to a hidden circulation from particular events. Every person who has been conversant with cattle, must have remarked how uncertain their progress in improvement has been; that the abundant provision of one year did not prove equally nutritive with the scanty product of some other: this fact originates probably from the effects of atmospheric impulse, either directly upon vegetation, or upon the soil which produced the food collaterally, or upon both collectively. In a wet season, water appears to nourish plants, or to supply their requirements principally: in a dry one, nutriment must be obtained from the soil by means of the fibre of the root, and hence particles are imbibed chemically different; a dry or a drained soil, producing short and scanty herbage, will frequently improve the condition of cattle more than an adjoining meadow having a profusion of food, though probably no chemical analysis could indicate the difference. These periodical winds again, violent and distressing as they often prove, are yet unquestionably essential in the economy of nature: our two seasons, in which these commotions of the air most usually become manifest, are about the equinoxes of autumn and spring, periods which in many respects have a similarity with each other. In the autumn of our year, the foliage of trees and plants, &c., putrefy and decay; marshes and dull waters, clogged by their own products, stagnate, and discharge large portions of hydrogen, carbonic gas, &c., injurious and even fatal to animal existence: in summer all these baneful exhalations are neutralized and rendered wholesome by the vast quantities of oxygen, or vital air, discharged from vegetable foliage: but these agents of benefit, by the autumn, are no more—consequently the discharge of oxygen is suspended, but the production of unhealthy air increased by the additional decomposition of the season. To counteract this, is probably the business of the storms of wind and rain prevailing at this season, which, by agitating and dissipating the noxious airs, introduce fresh currents, and render the fluid we breathe salubrious. The same may be advanced in regard to spring: the whole decay of winter, having no neutralizing body to render it wholesome, requires some great influencing power to remove it. But all this is reasoning without actual evidence; a discursive license, from the fallibility of human judgment not often to be indulged in: yet we can so rarely perceive the purport of the movements of nature, that our conceptions, vague as they may be, are almost all that remain to us.

We have here so few operations of nature deserving mention, that I must not omit to notice a rather uncommon appearance in some of our clay- lands, which the surrounding parishes do not present. The soil of a few fields seems to cover for some depth a rock of coarse limestone, which we never burn for use. In a direction bearing nearly east and west, in a line pointing to the Severn, a number of sinkings and pits are observable, like abandoned shafts, or the commencement of mines. They are called by the country people “whirly pits.” In some instances the bottoms of them are not visible, owing to the tortuous irregularity of the passages; in other cases they are only deep hollows, covered with turf. These sinkings are evidently occasioned by the lowering of the surface in consequence of the removal of the support beneath. Where the under parts have been entirely displaced, the upper have fallen in, and formed a chasm; where only partially removed, deep, turfy hollows are formed. These removals have been occasioned, probably, by a stream of water running far beneath, and washing away the support; and in part by the superfluous water from the ditches and watercourses above draining into the fissures of the rock, and so gradually mining or wearing away a passage; for they are now frequently the receivers of all the running water from the land, which seems naturally to drain into them, and apparently has been so conducted for a long course of years. Some of them present dark and frightful chasms, and bushes and brambles are encouraged to grow about them, to prevent cattle from falling into the pits. Many a fox, when hard pressed, has been known to make for these “whirly pits,” as his last resource; and, secreting himself in some of the under cavities, has escaped from the pursuit of his enemies above. I once saw one of these animals dead at the bottom. Whether he perished from being unable to return up the crags after one of these retreats, or by any other means, I know not.

In particular years we are much troubled here by the luxuriant growth of a cryptogamous plant, which I believe to be the lichen fascicularis of Linnæus: it may always be found even in the dryest summers, but being in those seasons shrivelled up, is in no way troublesome, nor indeed noticed, unless sought for. This lichen covers the walks of shrubberies at times in shady places, and paths in the kitchen garden, appearing like a dull olivaceous crust, most observable about October or November, and the spring months; but in the summer of 1828, the unusual moisture of that season was so favorable to its growth, that even in August we could not walk in safety in those places where it abounded, our feet sliding along upon the gelatinous, slippery foliage and tubercles. Upon the walks of our culinary gardens we sprinkle coal ashes, and this enables us for some time to pass along with tolerable safety; but in the end it so fosters the growth of this lichen, and small mosses, which retain moisture as a sponge, that the evil we endeavor to remove is by the autumn increased: where gravel is not obtainable, paring off the crest of the walk is the only effectual remedy, and this ultimately we are necessitated to resort to. It is notable that such a very insignificant product, this hardly discernible plant, should endanger limb and life, and by circumstances become so formidable to us “lords of the creation,” as to force us to devise contrivances to counteract its injurious tendencies.

There are times when we suffer here greatly by the withering and searing up as it were of the leaves of our vegetation, which we attribute generally to an early morning’s frost. That late spring frosts do occasion such injuries, and that noxious blasts, from causes which we cannot divine, occasion infinite annual mischief, if not destruction, to our wall fruit, is most manifest; yet there is great reason to suspect that a large portion of the injuries which we ascribe to blights, blasts, and frosts, are occasioned by saline sprays brought by strong western or south-western gales from King-road in the Bristol Channel, eight or ten miles distant, or from even more remote waters, and swept over the adjoining country where the wind passes. This saline wind has often been suspected by me as the evil agent that accomplishes most of our blightings here; and on November the 3d, 1825, these suspicions were corroborated—for on this and the preceding days we had strong gales from the water, in consequence of which such windows as were situate to the west and south-west were skimmed over with a light saline scurf, the brass-work of the doors was corroded and turned green, painted works of all kinds were salt to the tongue, as was every thing that could condense the moisture; and the leaves of the shrubs in the hedge-rows, and of trees, all turned brown, and were crisped up. A row of large elms in particular, that fronted the gale, received its full influence; the whole of the windward side, then in full foliage, became perfectly brown and seared, and the leaves shortly afterwards parted from their sprays and left them bare, while the other and sheltered side of the trees preserved its green foliage very slightly influenced by the spray that burned up the other. No period of the leafy season is exempt from these pernicious effects, more or less, if the wind be sufficiently violent and blowing from the water. Portions of the country distant from the shores often seem more influenced by these salt sprays than others more near, the wind lifting up the saline moisture, bearing it aloft to remote parts, and dropping it as it travels over the land or meets with impediments.

Our apples in some years are more inclined to become spotted than in others, from causes not quite obvious, as moist summers do not occasion it more decidedly than dry. Particular sorts are more subject to these dark markings than others. The russet, though a rough-coated fruit, seems exempt from spots; whereas some of the smooth-rinded ones, especially the pearmain, are invariably disfigured with them. These marks appear to be an æcidium, which we frequently find to be perfectly matured, the centre occupied with minute, powdery capsules, having burst through their epidermis, or covering, which hangs in fragments round the margin. This æcidium[73] apparently derives its nutriment from the apple; for immediately round the verge of the spot the skin becomes wrinkled in consequence of the juices being drawn off by the fungus. In most cases the presence of plants of this nature is symptomatic of decay; but in this instance we find an exception to a pretty general effect, for the decay of the apple does not always commence at the spot, which does not even apparently contribute to it—for the whole fruit will shrivel up in time by the escape of its juices, without any decay by mortification. Though we are not able always to ascertain the purposes of nature, yet this little cryptogamous plant affords a strong example of her universal tendency to produce, and every vegetable substance seems to afford a soil for her productions. We have even an agaric, with a bulbous root and downy pileus,[72] that will spring from the smooth summit of another (agaricus caseus), which has a uniform footstalk, though not of common occurrence. Thus a plant, that itself arises from decay, is found to constitute a soil for another; and the termination of this chain of efficiency is hidden from us.

But the leaves of many vegetables often become singularly spotted during some parts of the summer, and such spots have not certainly been effected by the growth of cryptogamous plants, natural decay, or the punctures of insects, the usual agents in these cases. A very indifferent observer of these things, in strolling round his garden, must have remarked how uniformly and singularly the foliage of some of the varieties of the strawberry are spotted, and corroded as it were into little holes; whereas other kinds have seldom any of these marks visible on them. I have fancied that these spottings were occasioned by the influence of solar heat, a shower of rain falls, small drops collect and remain upon the leaf of the plant; the sun then darts out, converting all these globules of rain into so many little lenses, converging the rays, and scorching or burning a hole at the focus. This conjecture has been rather strengthened by observing, that upon certain sorts, the hautboy, alpine, &c., the rain when it falls uniformly wets the leaves, yet they do not become spotted; but the smooth leaves of others, roseberry, caledonian, upon which it stands in drops, always become marked and perforated: but whatever may be the real cause of these spottings, if the foliage be touched, by way of an experiment, with the point of a heated wire, after a few days they will present an appearance very similar to what is naturally effected.

There seems to be a curious analogy in their functions between the roots of plants and the moving parent of animated beings, a similar obligation being required from them both of providing for those dependent on them, and both will exert their energies in fulfilment of this ordained mandate: the roots of plants wander up and down in every direction, seeking for sustenance; and we frequently see trees, growing on rocks, extending their roots like sensitive beings, searching for moisture; if this is not obtained sufficiently, a sickly foliage and impoverished growth point out the condition of the plant.

The notable exertions which vegetables occasionally make to obtain nutriment may be instanced by the following rude drawing of an ash,—a tree which, in consequence of the profusion of its seed, we find more often scattered in wild and singular places than any other not propagated by the agency of birds, or conveyed by the winds. This one had originally been rooted in the earth, upon the top of a wall, but nourishment being required beyond what was supplied by the precarious moisture of the scanty soil, its roots proceeded downwards, winding their way through the crevices of the stones into the earth beneath, and remained apparently incorporated with the masonry; the materials of this wall being wanted for an adjoining work, were so pulled out, as to leave the tree with all its roots detached, much as represented, with all its vegetative powers uninjured: the root B had stretched itself along the top of the wall, but how far it had extended in perfection, is uncertain, being broken away when I saw it first. The wood of the ash, when burned in a green state,

will emit a fragrance like that which proceeds from the violet or mezerion, and this it will diffuse in particular states of the air to a considerable distance, a property that, I believe, is not observable in any other British wood: it is in the country only that we can be sensible of this, and it is particularly to be perceived in passing through a village when the cottagers are lighting their fires, or by a farm-house, when this wood, fresh cloven or newly lopped off, is burning;—as the wood dries, this sweet smell is in a great measure exhaled with the moisture, for in this state we are not sensible of any odor arising from it different from other woods.

THE YEAR 1825.

We are naturally solicitous to look back upon seasons remarkable for atmospheric phenomena, and compare their results with those passing before us, though we may be fully sensible that no conclusions can safely be drawn from them,—a variety of circumstances not known, or not comprehended, combining to produce results beyond our means of calculation. There have been times when such recollections brought no pleasure with them, by displaying the injuries and sufferings that hurricanes and floods have occasioned; and thus we who were witnesses of the distress occasioned by the lamentable rains of 1793, and the several successive years, when every wheat-sheaf presented a turf of verdant vegetation, cannot recollect it without sorrow, or ever forget that famine in our land. Yet it is amusing, on some occasions, to note the extremes of weather that our island has experienced; for though in general our seasons pass away without any very considerable dissimilitude, still we have known periods of great irregularity, drought or moisture, cold or heat. The freezing of great rivers, with the roasting of animals and passage of carriages upon the ice, our calendars and diaries relate; but instances of an opposite temperature, affording less striking events, are not so fully detailed as might be wished. The winter of 1661 appears to have been remarkable for its mildness; and it is rather curious that, in the century following, the winter of 1761 should have been equally notable for the mildness of its temperature. The winter of 1795 seems to have partaken of none of the severity usual to the season; and the summer of 1765 was remarkable for its heat and dryness, and all vegetation being influenced by their effects, brought forth fruits and flowers in unusual perfection.

But perhaps the year 1825, taking all its circumstances, is the most extraordinary to be found in our annals. The winter of 1824–5 had been mild and wet; the ensuing spring dry, but with keen winds and frosty mornings, which greatly injured the fine blossoms that appeared on our fruit trees; and the continued and profuse nightly fall of the honey-dew was quite unusual: the leaves of the oak, the cherry, and the plum, were constantly smeared and dropping with this clammy liquor, which, falling from the foliage on the ground, blackened it as if some dark fluid had been spilled upon it: the leaves of most of our stone fruits curled up, covered with aphides, and became deciduous; and their young shoots were destroyed by the punctures of these insects that clustered on them. This honey-dew continued to fall till about the middle of July, affording an abundant supply of food to multitudes of bees, moths, and other insects which swarmed about the trees. We rarely begin cutting our grass before the first week in July; but in consequence of the heat of June in this year, it was so drawn up, that much hay was made and carried by the 20th of June, which commonly is not accomplished till August. Our crops on good ground were considered as fair, though in general the chilling season of May had occasioned a deficiency; but all our clover crops and artificial grasses were harvested in the finest order, producing good- sized ricks and mows; yet their bulk was delusive, the provender cutting out light and strawy. The heat and drought continued, with very partial and slight showers of rain, all June and July; nor had we any thing like serviceable rain till the second of August. In consequence our grass lands were burned up, and our fields parched, presenting deep fissures in all parts. The heat was unusually distressing all day; and evening brought us little or no relief, as every wall radiated throughout the night the heat it had imbibed from the torrid sun of the day. Our bedroom windows were kept constantly open, all apprehension from damps and night airs, which at other times were of the first consideration, being disregarded; a cooler temperature, however obtained, was alone required; and we lingered below, unwilling to encounter the tossings and restlessness that our heated beds occasioned. Our wainscots cracked, furniture contracted and gaped with seams; a sandal-wood box, which had been in use for upwards of twenty years in dry rooms, shrunk and warped out of all form; a capsule of the sandbox tree (hura crepitans), which had remained in repose over a shelf above the fire-place for an unknown length of time, now first experienced an excess of dryness, and exploded in every direction; door frames contracted, window sashes became fixed and immovable. These are trifles to relate, but yet they mark the very unusual dryness of the atmosphere.

Monday and Tuesday, July 18th and 19th, will long be remembered as the acme of our suffering, the thermometer standing in the shade of a passage communicating immediately with the outer air, in an open situation, at 82° of Fahrenheit. A few yards nearer the air, on which the sun shone, it rose to 93°, without any influence from reflection or other causes. In towns, and more confined places, it is said, the heat was much greater. The current of air now felt like that near the mouth of an oven, heavy and oppressive, and occasioning more unpleasant sensations than such a temperature usually creates; animals became distressed, the young rooks of the season entered our gardens, and approached our doors, as in severe frosts, with open bills, panting for a cooler element; horses dropped exhausted on the roads; many of the public conveyances, which usually travelled by day, waited till night, to save the cattle from the overpowering influence of the sun. The leaves of our apple and filbert trees, in dry situations, withered up large forest trees, especially the elm, had their leaves so scorched by the sun, that they fell from their sprays as in autumn, rustling along the ground; the larch became perfectly deciduous. In our gardens, the havoc occasioned by the heat was very manifest. The fruit of the gooseberry, burnt up before maturity, hung shrivelled upon the leafless bushes; the strawberry and raspberry quite withered away; the stalk of the early potato was perfectly destroyed, and the tubers near the surface in many places became roasted and sodden by the heat, few obtaining their natural size, and sold at this period in the Bristol market at twenty-four shillings the sack. A few choice plants were saved by watering them daily; but in general the exhalation from the foliage, by reason of the heat of the earth, was greater than the root could supply, the green parts withering as if seared by a frost.

On the 20th of July, some farmers began to cut their wheat; and by the 25th reaping had generally commenced. Our bean crop presented, perhaps, an unprecedented instance of early ripeness, being usually mowed in September; but this year it was universally ripe, indeed more perfectly so than the wheat, by the 1st of August. The crop, however, proved a defective one: water became scarce, and the herbage of the fields afforded so little nutriment, that the cows nearly lost their milk, eight or ten being milked into a pail that four should have filled; and one week, from July the 18th to the 24th, butter could not be made to harden, but remained a soft oleaginous mass.

This extreme heat had a favorable influence on many of our exotic plants, enabling several to perfect their seed, which do not usually in our climate; such as nightstocks, erodiums, heliotrope, groundsels, cape-asters, and such green-house plants vegetating in the open air. With me all the polyanthus tribe, especially the double varieties, suffered greatly; lovers of the cold and moisture of a northern climate, in this tropic heat, they became so parched as never properly to recover their verdure, and in the ensuing spring I missed these gay and pleasing flowers in my borders.

It was a sad destructive season for the poor butterflies, and no sooner did a specimen appear upon the wing, than the swallow and all the fly- catching tribe snapped them up, rendered eager and vigilant from the scarcity of insect food. Even that active and circumspect creature the hummingbird sphinx could not always, with every exertion of its agility, escape their pursuit.