Chapter 2

Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around Of hills and dales and woods and lawns and spires, And glittering towns and gilded streams, 'till all The stretching landscape into smoke decays! Happy Brittannia! where the Queen of Arts, Inspiring vigor, Liberty, abroad Walks unconfined, even to thy farthest cots, And scatters plenty with unsparing hand.

_Thomson_.

And here let me put in a word in favor of the much-abused English climate. I cannot echo the unpatriotic discontent of Byron when he speaks of

The cold and cloudy clime Where he was born, but where he would not die.

Rather let me say with the author of "_The Seasons_," in his address to England.

Rich is thy soil and merciful thy clime.

King Charles the Second when he heard some foreigners condemning our climate and exulting in their own, observed that in his opinion that was the best climate in which a man could be out in the open air with pleasure, or at least without trouble and inconvenience, the most days of the year and the most hours of the day; and this he held was the case with the climate of England more than that of any other country in Europe. To say nothing of the lovely and noble specimens of human nature to which it seems so congenial, I may safely assert that it is peculiarly favorable, with, rare exceptions, to the sweet children of Flora. There is no country in the world in which there are at this day such innumerable tribes of flowers. There are in England two thousand varieties of the rose alone, and I venture to express a doubt whether the richest gardens of Persia or Cashmere could produce finer specimens of that universal favorite than are to be found in some of the small but highly cultivated enclosures of respectable English rustics.

The actual beauty of some of the commonest flowers in our gardens can be in no degree exaggerated--even in the daydreams of the most inspired poet. And when the author of Lalla Rookh talks so musically and pleasantly of the fragrant bowers of Amberabad, the country of Delight, a Province in Jinnistan or Fairy Land, he is only thinking of the shrubberies and flower-beds at Sloperton Cottage, and the green hills and vales of Wiltshire.

Sir William Temple observes that "besides the temper of our climate there are two things particular to us, that contribute much to the beauty and elegance of our gardens--which are, _the gravel of our walks and the fineness and almost perpetual greenness of our turf_."

"The face of England is so beautiful," says Horace Walpole, "that I do not believe that Tempe or Arcadia was half so rural; for both lying in hot climates must have wanted _the moss of our gardens_." Meyer, a German, a scientific practical gardener, who was also a writer on gardening, and had studied his art in the Royal Gardens at Paris, and afterwards visited England, was a great admirer of English Gardens, but despaired of introducing our style of gardening into Germany, _chiefly on account of its inferior turf for lawns_. "Lawns and gravel walks," says a writer in the _Quarterly Review_, "are the pride of English Gardens," "The smoothness and verdure of our lawns," continues the same writer, "is the first thing in our gardens that catches the eye of a foreigner; the next is the fineness and firmness of our gravel walks." Mr. Charles Mackintosh makes the same observation. "In no other country in the world," he says, "do such things exist." Mrs. Stowe, whose _Uncle Tom_ has done such service to the cause of liberty in America, on her visit to England seems to have been quite as much enchanted with our scenery, as was her countrywoman, Miss Sedgwick. I am pleased to find Mrs. Stowe recognize the superiority of English landscape-gardening and of our English verdure. She speaks of, "the princely art of landscape-gardening, for which England is so famous," and of "_vistas of verdure and wide sweeps of grass, short, thick, and vividly green_ as the velvet moss sometimes seen growing on rocks in new England." "Grass," she observes, "is an art and a science in England--it is an institution. The pains that are taken in sowing, tending, cutting, clipping, rolling and otherwise nursing and coaxing it, being seconded by the often-falling tears of the climate, produce results which must be seen to be appreciated." This is literally true: any sight more inexpressibly exquisite than that of an English lawn in fine order is what I am quite unable to conceive.[003]

I recollect that in one of my visits to England, (in 1827) I attempted to describe the scenery of India to William Hazlitt--not the living son but the dead father. Would that he were still in the land of the living by the side of his friend Leigh Hunt, who has been pensioned by the Government for his support of that cause for which they were both so bitterly persecuted by the ruling powers in days gone by. I flattered myself into the belief that Hazlitt was interested in some of my descriptions of Oriental scenes. What moved him most was an account of the dry, dusty, burning, grassless plains of Bundelcund in the hot season. I told him how once while gasping for breath in a hot verandah and leaning over the rails I looked down upon the sun-baked ground.

"A change came o'er the spirit of my dream."

I suddenly beheld with all the distinctness of reality the rich, cool, green, unrivalled meads of England. But the vision soon melted away, and I was again in exile. I wept like a child. It was like a beautiful mirage of the desert, or one of those waking dreams of home which have sometimes driven the long-voyaging seaman to distraction and urged him by an irresistible impulse to plunge headlong into the ocean.

When I had once more crossed the wide Atlantic--and (not by the necromancy of imagination but by a longer and more tedious transit) found myself in an English meadow,--I exclaimed with the poet,

Thou art free My country! and 'tis joy enough and pride For one hour's perfect bliss, _to tread the grass Of England once again_.

I felt my childhood for a time renewed, and was by no means disposed to second the assertion that

"Nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower."

I have never beheld any thing more lovely than scenery characteristically English; and Goldsmith, who was something of a traveller, and had gazed on several beautiful countries, was justified in speaking with such affectionate admiration of our still more beautiful England,

Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride.

It is impossible to put into any form of words the faintest representation of that delightful summer feeling which, is excited in fine weather by the sight of the mossy turf of our country. It is sweet indeed to go,

Musing through the _lawny_ vale:

alluded to by Warton, or over Milton's "level downs," or to climb up Thomson's

Stupendous rocks That from the sun-redoubling valley lift Cool to the middle air their _lawny_ tops.

It gives the Anglo-Indian Exile the heart-ache to think of these ramblings over English scenes.

ENGLAND.

Bengala's plains are richly green, Her azure skies of dazzling sheen, Her rivers vast, her forests grand. Her bowers brilliant,--but the land, Though dear to countless eyes it be, And fair to mine, hath not for me The charm ineffable of _home_; For still I yearn to see the foam Of wild waves on thy pebbled shore, Dear Albion! to ascend once more Thy snow-white cliffs; to hear again The murmur of thy circling main-- To stroll down each romantic dale Beloved in boyhood--to inhale Fresh life on green and breezy hills-- To trace the coy retreating rills-- To see the clouds at summer-tide Dappling all the landscape wide-- To mark the varying gloom and glow As the seasons come and go-- Again the green meads to behold Thick strewn with silvery gems and gold, Where kine, bright-spotted, large, and sleek, Browse silently, with aspect meek, Or motionless, in shallow stream Stand mirror'd, till their twin shapes seem, Feet linked to feet, forbid to sever, By some strange magic fixed for ever.

And oh! once more I fain would see (Here never seen) a poor man _free_,[004] And valuing more an humble name, But stainless, than a guilty fame, How sacred is the simplest cot, Where Freedom dwells!--where she is not How mean the palace! Where's the spot She loveth more than thy small isle, Queen of the sea? Where hath her smile So stirred man's inmost nature? Where Are courage firm, and virtue fair, And manly pride, so often found As in rude huts on English ground, Where e'en the serf who slaves for hire May kindle with a freeman's fire?

How proud a sight to English eyes Are England's village families! The patriarch, with his silver hair, The matron grave, the maiden fair. The rose-cheeked boy, the sturdy lad, On Sabbath day all neatly clad:-- Methinks I see them wend their way On some refulgent morn of May, By hedgerows trim, of fragrance rare, Towards the hallowed House of Prayer!

I can love _all_ lovely lands, But England _most_; for she commands. As if she bore a parent's part, The dearest movements of my heart; And here I may not breathe her name. Without a thrill through all my frame.

Never shall this heart be cold To thee, my country! till the mould (Or _thine_ or _this_) be o'er it spread. And form its dark and silent bed. I never think of bliss below But thy sweet hills their green heads show, Of love and beauty never dream. But English faces round me gleam!

D.L.R.

I have often observed that children never wear a more charming aspect than when playing in fields and gardens. In another volume I have recorded some of my impressions respecting the prominent interest excited by these little flowers of humanity in an English landscape.

* * * * *

THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.

When I re-visited my dear native country, after an absence of many weary years, and a long dull voyage, my heart was filled with unutterable delight and admiration. The land seemed a perfect paradise. It was in the spring of the year. The blue vault of heaven--the clear atmosphere--the balmy vernal breeze--the quiet and picturesque cattle, browsing on luxuriant verdure, or standing knee deep in a crystal lake--the hills sprinkled with snow-white sheep and sometimes partially shadowed by a wandering cloud--the meadows glowing with golden butter-cups and be-dropped with daisies--the trim hedges of crisp and sparkling holly--the sound of near but unseen rivulets, and the songs of foliage-hidden birds--the white cottages almost buried amidst trees, like happy human nests--the ivy-covered church, with its old grey spire "pointing up to heaven," and its gilded vane gleaming in the light--the sturdy peasants with their instruments of healthy toil--the white-capped matrons bleaching their newly-washed garments in the sun, and throwing them like snow-patches on green slopes, or glossy garden shrubs--the sun-browned village girls, resting idly on their round elbows at small open casements, their faces in sweet keeping with the trellised flowers:--all formed a combination of enchantments that would mock the happiest imitative efforts of human art. But though the bare enumeration of the details of this English picture, will, perhaps, awaken many dear recollections in the reader's mind, I have omitted by far the most interesting feature of the whole scene--_the rosy children, loitering about the cottage gates, or tumbling gaily on the warm grass_.[005][006]

Two scraps of verse of a similar tendency shall follow this prose description:--

AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE.

I stood, upon an English hill, And saw the far meandering rill, A vein of liquid silver, run Sparkling in the summer sun; While adown that green hill's side, And along the valley wide, Sheep, like small clouds touched with light, Or like little breakers bright, Sprinkled o'er a smiling sea, Seemed to float at liberty.

Scattered all around were seen, White cots on the meadows green. Open to the sky and breeze, Or peeping through the sheltering trees, On a light gate, loosely hung, Laughing children gaily swung; Oft their glad shouts, shrill and clear, Came upon the startled ear. Blended with the tremulous bleat, Of truant lambs, or voices sweet, Of birds, that take us by surprise, And mock the quickly-searching eyes.

Nearer sat a fair-haired boy, Whistling with a thoughtless joy; A shepherd's crook was in his hand, Emblem of a mild command; And upon his rounded cheek Were hues that ripened apples streak. Disease, nor pain, nor sorrowing, Touched that small Arcadian king; His sinless subjects wandered free-- Confusion without anarchy. Happier he upon his throne. The breezy hill--though all alone-- Than the grandest monarchs proud Who mistrust the kneeling crowd.

On a gently rising ground, The lovely valley's farthest bound, Bordered by an ancient wood, The cots in thicker clusters stood; And a church, uprose between, Hallowing the peaceful scene. Distance o'er its old walls threw A soft and dim cerulean hue, While the sun-lit gilded spire Gleamed as with celestial fire!

I have crossed the ocean wave, Haply for a foreign grave; Haply never more to look On a British hill or brook; Haply never more to hear Sounds unto my childhood dear; Yet if sometimes on my soul Bitter thoughts beyond controul Throw a shade more dark than night, Soon upon the mental sight Flashes forth a pleasant ray Brighter, holier than the day; And unto that happy mood All seems beautiful and good.

D.L.R.

LINES TO A LADY,

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH SOME ENGLISH FRUITS AND FLOWERS.

Green herbs and gushing springs in some hot waste Though, grateful to the traveller's sight and taste, Seem far less sweet and fair than fruits and flowers That breathe, in foreign lands, of English bowers.

Thy gracious gift, dear lady, well recalls Sweet scenes of home,--the white cot's trellised walls-- The trim red garden path--the rustic seat-- The jasmine-covered arbour, fit retreat For hearts that love repose. Each spot displays Some long-remembered charm. In sweet amaze I feel as one who from a weary dream Of exile wakes, and sees the morning beam Illume the glorious clouds of every hue That float o'er scenes his happy childhood knew.

How small a spark may kindle fancy's flame And light up all the past! The very same Glad sounds and sights that charmed my heart of old Arrest me now--I hear them and behold.

Ah! yonder is the happy circle seated Within, the favorite bower! I am greeted With joyous shouts; my rosy boys have heard A father's voice--their little hearts are stirred With eager hope of some new toy or treat And on they rush, with never-resting feet!

* * * * *

Gone is the sweet illusion--like a scene Formed by the western vapors, when between The dusky earth, and day's departing light The curtain falls of India's sudden night.

D.L.R.

The verdant carpet embroidered with little stars of gold and silver--the short-grown, smooth, and close-woven, but most delicate and elastic fresh sward--so soothing to the dazzled eye, so welcome to the wearied limbs--so suggestive of innocent and happy thoughts,--so refreshing to the freed visitor, long pent up in the smoky city--is surely no where to be seen in such exquisite perfection as on the broad meadows and softly-swelling hills of England. And perhaps in no country in the world could _pic-nic_ holiday-makers or playful children with more perfect security of life and health stroll about or rest upon Earth's richly enamelled floor from sunrise to sunset on a summer's day. No Englishman would dare to stretch himself at full length and address himself to sleep upon an Oriental meadow unless he were perfectly indifferent to life itself and could see nothing terrible in the hostility of the deadliest reptiles. When wading through the long grass and thick jungles of Bengal, he is made to acknowledge the full force of the true and beautiful expression--"_In the midst of life we are in death_." The British Indian exile on his return home is delighted with the "sweet security" of his native fields. He may then feel with Wordsworth how

Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head. And dear _the velvet greensward_ to his tread.

Or he may exclaim in the words of poor Keats--now slumbering under a foreign turf--

Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than her own.

It is a pleasing proof of the fine moral influence of natural scenery that the most ceremonious strangers can hardly be long seated together in the open air on the "velvet greensward" without casting off for a while the cold formalities of artificial life, and becoming as frank and social as ingenuous school-boys. Nature breathes peace and geniality into almost every human heart.

"John Thelwall," says Coleridge, "had something very good about him. We were sitting in a beautiful recess in the Quantocks when I said to him 'Citizen John, this is a fine place to talk treason in!' 'Nay, Citizen Samuel,' replied he, 'it is rather a place to make us forget that there is any necessity for treason!'"

Leigh Hunt, who always looks on nature with the eye of a true painter and the imagination of a true poet, has represented with delightful force and vividness some of those accidents of light and shade that diversify an English meadow.

RAIN AND SUNSHINE IN MAY.

"Can any thing be more lovely, than the meadows between the rains of May, when the sun smites them on the sudden like a painter, and they laugh up at him, as if he had lighted a loving cheek!

I speak of a season when the returning threats of cold and the resisting warmth of summer time, make robust mirth in the air; when the winds imitate on a sudden the vehemence of winter; and silver-white clouds are abrupt in their coming down and shadows on the grass chase one another, panting, over the fields, like a pursuit of spirits. With undulating necks they pant forward, like hounds or the leopard.

See! the cloud is after the light, gliding over the country like the shadow of a god; and now the meadows are lit up here and there with sunshine, as if the soul of Titian were standing in heaven, and playing his fancies on them. Green are the trees in shadow; but the trees in the sun how twenty-fold green _they_ are--rich and variegated with gold!"

One of the many exquisite out-of-doors enjoyments for the observers of nature, is the sight of an English harvest. How cheering it is to behold the sickles flashing in the sun, as the reapers with well sinewed arm, and with a sweeping movement, mow down the close-arrayed ranks of the harvest field! What are "the rapture of the strife" and all the "pomp, pride and circumstance of glorious war," that bring death to some and agony and grief to others, compared with the green and golden trophies of the honest Husbandman whose bloodless blade makes no wife a widow, no child an orphan,--whose office is not to spread horror and desolation through shrieking cities, but to multiply and distribute the riches of nature over a smiling land.

But let us quit the open fields for a time, and turn again to the flowery retreats of

Retired Leisure That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.

In all ages, in all countries, in all creeds, a garden is represented as the scene not only of earthly but of celestial enjoyment. The ancients had their Elysian Fields and the garden of the Hesperides, the Christian has his Garden of Eden, the Mahommedan his Paradise of groves and flowers and crystal fountains and black eyed Houries.

"God Almighty," says Lord Bacon, "first planted a garden; and indeed it is the purest of all pleasures: it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man." Bacon, though a utilitarian philosopher, was such a lover of flowers that he was never satisfied unless he saw them in almost every room of his house, and when he came to discourse of them in his Essays, his thoughts involuntarily moved harmonious numbers. How naturally the following prose sentence in Bacon's Essay on Gardens almost resolves itself into verse.

"For the heath which was the first part of our plot, I wish it to be framed as much as may be to a natural wildness. Trees I would have none in it, but some thickets made only of sweet briar and honeysuckle, and some wild vine amongst; and the ground set with violets, strawberries and primroses; for these are sweet, and prosper in the shade."

"For the heath which was the third part of our plot-- I wish it to be framed As much as may be to a natural wildness. Trees I'd have none in't, but some thickets made Only of sweet-briar and honey-suckle, And some wild vine amongst; and the ground set With violets, strawberries, and primroses; For these are sweet and prosper in the shade."

It has been observed that the love of gardens is the only passion which increases with age. It is generally the most indulged in the two extremes of life. In middle age men are often too much involved in the affairs of the busy world fully to appreciate the tranquil pleasures in the gift of Flora. Flowers are the toys of the young and a source of the sweetest and serenest enjoyments for the old. But there is no season of life for which they are unfitted and of which they cannot increase the charm.

"Give me," says the poet Rogers, "a garden well kept, however small, two or three spreading trees and a mind at ease, and I defy the world." The poet adds that he would not have his garden, too much extended. He seems to think it possible to have too much of a good thing. "Three acres of flowers and a regiment of gardeners," he says, "bring no more pleasure than a sufficiency." "A hundred thousand roses," he adds, "which we look at _en masse_, do not identify themselves in the same manner as even a very small border; and hence, if the cottager's mind is properly attuned, the little cottage-garden may give him more real delight than belongs to the owner of a thousand acres." In a smaller garden "we become acquainted, as it were," says the same poet, "and even form friendships with, individual flowers." It is delightful to observe how nature thus adjusts the inequalities of fortune and puts the poor man, in point of innocent happiness, on a level with the rich. The man of the most moderate means may cultivate many elegant tastes, and may have flowers in his little garden that the greatest sovereign in the world might enthusiastically admire. Flowers are never vulgar. A rose from a peasant's patch of ground is as fresh and elegant and fragrant as if it had been nurtured in a Royal parterre, and it would not be out of place in the richest porcelain vase of the most aristocratical drawing-room in Europe. The poor man's flower is a present for a princess, and of all gifts it is the one least liable to be rejected even by the haughty. It might he worn on the fair brow or bosom of Queen Victoria with a nobler grace than the costliest or most elaborate production of the goldsmith or the milliner.