Part 9

At the English Opera-house the Managers, (Mr. Peake),--for fear the public, amid the refreshing coolness of the Upper Boxes, should forget that it is Summer time,--transfer the country into the confines of their Saloon (having purchased it at and for half-price in Covent Garden Market); and there, from six till eight, flowers of all hues look at each other by lamp-light despondingly, and after that hour turn their attention to the new accession of flowers, the Painted Ladies, which do not till then begin blowing in this singular soil. In the mean time, on the stage, Mr. Wrench (that easiest of actors with the hardest of names) carries all before him, not excepting his arms and hands. I never see Wrench, [who, by the bye, or by any other means that he can, ought by all means to get rid of the roughening letter in his name, and call himself Wench, Tench, Clench, Bench, or any other that may please him and us better. Indeed I cannot in conscience urge him to adopt either of the above, if he can possibly find another guiltless of that greatest of all enormities in a name, the susceptibility of being punned upon; for it is obvious that if he _should_ adopt either of the above, he must not, on his first after appearance in the Green Room, hope to escape from his punegyrical friend Mr. Peake, without being told, in the first case, (Wench) that his place is not _there_ but in the _other_ Green Room (the Saloon);--in the second, (Tench) that he need not have changed his name, for that he was a sufficiently _odd fish_ before;--in the third, (Clench) that he (Mr. P.) is greatly in want of a clever one for the finale of his next farce, and begs to make use of _him_ on the occasion;--and in the fourth, (Bench) that, belonging to a Royal Company, he is neither more nor less than the _King's Bench_, and "as such" must not be surprised if his theatrical friends fly to _him_ for shelter and protection in their hour of need, in preference to his name-sake over the water.--I beg the reader to remember, that the punishment due to all these prospective puns belongs exclusively to Mr. Peake; and on him let them be visited accordingly. Though I doubt not he will intimate in extenuation, that they are quite _pun-ish-meant_ enough in themselves.--But where was I?--oh]--I never see Wrench without fearing that, some day or other, a gleam of common sense may by accident miss its way to the brain of our winter managers, and they may bethink them (for if one does, both will) of offering an engagement to this most engaging of actors. But if they should, let me beseech him to turn (if he has one) a deaf ear to their entreaties; for we had need have something to look for at a Summer Theatre that cannot be had elsewhere.

I am not qualified to descend any lower than the Major of the Minor Theatres, in regard to what is doing there at this season; though it appears that Mr. Ducrow is still satisfying those who were not satisfied of it before, that Horsemanship is one of the Fine Arts; and though the Bills of the Coburg append sixteen instead of six notes of admiration to Mr. Nobody's name. Being somewhat fastidious in the affair of phraseology, the only mode in which I can explain my remissness in regard to the above particular is, that, whereas at this season of the year _Steam conveys us_ to all other places,--from the theatres frequented by throngs of "rude mechanicals" it most effectually keeps us away.

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

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

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

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

AUGUST.

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

August is that debateable ground of the year, which is situated exactly upon the confines of Summer and Autumn; and it is difficult to say which has the better claim to it. It is dressed in half the flowers of the one, and half the fruits of the other; and it has a sky and a temperature all its own, and which vie in beauty with those of the Spring. May itself can offer nothing so sweet to the senses, so enchanting to the imagination, and so soothing to the heart, as that genial influence which arises from the sights, the sounds, and the associations connected with an August evening in the Country, when the occupations and pleasures of the day are done, and when all, even the busiest, are fain to give way to that "wise passiveness," one hour of which is rife with more real enjoyment than a whole season of revelry. Those who will be wise (or foolish) enough to make comparisons between the various kinds of pleasure of which the mind of man is capable, will find that there is none (or but one) equal to that felt by a true lover of Nature, when he looks forth upon her open face silently, at a season like the present, and drinks in that still beauty which seems to emanate from every thing he sees, till his whole senses are steeped in a sweet forgetfulness, and he becomes unconscious of all but that _instinct of good_ which is ever present with us, but which can so seldom make itself felt amid that throng of thoughts which are ever busying and besieging us, in our intercourse with the living world. The only other feeling which equals this, in its intense quietude, and its satisfying fulness, is one which is almost identical with it,--where the accepted lover is gazing unobserved, and almost unconsciously, on the face of his mistress, and tracing there sweet evidences of that mysterious union which already exists between them. The great charm of Claude's pictures consists in their power of generating, to a certain degree, the description of feeling above alluded to; a feeling which no other pictures produce in the slightest degree; and which even his produce only enough of to either remind us of what we have experienced before, or give us a foretaste of what Nature herself has in store for us. And I only mention them here, in order that those who are accustomed to expend themselves in admiration of the copies may be led to look at the originals in the same spirit; when they will find, that the one is to the other, what a thought is to a feeling, or what a beautiful mask is to the beautiful living face from which it was modelled. Let the professed enthusiasts to Claude look at Nature's pictures through the same eyes, and with the same prepared feelings, as they look at his (which few, if any of them have ever done), and they will find that they have hitherto been content to _fancy_ what they now _feel_; and this discovery will not derogate from the value of the said fancy, but will, on the contrary, make it more effective by making it less vague. When you hear people extravagant in their general praise of Claude's Landscapes, you may shrewdly suspect that they have never experienced in the presence of Nature herself those sensations which enabled Claude to be what he was; and that, in admiring him, they have only been yielding to involuntary yearnings after that Nature which they have hitherto neglected to look upon. They have been worshipping the image, and passing by the visible god.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would fain have to describe the boisterous and happy revelries that used to ensue upon these scenes, and should do still. And what if they were attended by mirth a little over-riotous, or a few broken crowns? Better so, than the troops of broken spirits that now linger amidst the overflowing plenty of the last Harvest-field, and begin to think where they shall wander in search of their next week's bread.

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

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

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