THE 
 
 
 
 JOHN • CRAIG 
 
 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 
 
 COLLEGE 
 
 
 
 OF 
 
 
 
 AGRICULTURE 
 
 
 
 
 
S 521.M65 
 
 Cornell Uni 
 
 iversity Library 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924000946008 
 
COUNTRY PLEASURES 
 
ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
COUNTRY PLEASURES 
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF A YEAR 
 
 CHIEFLY IN A GARDEN 
 
 GEORGE MILNER 
 
 
 ■tatf.i' >#,. _/ 
 
 i ' -€ 
 
 Mm 
 
 NEW EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET 
 
 1893 
 
 [All rights reserved^ 
 
MY WIFE, 
 
 WHO SHARED WITH ME 
 
 THESE "COUNTRY PLEASURES, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 3b $ffecfionafefg ©ebtcafeb. 
 
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 The Country Notes presented to the reader in 
 this volume were written at the several places 
 and upon the successive dates which are 
 superscribed. They record, therefore, not 
 afterthoughts, but immediate impressions and 
 such moods of mind, whether transient or per- 
 manent, as were actually induced by the scenes 
 portrayed. As will be observed, the greater 
 part of them have reference to a garden situated 
 in an ancient parish on the south-eastern side 
 of Lancashire. Although this parish or town- 
 ship .is already threatened on one of its borders 
 by the fast-approaching outworks of a great 
 city, it retains some nooks of sylvan greenness, 
 and a few places where rural quiet and com- 
 parative seclusion still remain. Like that parish 
 in which Chaucer's good parson laboured, it 
 
viii Preface. 
 
 might even yet be fitly described as 'wide,' 
 with 'houses fer asondur.' 
 
 Of the garden itself it may be said that it 
 possesses no especial advantages either of soil 
 or of climate ; but it is large and old — extending 
 over several acres and having considerable 
 variety in the shape of wood and water, orchard 
 and lawn, dingle and meadow. The reader 
 who cares to know anything of the adjacent 
 country — which is not usually thought to be 
 attractive — will find it described in some of the 
 later Notes, and particularly in those headed 
 'The Glen,' 'The Clough,' and 'The Moss.' 
 It would have been better, perhaps, if 
 these could have appeared in the earlier 
 pages ; but, having been written at special 
 seasons, the arrangement of the book re- 
 quired that they should remain where they 
 now are. 
 
 To make the repetition of places and dates 
 unnecessary, it may be explained here that the 
 year referred to throughout is that of 1878; 
 and that, where no locality is given, the writer's 
 
Preface. ix 
 
 own homestead and garden at Moston are to 
 be inferred. 
 
 A word of explanation, and, in some sense, 
 of apology, may be added with reference to the 
 numerous quotations in this book. The reader 
 is asked to regard them not as excrescences, 
 nor even as extraneous gems selected for the 
 enrichment of the text, but as something corre- 
 lative with, and indeed essential to, the idea 
 and plan of that which has been attempted. It 
 has been the writer's habit to associate certain 
 passages of literature with certain scenes of 
 natural beauty, or with particular phases of 
 country life, in such an intimate way that the 
 pleasure given by the one was in no small 
 degree dependent upon the existence and 
 recognition of the other ; and as the writer's 
 chief object has been to convey to the reader 
 as completely as possible the delight which he 
 himself felt, it became not only desirable, but 
 necessary, to insert such passages as were 
 already connected in his own mind with the 
 things described. It remains only to say that 
 
x Preface. 
 
 the division of the work into months and weeks 
 will facilitate its use as a Year-book of rural 
 seasons ; and that it is hoped it will, at least, 
 show how far it is possible, even in the neigh- 
 bourhood of a large town, to study the common 
 aspects of Nature, and to interest the circle of 
 a family in the simple pleasures and home-bred 
 observances of a country life. 
 
 In order to avoid encumbering the text, the 
 Quotation-references, and a few explanatory 
 notes, have been placed at the end of the 
 volume. 
 
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 That another edition of this book — the third 
 in England * — should be called for is a pleasant 
 proof of its acceptability. The English people 
 have an inbred love for such records of rural 
 life and are not ungrateful to those who furnish 
 them. 
 
 Since the first edition appeared in 1881 the 
 writer has had abundant evidence of the 
 gratification which his work — with all its short- 
 comings — has afforded to many readers in 
 different parts of the world. That his book 
 should have secured admirers is but little ; that 
 it should have made friends for him both at 
 home and abroad is much more. From persons 
 of English descent in America, Australia, and 
 India, whose thoughts revert to the old country 
 
 1 An edition was also published at Boston, America. 
 
xii Preface. 
 
 with singular affection, as well as from English- 
 men temporarily exiled, he has received many 
 warm acknowledgments of indebtedness. 
 
 In the present edition a few corrections have 
 been made, but the plan of the work forbade 
 the addition of new material. 
 
 April, 1893. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 JANUARY. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. Spring Days in January 2 
 
 II. Returning Winter 
 
 4 
 
 III. A Fall of Snow 6 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 IV. The White Fog io 
 V. A Frosty Morning 13 
 
 VI. Snowdrops 16 
 
 VII. The Crocus 20 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 VIII. Spring-time in the Lake-Country 25 
 
 IX. Shrovetide 32 
 
 X. Daffodils - 36 
 
 XI. Spring-time on the Coast 43 
 
xiv Contents. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XII. Mid-Lent and All-Fools' 48 
 
 XIII. The Lesser Celandine 53 
 
 XIV. The Daisy 59 
 XV. On the Moorland - 95 
 
 MAY. 
 
 XVI. May-day 72 
 XVII. The History of a Throstle's Nest 77 
 XVIII. The White-thorn 83 
 XIX. Bees and Blossoms 88 
 XX. Still Days : the Chronicle of a Hedge-war- 
 bler's Nest g3 
 
 JUNE. 
 XXI. More about Birds : Meadow-pipit and Black- 
 bird gg 
 XXII. Whitsuntide : the Skylark 106 
 
 XXIII. Summer in the Midlands iio 
 
 XXIV. Midsummer Nights and Days 117 
 
 JULY. 
 
 XXV. Tropical Summer : In the Hayfield 123 
 
 XXVI. The Foxglove Garden 128 
 
 XXVII. The Summer Woods 133 
 
 XXVIII. Hot Summer again : a Gossip about Birds 139 
 
 XXIX. The Old-fashioned Garden 145 
 
Contents. xv 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXX. On the Coast of Arran : Wild Flowers and 
 
 the First Aspect 153 
 
 XXXI. Corrie and Glen-Sannox 159 
 
 XXXII. By the Sea 167 
 
 XXXIII. On the Mountain 175 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 XXXIV. Reminiscences : Ben-Ghoil and Loch-Ranza 183 
 XXXV. The Beginning of Autumn 194 
 
 XXXVI. The Wild West Wind 200 
 
 XXXVII. Autumn on the Welsh Hills - 205 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 XXXVIII. Autumn on the Welsh Hills (continued) 213 
 
 XXXIX. Echoes of the Spring 221 
 XL. Aspects of Autumn in the Garden and the 
 
 Wood 226 
 
 XLI. The Indian Summer 232 
 
 XLII. The Glen 238 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 XLIII. The First Week of Winter : Red-letter 
 
 Days - 245 
 
 XLIV. A Snow-storm 252 
 
 XLV. The Clough - 257 
 
 XLVI. November Fog 266 
 
Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DECEMBER and JANUARY. 
 
 XLVII. The Moss "272 
 
 XLVIII. Winter in the Lake-Country 280 
 
 XLIX. Winter in the Lake-Country {continued) 286 
 
 L. An Old-fashioned Winter 298 
 
 LI. Christmas-Eve 306 
 
 LII. Conclusion : The Old Year ended, and the 
 
 New Year begun 314 
 
 An Index of Quotations 327 
 
 Miscellaneous Notes 
 General Index 
 
 333 
 337 
 
COUNTRY PLEASURES. 
 
 JANUARY. 
 
 Nature never did betray 
 The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. — Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 
 
 'Tis born with all : the love of Nature's works — 
 
 It is a flame that dies not even there, 
 
 Where nothing feeds it. Neither business, crowds, 
 
 Nor habits of luxurious city-life, 
 
 Whatever else they smother of true worth 
 
 In human bosoms, quench it or abate. * 
 
 Cowper, The Winter Evening. 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 I.— SPRING DAYS IN JANUARY. 
 
 January 17. 
 
 It almost seems as if we were to have no winter 
 this year, or only winter in its mildest form. And yet 
 one cannot help having forebodings of what may still 
 come upon us. I imagine that just as we usually 
 have our short Indian summer, coming in the late 
 autumn, so we have our ante-spring— our premonitory 
 awakening. However, we had better take what we 
 have got with thankfulness, and ward off the approach 
 of pessimism by averaging the joys and sorrows of 
 existence. To-day has had all the characteristics of 
 opening spring — no clear sunlight, indeed, but a hazy 
 tone of blue diffused over everything — seen in the sky 
 and hanging about the moist ground. Those lines of 
 Wordsworth, addressed to his sister in 1798, have 
 been running in my head ever since morning: — 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 
 Our living calendar : 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 
 Than years of toiling reason : 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 
 The spirit of the season. 
 Sorne silent laws our hearts will make, 
 
 Which they shall long obey : 
 We for the year to come may take 
 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
January. 3 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 
 About, below, above, 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls : 
 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
 Would that we might preserve such a temper and 
 frame such a measure for the whole year long ! 
 
 I have just come in from the garden ; and, though 
 it is near midnight, the air is as balmy as if it were 
 May ; and in the grey moonlight the whole land- 
 scape is softened down to an exquisite harmony. 
 
 For the last few days the signs of spring have been 
 very manifest. The Christmas-roses are not gone yet, 
 though they have been with us for more than six 
 weeks ; but they are beginning to look forlorn, and 
 are drooping on the beds. Perhaps the most joyous 
 thing we have now is a yellow-jasmine. It is trained 
 on a brick wall, in a warm corner facing the south- 
 west, and is in full bloom. It is leafless, and has 
 little or no fragrance, but the bright colour is enough. 
 And then there are already three clumps of primroses 
 in flower. They are on a sloping bank, looking north- 
 west, but sheltered by a thorn-hedge some eight or 
 ten feet high, which in a little while will be full of 
 newly-made birds' nests. 
 
 If we want to enjoy the approach of spring we 
 must look for leaves as well as flowers. There are 
 
 B 2 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 already plenty of dry twigs tipped with that reddish 
 brown which means bursting life ; but the pleasantest 
 thing to me is the foxglove foliage, the inner leaves 
 of which are now of a bright green. It needs but 
 little imagination to see, rising months hence from 
 this vivid centre, the ' foxglove spire ' — grandest of 
 our English wild flowers. 
 
 II.— RETURNING WINTER. 
 
 January 23. 
 
 Since I last wrote we have had continuance of 
 the mild spring weather until yesternight, when it 
 became cold and boisterous. About midnight the 
 sky was a line sight. The gibbous moon, rising late, 
 seemed to be scudding through the deeps, now beam- 
 ing out of a clear space, and anon plunging into a 
 gulf of clouds. The wind was then in the west ; 
 during the night it must have got into the north, for 
 this morning there were little wreaths of snow in re- 
 mote corners of the garden. Still the advent of life 
 and verdure proceeds. The scrubby elder-bushes are, 
 as usual, most forward, their new leaves being already 
 uncurling ; and I notice that the crocus and snowdrop 
 are pushing their spear-like points of foliage through 
 the soil. The yellow-jasmine in the warm corner has 
 
January. 5 
 
 not lost a petal yet. Those who love the sun and live 
 in places where there is not too much of his light 
 should cultivate yellow flowers, especially such as 
 grow in masses like the jasmine and the laburnum. 
 They give a feeling of sunshine on cloudy days. 
 
 By the way I should mention that our garden is 
 rich in corners and alleys. This would follow upon 
 saying that it is large and old-fashioned. The ancient 
 pleasure-ground and the ancient house are always full 
 of shady retreats and embayed recesses in which men 
 meditate, and use devotion, and commune with friends, 
 and, indeed, take all their highest pleasures. ' For the 
 Side Grounds,' says Lord Bacon, thinking of some 
 such places, 'you are to fill them with Varietie of 
 alleys. Private, to give a full Shade ; Some of them, 
 wheresoever the Sun be. You are to frame some of 
 them likewise for Shelter, that when the Wind blows 
 Sharpe, you may walke, as in a Gallery.' In the 
 particular corner of which I have been speaking, 
 where we always get out of the sharp wind, there 
 are, besides the yellow-jasmine, a few rose-bushes ; 
 a shapely thorn with a seat under it made of a large 
 root sawn in two ; and a little Dutch-garden in 
 which the tulips and crocuses will first be seen. 
 
 In one of Mr. Ruskin's Oxford Lectures there is 
 a noticeable passage about the dove, where he says 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 that the plumage of that bird when watched carefully 
 in the sunshine is ' the most exquisite, in the modesty 
 of it's light, and in the myriad mingling of its hue, of 
 all plumage.' I know how wonderfully beautiful these 
 feathers are when in motion, for I often watch a 
 flock of doves as they are feeding on the lawn ; but 
 I am not sure Mr. Ruskin would have spoken so abso- 
 lutely if he had remembered the plumage of the pea- 
 cock's neck. We have one of these birds, which comes 
 and stands by an open window and eats from my hand, 
 so that I have abundant opportunity of observing his 
 glorious colour. To me its splendid glancing and 
 vanishing of green and blue, yellow and purple, seem 
 finer than that of the dove ; and yet it is also ' modest,' 
 for the homely brown feathers, over which the 
 coloured ones are thrown like a delicate scarf, play 
 through, and tone down, what might otherwise seem 
 comparatively coarse and gaudy. 
 
 III.— A FALL OF SNOW. 
 
 January 30. 
 
 Winter, as I expected he would, has been re- 
 asserting himself. Our primroses have been covered 
 up with snow, and we have turned from thoughts of 
 spring to those of the time — 
 
January. 
 
 When birds die 
 In the deep forests ; and the fishes lie 
 Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes 
 Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes 
 A wrinkled clod, as hard as brick ; and when 
 Among their children, comfortable men 
 Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold. 
 
 The snow was grand while it lasted — a dry, dusty, 
 frozen snow. The children were hilarious. Hardly 
 anything produces such keen enjoyment, such ' tipsy 
 jollity ' in a healthy and unspoiled child — or, for that 
 matter, in a child-like man— as the sight of new- 
 fallen snow. Our little sledge was got out, and ran 
 bravely along the paths, making the powdered snow 
 fly before it in clouds : there was even rough skating 
 to be had on the beaten track in the lane, and before 
 evening there was a snow-man on the lawn — at least 
 the thing, by courtesy, was called a ' man,' but the 
 sculpture was certainly pre-artistic. I could find his 
 head, and perhaps his nose, but his legs were no 
 more discoverable than those of bold Widdrington at 
 the battle of Chevy Chase. 
 
 The week has been notable for its fine sunrisings 
 and its clear nights. This is the time of year to 
 watch the sun come up : in summer we are too late 
 abed to enjoy his appearing. It was very delightful 
 to see the first rosy colour flush the snow-furrows 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 while the moon was fading away in the south-west, 
 the sky being entirely clear under the influence of a 
 whistling north wind. No other wind gives the shrill 
 whistle that the north does. The south sighs, the 
 south-west sobs, the north-west blusters, but the true 
 north seems to blow a thin, keen note through a 
 high-pitched reed. 
 
 Under the influence of frost, the birds, as usual, 
 become bolder and more persistent. They flutter 
 about the windows, and perch on the rhododendrons, 
 waiting for their accustomed crumb-breakfast. The 
 robin takes his seat on a pear-tree branch which has 
 become loosened from the wall : this coign of vantage 
 enables him to look into the room. We are more 
 glad, I think, of the chance of seeing him even than 
 he is of seeing us. It is at night, however, that the 
 feeling of winter is most strong ; and the dumbness of 
 it is the first thing that strikes you : there is much 
 to see, but nothing to hear. The watercourses are 
 frozen"; the birds are all hidden — who knows where ? 
 — and the winds are still ; but how beautiful are the 
 white leaning roofs of our old homestead, and the red 
 glimmer in the windows of the neighbouring farm, 
 seen across a long stretch of snow ; and how mar- 
 vellously the stars seem to dance among the black 
 branches of the trees ! 
 
January. 9 
 
 Last night, I imagine, the cold was more intense 
 than at any time this season, if one may judge from 
 the frost-tracery on the windows. Would it not be 
 possible to get a ' nature-printed ' photograph of this 
 mimic representation of tropical fern and palm- 
 jungle ? As all hope of flowers, out of doors, is 
 gone for the present, we naturally turn to the green- 
 house for the beauty of colour. There we get, just 
 now, bright pots of the Chinese-primrose ; camellias, 
 white, damask, and pink; the deutzia, covered thickly 
 with blossoms ; and the delicate, crimson-tipped cy- 
 clamen. 
 
io Country Pleasures. 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 When the shining sunne laugheth once, 
 You deemen the Spring is come attonce ; 
 Tho gynne you, fond flyes ! the cold to scorne, 
 And, crowing in pypes made of greene come, 
 You thinken to be Lords of the yeare ; 
 But eft, when you count you freed from feare, 
 Comes the breme Winter with chamfred browes, 
 Full of wrinckles and frostie furrowes, 
 Drerily shooting his stormy darte, 
 Which cruddles the blood and pricks the harte. 
 
 Spenser, The Shephcards Calender, Fcbruarie. 
 
 IV.— THE WHITE FOG. 
 
 February 6. 
 
 The thermometer just too high for freezing, and 
 yet low enough to starve the blood ; the spectral 
 trees glimmering through a white fog ; your horizon 
 only some twenty yards distant ; — under such con- 
 ditions the Earth is not a cheerful place to live in. 
 And, to make it worse, this state of things came after 
 a clear and beautiful day. In the morning the sky 
 was barred with luminous clouds, the ice was over an 
 
February. n 
 
 inch thick on the pond, and at night we had a whole 
 hemisphere of stars — a rare thing with us— not a rag 
 of cloud or suspicion of smoke to be detected by any 
 scrutiny. At eight o'clock Venus had just gone down 
 in the west, brilliant enough, I should think, to cast a 
 shadow, certainly irradiating perceptibly a consider- 
 able arc of sky, and making all the stars in her 
 vicinage look pale ; the jewelled belt of Orion was 
 sparkling in the south ; the Seven Sisters lambent 
 overhead ; and the tail of the Bear pointing down- 
 ward to north-east. At such a time a curious feeling 
 comes up in the mind which it is difficult to express 
 — a feeling that we are not merely isolated dwellers 
 upon the Earth ; but interested spectators of, and, 
 indeed, participators in, the larger and grander system 
 by which we are surrounded. 
 
 It seemed as if at last we were really going to 
 have that long, long frost which somebody had 
 prophesied. The antiquarian member of our circle 
 went over the well-worn story of the frozen Thames, 
 the fair, and the roasted ox, and the rest of it ; and 
 our boys were planning a fire in the winter-house, and 
 a grand bout of torch-light skating on the pond. But 
 'the best-laid schemes gang aft a-gley,' a milder 
 counsel prevailed among the winds, the south chose 
 
12 Country Pleasures. 
 
 to blow, and down upon us came both the fog and a 
 partial thaw. 
 
 Is anything worse than fog in winter ? Dante, 
 with a proper insight, makes the Inferno foggy — 
 To no great distance could our sight 
 Through the thick fog and darken'd air discern ; 
 and again — 
 
 Now let thy visual nerve direction take 
 Along that ancient foam, and where abide 
 The densest fogs. 
 
 Of course, there is a fog in the Ancient Mariner. 
 Coleridge could not have missed such an opportunity ; 
 and, mark, it is a white fog, the most ghastly kind, 
 and that from which we have been suffering : — 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
 
 It perched for vespers nine ; 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
 
 Glimmered the white Moon-shine. 
 
 Tennyson, too, has made good use of this same white 
 fog. In the sad opening of Guinevere we have it : — ■ 
 The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, 
 Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still ; 
 
 and in the Passing of A rthur, when that last battle of 
 the west was going on, and when friend and foe were 
 all as shadows, we are told that — 
 
 A deathwhite mist slept over land and sea : 
 Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew 
 Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold 
 With formless fear. 
 
February. 13 
 
 This is bad enough ; but there are always compensa- 
 tions. In the cheerless twilight I was walking in our 
 little wood, when all at once a robin started from a 
 bough in front of me, and, as he will do even in the 
 dead of winter, piped forth his flute solo. The chill 
 had not been drawn down into his blood. But it was 
 soon over : the short song and the last flicker of day- 
 light both died away together. 
 
 V.—A FROSTY MORNING. 
 
 February 13. 
 
 There are few appearances of winter more pleasant 
 than the typical ' frosty morning.' I have not seen 
 Turner's picture of that name ; but the spectacle of 
 which I am thinking could not have been painted 
 even by him ; nor by any could it be adequately de- 
 scribed. We had such a morning yesterday. The 
 sky was not clouded, but it was covered with a haze 
 which was itself so full of light that it might be said 
 to have had the quality of brightness. The sun rose 
 only two or three fields away : he was a near neigh- 
 bour ; his light streamed through the hedges ; he 
 seemed to be set in the middle of the landscape, and to 
 be turning everything to his own substance and colour. 
 A hardy white-rose bush, conspicuous for its forward 
 
14 Country Pleasures. 
 
 leafage, glittered all over with pearl-like drops of 
 frozen moisture, which were mingled curiously with 
 the little green buds. Very beautiful also were the 
 long shadows of the trees stretching across the hoar- 
 frosted lawn. My own shadow — 
 
 Spindling into longitude immense, 
 In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
 That I myself was but a fleeting shade, 
 Provoked me to a smile. With eye askance 
 I saw the muscular proportioned limb 
 Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, 
 As they design'd to mock me, at my side 
 Took step for step. 
 
 The weather notes of the week would furnish a 
 record of the most various and diverse character; 
 frost and thaw, rain and fog, sunshine and gloom, 
 alternating and contrasting sharply with each other. 
 The seasons have seemed out of joint, and' the charac- 
 teristics of November have prevailed rather than those 
 of February. And yet there are abundant signs that 
 spring progresses. It is curious to note, indeed, to 
 what an extent the resuscitation of life goes on, inde- 
 pendently of exterior conditions. The mere lapse of 
 time, 'the process of the suns,' apart from the accidents 
 of heat and cold, seems to advance the march of 
 existence, as it is said to ' widen the thoughts of men.' 
 
 Walking at noon in the lanes when the frost had 
 melted a little on the hedge-banks, although the ice 
 
February. 15 
 
 was still thick in the ditch below, I could detect the 
 opening leaves of a ranunculus and of two or three 
 bright little trefoils. In the open garden the only 
 new flower is the hardy polyanthus, some tufts of 
 which are just ready to break into bloom. In the 
 greenhouse there is a new pleasure : the many- 
 coloured hyacinths are open, and load the air with 
 their delicious odour ; there is also the delicate 
 blossom of the Scilla-amoena, a dainty bit of aerial 
 blue, more exquisite even than that of our English 
 forget-me-not. In the hot-house the most striking 
 things are the begonias, with their pale-pink and 
 eccentrically-shaped flowers ; and in the fernery we 
 have a myriad-twinkling of green, an unfolding of 
 woolly crook-shaped and caterpillar-like buds ; and, 
 best of all, a row of hart's-tongue, the new leaves of 
 which look like six or seven white eggs laid in a 
 green nest. Some of the old fronds of these are over 
 two feet in length. I think those were not much 
 larger which one used to see growing so luxuriantly 
 on the sides of the draw-well in the courtyard of 
 Conway Castle. 
 
 That the birds have not had a hard winter is 
 obvious from the clusters of red berries which I still 
 find hanging on the hawthorn bushes. Every day 
 now they become more noisy, more demonstratively 
 
16 Country Pleasures. 
 
 busy and officious ; but one must admit that even 
 their elementary twittering brings a joy to the heart 
 such as the most elaborate music would not give. 
 
 In the dove-cote I see that nest-building is going 
 on with energy ; but I do not find that there are any 
 eggs yet. The statutory time for these, I am told, is 
 the feast of St. Valentine. 
 
 I am much interested in an ancient-looking 
 sparrow which comes and sits in a large thorn over 
 my head while I am feeding the doves and peacocks. 
 After the larger creatures have gone to a respectful 
 distance he drops down, and in a very self-satisfied 
 manner picks up the morsels that remain. He is a 
 philosopher. If he cannot have first, and best; he 
 takes what he can get with dignity and composure. 
 
 VI.— SNOWDROPS. 
 
 February 20. 
 
 These first flowers of spring — what a gracious 
 charm they have, a charm which is all their own ! 
 The meanest and poorest little blossom is more to us 
 to-day than a whole parterre of gaily-coloured, summer 
 favourites will be a few months hence. ' I only wish 
 to live till the snowdrops come again ; ' one can under- 
 
February. ij 
 
 stand that line better if one has ever seen the face of 
 a sick child, who has been imprisoned all the winter, 
 light up at the sight of an early spring flower. Our 
 snowdrops came out on the nineteenth. I found the 
 first one at the foot of the yellow-jasmine, whose 
 flowers, by the way, are almost quite fallen. I 
 thought it was alone — only a forerunner — but I soon 
 discovered that they were out all round, in the wild- 
 garden, and along the beds. What a perfect piece 
 of work it is ; and what a delicate harmony is the 
 result of its snow-whiteness streaked with pale 
 green ! No wonder it should stand for us as an 
 emblem of unsullied purity : — 
 
 Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
 
 As are the frosty skies, 
 Or this first snowdrop of the year 
 
 That in my bosom lies. 
 
 The sunshine which brought out the snowdrops 
 removed the final remains of our snow-man, for the 
 last vestige of him disappeared on the same day. 
 One of my little people came to me with quite a 
 piteous face to say that the ' man ' was all gone. 
 However, he had an existence of three weeks, and 
 his end was classical. He was himself his own 
 monument ; and, in a certain sense, he may be said 
 to have been disposed of by cremation. 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 Lord Bacon held that all life was larger and more 
 
 vigorous ' upon the full of the moon.' I have noticed 
 
 this week that one or two of our nights, lighted by 
 
 the full moon, have been in great contrast with our 
 
 days. The latter were common-place, colourless and 
 
 dreary — the sky blotted with featureless clouds ; but 
 
 at night, a wind springing up, as is often the case, 
 
 existence became a grander thing. I saw the moon 
 
 roll up out of the east — and what a roll there is in 
 
 her motion when she is near the earth— of such a 
 
 breadth as to make her appearance startling and 
 
 phenomenal. And then began her slow ascent 
 
 through a clear sky. Could I help reverting to 
 
 those magical lines in the old sonnet — 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moone, thou clim'st the skies ! 
 How silently, and with how wanne a face ! 
 
 but when, at last, she reached the zenith, the senti- 
 ment seemed to change ; she was now regnant, and 
 I said to myself — 
 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 
 and again — 
 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 
 
 It was a glorious picture ; and the note of it was 
 
 unity and simplicity ; no stars to lead away the mind, 
 
 no clouds, and hardly any shadow ; only the moon 
 
February. 19 
 
 and the sky which held her, and the receptive earth. 
 How still and quiet the old house looked with only 
 its one light glimmering — a home of sleep standing 
 in the midst of its moonlit belt of evergreens ! 
 
 After this came some real spring weather. The 
 sun for the first time in the year could be felt as a 
 source of perceptible warmth, that warmth which, like 
 wine, makes glad the heart of man. A brisk wind 
 made a pleasant noise, and tossed about the bare 
 branches of the trees ; the short, new blades of grass 
 could be seen in the meadows, distinguishable by 
 their freshness from those which have been compara- 
 tively green all through the winter ; the strawberry 
 leaves began to unfold their fans, and the gooseberry 
 bushes were covered with leaf-buds, which looked 
 like , pin-points of light. Towards evening the sun 
 had done his work of calling forth the new stream of 
 insect life : and in the level beams one could see the 
 strange dance of gnats going on — the curiously 
 monotonous pirouetting up and down a two-feet 
 space of air. A short life, I suppose, and a merry 
 one. 
 
 c 2 
 
20 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Mil.— THE CROCUS. 
 
 February 27. 
 
 In our Calendar of flowers this must be the week of 
 the crocus, as the last was that of the snowdrop. The 
 two flowers are always pretty near to each other in 
 point of time. The colder and paler blossom comes 
 first, but the warm crocus is never long after it. By 
 the ' warm crocus ' I mean, of course, the deep 
 yellow one, which is the most characteristic and the 
 most precious, because it looks like sunshine on the 
 ground, now, when sunshine is scarce. The yellow 
 is indeed wonderfully brilliant — brilliant almost as a 
 flame. Tennyson quite appropriately makes CEnone 
 say- 
 Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, 
 And at their feet the crocus brake like fire. 
 
 One must not despise, however, the other two colours, 
 the lilac and the white, which are beautiful enough 
 in themselves — the white especially, when it is fully 
 opened and shows its large saffron-coloured stigma. 
 
 That would be no starved or unlovely garland 
 which one might make of flowers culled entirely 
 from the pages of our lesser and almost unknown 
 pcets. The other day I lighted upon the following 
 dainty fancy by Sebastian Evans : — 
 
February. 21 
 
 Come, gather the crocus-cups with me, 
 And dream of the summer coming : 
 
 Saffron, and purple, and snowy white, 
 All awake to the first bees humming. 
 
 The white is there for the maiden-heart, 
 And the purple is there for sorrow : 
 
 The saffron is there for the true true love, 
 And they'll all be dead to-morrow. 
 
 Like many other good things, the crocus is a gift 
 
 from the east ; and Milton appropriately puts the 
 
 flower into his Paradise. 
 
 Under foot the violet, 
 Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay 
 Broidered the ground, more coloured than with stone 
 Of costliest emblem. 
 
 Finding the crocus out in my own garden, I 
 strolled towards an old house, not far distant, where I 
 knew I should see them in greater profusion. Passing 
 under a row of beech trees, I descend a steep lane 
 paved in the middle with the old-fashioned cobble, 
 and at the side with larger stones as a causeway. 
 On the banks here, when I was a boy, I used to 
 gather the speedwell and the violet ; but they are 
 gone now, and I fear are not destined to return. At 
 the bottom, in what is locally called ' The Hollows,' 
 are three or four cottages which lean fraternally to- 
 gether. Two or three streamlets gather into a brook ; 
 and as each water-course has its own tiny valley, the 
 
22 Country Pleasures. 
 
 conformation, for so small an area, is singularly varied. 
 A tall wood overhangs and makes, from most points, 
 a fine background. The cottages are white, but 
 weather-stained ; the roof-lines bend and waver ; and 
 on each gable there is the old ball-and-pinnacle 
 decoration. Long ago there was a water-wheel and 
 a mill here. Allusion is made to this in an inscrip- 
 tion, couched in questionable Latin, over the porched 
 door of one of the cottages : — 
 
 T. 
 
 S. S. 
 
 Hanc domum 1713 
 
 Condebant Molam 1714 
 
 Homo Viviscit Tunc 
 
 Fabricat Mox 
 
 Occumbit. 
 
 Ascending, again, by another short and steep lane, 
 I come upon the old mansion ; and on the grassy 
 brow in front I see the crocuses again, as I have seen 
 them now, never failing in their season, for more 
 years than one would care to name. They are not 
 all out yet, but a few sunny days will bring them into 
 full bloom ; and then many a pale mechanic will be 
 seen wandering out from the town in the evening, 
 with his children by the hand, to look at the familiar 
 sight. It is a good thing to plant crocuses, as these 
 have been planted, in the grass, after they have 
 
February. 23 
 
 flowered one year in the beds : they need no more 
 removing and multiply themselves without trouble 
 by throwing off new bulbs. 
 
 Few of those who come to look at the crocuses 
 will now see the ancient lady of the house, who, how- 
 ever, still watches over the flowers. Charles Lamb 
 would have delighted to sketch both her form and 
 character. She is a survival from a statelier age 
 than ours ; sweet in manner and yet reserved ; an 
 aristocrat without a title ; careless of the rich, but 
 kind to the poor, and curiously reverenced by such of 
 them as are native to the soil, who always speak of 
 her, by an affectionate courtesy, as ' the Lady Mary.' 
 Alas ! here, too, all is changing, and she must often 
 look out sadly enough on the ordered files of modern 
 houses which are marching with ominous rapidity 
 towards the once secluded home of her childhood. 
 
 The weather this week has been for the most part 
 dim and rainy; and yet the sky has not been without 
 beauty, especially towards dusk — the beauty of soft 
 grey cloud breaking into many shades, as the light 
 moved behind it, and woven across by the dark 
 branches of the trees. At six o'clock in the evening 
 I heard the thrush singing for the first time in the 
 wood : for a few minutes there was quite a chorus of 
 birds, but his note, mellow and yet loud, overpowered 
 
24 Country Pleasures. 
 
 them all. The house-pigeons are sitting. In the 
 open air the birds are beginning to mate, but there is 
 no nest-building yet. 
 
 A leafless mezereon which stands in the orchard - 
 house — where there is no artificial heat but only pro- 
 tection from exterior cold — is in full bloom ; and a 
 pear-tree on a south-west wall is covered with yellow 
 and glutinous-looking leaf-buds. At the foot of the 
 same tree there is a bunch of ' living green,' which, 
 later on, will climb higher up the bole, and array 
 itself in the delicate blossoms of the sweet-pea. 
 
March. 25 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 Slayer of the winter, art thou here again ? 
 welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh ! 
 The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, 
 Nor will we mock thee for thy faint, blue sky. 
 Welcome, O March ! whose kindly days and dry 
 Make April ready for the throstle's song, 
 Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong ! 
 
 William Morris, The Earthly Paradise. 
 
 VIII. -SPRING-TIME IN THE LAKE-COUNTRY. 
 
 Legberthwaite : March 4. 
 
 We shift the basis of our Country Notes this week 
 from Moston to Thirlmere and the Vale of Saint 
 John. It is a 'far cry,' and our journey hither was 
 not over till after midnight — a rainy and a murky 
 midnight. At first a certain fascination arises from 
 passing in the dark along roads and through scenes, 
 every turn and aspect of which have become familiar 
 to you ; but at length this becomes wearisome ; we 
 are jaded ; we hear only the monotonous clatter of 
 
26 Country Pleasures. 
 
 the horses' feet, see only the tree-trunks hurrying 
 past, and now and then the white foam on the lakes ; 
 but once in-doors and there is a right hospitable 
 welcome and a blazing fire. 
 
 In the morning the rain had passed away, and 
 only to look out through the chamber-window was 
 peace. We are sojourning in an old country-house, 
 built in the early part of the seventeenth century, and 
 like all such houses, quaint and rambling, but every- 
 where suggestive of repose. A smooth lawn slopes 
 down gently to the lake's edge ; but on the further 
 shore are the savage fells, and behind us is the breast 
 of Helvellyn. The rooms are not large, but they 
 have been built for comfort ; and, just as in some of 
 our old cathedrals, one finds every style and random 
 fancy of architecture, from the earliest arch to the 
 latest reredos ; so here one sees, either in the struc- 
 ture itself or in its furniture, something which will 
 mark for us every quarter-century, perhaps, since the 
 foundation was laid. The floors are polished : the 
 staircase is of black oak, with twisted rails ; one small 
 piece of painted, ancestral glass adorns the landing ; 
 grates and mantelpieces are Georgian — they make 
 you think of the wigs which many a night must have 
 nodded over them ; and up and down the apartments 
 there are dainty-looking black chairs, with traces of 
 
March. 27 
 
 faded gilding upon them ; queer mahogany cabinets, 
 obese and bow-legged, adorned with lacquered metal- 
 work; water-colour sketches very early and very pale; 
 ingenious devices in silver, almost worn away by much 
 polishing ; implements of sport and of the field- 
 saddle and bridle, boot and spur, hook and net ; and, 
 last, many an old folio — sermon or history or devo- 
 tion — resting still in its ponderous and musty calf- 
 binding. 
 
 It is not difficult to shape for oneself the kind of 
 life which people must have led in an ancient house 
 like this long before the poet Gray had so much as 
 discovered the country. What delightful summer 
 days they must have had, when the old-fashioned 
 garden with all its sweet posies was in bloom, and 
 when the bees were out on the fells ; and what wild 
 winter nights, when even Keswick would be cut off, 
 and when Dunmail Raise was blocked with snow ! 
 A lonely, leisurely, uneventful, and yet, withal, an 
 eminently comfortable life. Among the bookish 
 treasures which I turned over here, perhaps the most 
 fruitful in making the past familiar to me was a 
 manuscript volume of cookery recipes, the ' painful ' 
 record left by some notable housewife of the last 
 century. It bears the date 1721, and is written in the 
 large, upright, and ornate hand of the period. There 
 
28 Country Pleasures. 
 
 was at any rate no stint of cunningly-devised dainties 
 in those days. We read of how to make ' strong 
 mead ' and how to make ' small mead,' along with 
 many other comforting drinks ; and how to make 
 ' rare sweet water.' Think what water it must have 
 been when this was the initial process : ' Take mar- 
 joram, lavender, rosemary, muscovy, thyme, walnut- 
 leaves, damask roses, and pinks.' And here is a 
 recipe in full, which I give with all its quaintness and 
 singularity of spelling : — 
 
 To make Gelles of Current. 
 
 Pull ye Currens when they are Drye and pick them, and 
 put a few Rasps to it, if you have them ; and Sufuse them in 
 an Earthen pott all night over the fire in a Cettle full of water; 
 but mind that ye water Do not gett into ye pott ; then squese 
 them in your hands and strain them through a Cloth, taking 
 care of ye seeds that they goe not in ; and to Every pint of 
 Serrip a pound of Double Refined Shugar, and beat it ; put 
 your Shugar in ; Set it over Clear Coals and Lett it boyle up, 
 and Scum it, if there be need, then put in your Serrip, Letting it 
 not boyle ; Always stirring it till you think it will Cette, which 
 you may Know by Dropping A Little upon a plate, and Lett it 
 Stand till it be cold ; but take care you let it not be over Stif, 
 and when you think it is Right, then take it of ye fire and put 
 it in your Glases hott, this will serve for any other Gelles. 
 
 It seems to me that the spring is less advanced 
 here than at home. The snowdrops are plentiful and 
 very lovely, growing, not as with us in single tufts, 
 
March. 29 
 
 but thickly together in white patches, like daisies, 
 under the trees and on the grass. There are large 
 bunches of them set on the table at meals ; they look 
 wintry, but the smell of them, faint like the primrose, 
 is very charming. The only other plant which I can 
 discover in flower is the gorse, and that is but just 
 breaking its bud. In the woods there is no new 
 leafage yet. The whole landscape might be painted 
 in three colours — brown, green, and grey. The spray 
 of the trees is brown, the bracken on the mountains is 
 brown, and the deep drift of leaves and beech-nuts in 
 the hollows and under the hedges is brown ; the grass, 
 and the ubiquitous moss, and the laurels are green ; 
 while the tree-stems and the skies are grey. 
 
 Sailing on the lake, we see that there are still 
 streaks of snow on Helvellyn Low Man. The wind 
 is north-west, and the sky is clouded ; but sometimes 
 there is a bit of fleeting blue ; and now and then a 
 momentary and unexplained gleam of sunlight lying 
 on the broad shoulder of some distant mountain 
 makes one think of Bunyan's Land of Beulah. 
 
 The birds are plentiful. They seem to have fine 
 covert under the thick, round bushes of laurel ; there 
 are many finches, the green-finch being most beautiful 
 and conspicuous. I saw several flocks of wild ducks 
 cross the lake ; there was also the black-and-white- 
 
30 Country Pleasures. 
 
 winged gooseander, and two or three herons ; one of 
 these lighted upon a fir-tree, and a queer object he 
 looked, swinging about and stretching forth his long 
 neck. I must not forget to mention a little wren, no 
 bigger than a plum, who was standing on the top of 
 a pollard-willow. He nodded to me as I passed, as 
 if to say 'good morning,' and then turned into his 
 house, which was a hole in the tree. 
 
 The tourist, who is making the usual rush from 
 Grasmere to Keswick, seldom gets more than a 
 glimpse of the Vale of St. John ; but no valley in the 
 district would better repay quiet and careful exami- 
 nation. It is wide enough for a vale, yet in places 
 it has the romantic character of a gorge, and very 
 grandly is it walled in by the pyramidal forms of 
 Saddleback. Sir Walter Scott calls it — 
 
 The narrow valley of Saint John, 
 Down sloping to the western sky. 
 
 And his further description is not inapt : — 
 
 Paled in by many a lofty hill, 
 The narrow dale lay smooth and still, 
 And, down its verdant bosom led, 
 A winding brooklet found its bed. 
 But, midmost of the vale, a mound 
 Arose, with airy turrets crown'd, 
 Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, 
 And mighty keep and tower. 
 
March. 3 r 
 
 We found this vale full of refreshing contrast and 
 healing influence as we wandered along it on Sunday 
 morning to the small church at the farther or northern 
 end. There was a little sunshine on the hedges, and 
 I could detect the new leaves of the wild-strawberry, 
 the celandine, and the wood-sorrel. How perfect was 
 the stillness — perfect because broken, but broken only 
 by the fall of distant water, the low chirp of birds, 
 and the sough of the wind. The church, as usual 
 in this country, is a lowly building. You enter the 
 yard under an arch of thick holly and box — the holly 
 still carries its red berries — and there is a willow 
 trained round the porch ; the graves are mostly 
 nameless, but the snowdrop carries its white memo- 
 rial over rich and poor alike. 
 
 To-day I have been to Rydal, and looked in upon 
 an old artist friend, who now, wisely enough, makes 
 his home there. We found him lovingly at work on 
 a sprig of willow, trying to realise the poet's descrip- 
 tion of the — 
 
 Satin-shining palm 
 On sallows in the windy gleams of March. 
 
 Happy painter ! his life is his work, and his work 
 is only the religious love of nature expressed in act ! 
 There was misty rain on the hills, but Rydal cannot 
 be spoiled, and everything was touched with quiet 
 
32 Country Pleasures. 
 
 beauty. We walked together to the margin of the 
 Mere, and then up to Wordsworth's old house, where, 
 on the famous terrace, we found cowslips and daisies, 
 mingled with snowdrop and crocus ; and, under the 
 porch, in pots, carefully tended as a' kind of votive 
 offering to the dead, there was the lesser celandine, 
 his own chosen and favourite flower. 
 
 IX.— SHROVETIDE. 
 
 March 12. 
 
 In the Third Book of Kenelm Digby's Broad Stone 
 of Honour, there is an eloquent passage in which the 
 writer, trying to set forth, as is his wont, the attrac- 
 tive side of the Middle Ages, shows how the common 
 life was then beautified by the mingling of the natural 
 and the ecclesiastical seasons. Without accepting in 
 full these romantic and sentimental views, one may 
 admit the wisdom of breaking the dead monotony of 
 modern existence by observing, especially for the 
 sake of the young, such simple festivals as yet remain 
 in vogue. Since I last wrote, the feast of Shrovetide 
 has been duly honoured among us, in the old- 
 fashioned country style, with all customary rites and 
 ceremonies, aesthetic and culinary. 
 
 The first thing is to take down the ' Christmas,' as 
 
March. 33 
 
 the decorative evergreens are always called in Lanca- 
 shire. We never allow this to be done until Shrovetide 
 has come in, and then the doing of it is not an 
 operation but a ceremony. It marks a point in the 
 history of the year, when, even if we look back with 
 some regret on the in-door festivities of Christmas, we 
 are also looking forward to the out-door pleasures of 
 spring. And so there was much seasonable merriment 
 and boisterous shouting as the ladder was carried 
 about, and the great bunches were hauled down and 
 taken by many willing hands to an open space in the 
 garden. Then, when all had been heaped up, a live 
 coal was put underneath, and the dry but yet resinous 
 mass of holly and ivy, laurel and fir burst into such a 
 fire that the light of it, for a few minutes, might have 
 been seen for miles over the dark fields. It was a fine 
 thing to watch the sharp, arrowy flames darting out 
 from the central mass like living creatures, as if in 
 search of something to devour. When we went in- 
 doors again we found the house filled with the sweet 
 scent of the burnt branches. I must not omit to 
 mention that a bough of mistletoe was saved and 
 laid up with the yule-log brand to be kept until next 
 year. 
 
 And then came the scene in the kitchen, where 
 one who will not wear that symbol again, at any rate 
 
34 Country Pleasures. 
 
 for a twelvemonth, donned the cook's apron, wielded 
 
 the hissing pan, and tossed the savoury cakes into 
 
 the air. Herrick has a quaint little poem on the 
 
 taking down of the evergreens, but he fixes the time 
 
 for it as Candlemas Eve, not Shrovetide : — 
 
 Down with the rosemary, and so 
 
 Down with the bays and misletoe ; 
 
 Down with the holly, ivy, all 
 
 Wherewith ye dress'd the Christmas hall ; 
 
 That so the superstitious find 
 
 No one least branch there left behind ; 
 
 For look, how many leaves there be 
 
 Neglected there, maids, trust to me, 
 
 So many goblins you shall see. 
 
 Our maid carefully gathered up the scattered leaves, 
 and so, even in the old oak-room after midnight, 
 there were no goblins to be seen. The hall looks 
 naked enough now the accustomed garnishing is gone ; 
 but to-morrow we shall put up the orthodox branch 
 of green box, and that will hold its place till Easter 
 comes round. 
 
 The weather has been quite March-like in charac- 
 ter. We have had some rain, a little light frost at 
 night, and much heavy wind, rising on one occasion at 
 least into a gale. At sunset there was a momentary 
 gleam of crimson, over which the clouds suddenly 
 swirled and it was dark : a little while after, through 
 another rift in the vapour, there was a vision of the 
 
March. 35 
 
 new moon with the old moon in her arms — the 
 
 strange, spectral disk, with the thin bright crescent 
 
 at its edge — 
 
 O say na sae, my master deir, 
 
 For I fear a deadlie storme. 
 
 Late late yestreen I saw the new moone 
 
 Wi' the auld moon in hir arme ; 
 
 And I feir, I feir, my deir master, 
 
 That we will com to harme. 
 
 No doubt, as Coleridge has it — 
 
 The bard was weather-wise, who made 
 The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 
 
 At any rate, soon after this there was a great roar- 
 ing in the wood, and a tossing and smiting together 
 of branches, which continued through the night. 
 The next morning the dead twigs of winter were 
 strewn all over the ground. 
 
 The leafage is increasing in the garden, and is now 
 for the first time beginning to be perceptible as a 
 cloud of green. The fruit-trees — currant, gooseberry, 
 cherry, and pear-tree — are most forward. The labur- 
 num shows its white leaf-bud, and the lilac its dark 
 green. The flowering currant is in bloom. In the 
 greenhouse the camellias, which have been making 
 a great show with their scarlet and white, rose-red 
 and blush-pink, are now nearly over. By the way 
 
 a friend gives me intelligence from Cornwall which 
 
 D 2 
 
36 Country Pleasures. 
 
 makes our latitude seem cold and bare indeed. There, 
 he tells me, the camellias are flowering in the open 
 air, the primroses are by thousands in the hedge- 
 banks, and men lie on their backs in the sun. 
 
 The birds are hard at work on the lawn in a 
 morning. They seem to get an ample breakfast with 
 marvellous rapidity. To-day I counted fourteen 
 starlings in a flock, 'feeding like one' — the sun shin- 
 ing on their metallic-looking plumage as they struck 
 their long, yellow bills into the ground. A little 
 apart from the crowd were three or four throstles, less 
 bold, and feeding more daintily. The starlings, I 
 think, have begun to build. We see them carrying 
 sticks and straws under the eaves of the barn. 
 The plumage of this bird, though subdued, is very 
 beautiful if carefully examined. The feathers are 
 blue, green, black, and a lightish purple, and some 
 of them are curiously tipped with buff. As the bird 
 moves in the sun these colours mingle, and produce 
 that steely appearance to which I have already alluded. 
 
 X.- DAFFODILS. 
 
 March 20. 
 
 In the early part of the past week there have been 
 some nights of keen frost ; the thermometer marked 
 
March. 37 
 
 a minimum of five degrees below freezing, and we 
 had fields and roof-tiles whitened in the morning; 
 but later the weather has grown more genial. There 
 has been but little rain, and in the middle of the day 
 we have even seen clouds of dust — that dust which, 
 as the old saying has it, is, in March, worth a king's 
 ransom. The soil is what the gardener calls ' mellow,' 
 turning over without sticking to the spade: and in the 
 kitchen-plots we are beginning to put in plants and 
 seeds. 
 
 Can anything be more delightful than these spring 
 mornings are ? Even the shadows lie softly and 
 tenderly along the ground, which is yet moist with 
 newly melted rime ; the doves flutter down from the 
 cote, and their wings glance in the sun as they fly 
 low about one's head ; and then, there is the flicker 
 all round you of bright, new buds coming from their 
 sheaths in a virgin purity untouched as yet by smoke 
 or grime. But best of all there are now the daffodils 
 — a glorious sight ! We have them by hundreds in 
 our little wood and in the old perennial flower-garden. 
 They look best under the trees, growing without 
 order or arrangement. To my thinking they are 
 perfect both in form and colour. The form is classic 
 and might be put into a Greek picture without modi- 
 fication ; and the colour— well, no wonder that some 
 
38 Country Pleasures. 
 
 of our artists are enraptured with it ! Only look how 
 
 the rich, deep green of the foliage passes through a 
 
 tinge of the same colour on the outer petals into the 
 
 two harmonious yellows which make the inner part 
 
 of the flower. Some of them are still in bud, but 
 
 both wind and sun are acting upon them, and not a 
 
 few have shaken out their corollas to the breeze. 
 
 The daffodil is eminently a flower of the wind. 
 
 When you see it rudely tossed about you are not 
 
 pained but gladdened. This must have been just 
 
 the feeling which Wordsworth had when he wrote, 
 
 in 1804, that nameless poem which is among his 
 
 best — 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host of golden daffodils ; 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 
 And twinkle o'er the Milky Way, 
 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced; but they 
 
 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : 
 
 A poet could not but be gay, 
 
 In such a jocund company : 
 
 I gazed— and gazed— but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought. 
 
March. 39 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie, 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 It was by the shore of Ullswater, in the woods 
 below Gowbarrow Park, that Wordsworth saw the 
 crowd of daffodils which suggested this poem. How 
 much he owed to his gifted sister Dora one may judge 
 after reading her description of the same sight, as 
 given in her prose diary : — 
 
 ' I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew 
 among the mossy stones about them : some rested 
 their heads on these stones as on a pillow : the rest 
 tossed, and reeled, and danced, and seemed as if they 
 verily laughed with the wind, they looked so gay and 
 glancing.' 
 
 It is interesting to observe that while Wordsworth 
 was indebted for the body of this poem to his sister, 
 he also owed the crown of it to his wife. He himself 
 said : — 
 
 'The two best lines in it are by M. W. The 
 daffodils grew, and still grow, on the margin of Ulls- 
 water, and probably may be seen to this day as 
 beautiful in the month of March, nodding their golden 
 heads beside the dancing and foaming waves.' 
 
4<3 Country Pleasures. 
 
 The ' M. W.' was Mary Wordsworth, his wife, and 
 the two lines are those which everyone feels to be the 
 most pregnant and the most precious to us as a pos- 
 session in literature : — 
 
 , They flash upon that inward eye 
 
 Which is the bliss of solitude. 
 
 The older poets were fond of the daffodil. Michael 
 
 Drayton uses it as a simile for a shepherd's maid. 
 
 In one of his poems he says :— 
 
 ' Gorbo, as thou cam'st this way, 
 By yonder little hill, 
 Or, as thou through the fields didst stray, 
 Saw'st thou my Daffadil ? 
 
 ' She's in a. frock of Lincoln green, 
 Which colour likes her sight, 
 And never hath her beauty seen 
 But through a vail of white.' 
 ' Through yonder vale as I did pass, 
 Descending from the hill, 
 I met a smerking bonny lass, 
 They call her Daffadil ; 
 
 ' Whose presence, as along she went, 
 
 The pretty flowers did greet, 
 As though their heads they downward bent 
 With homage to her feet. 
 
 ' And all the shepherds that were nigh 
 From top of every hill, 
 Unto the vallies loud did cry, 
 There goes sweet Daffadil ! ' 
 
 Theusuallyjocund Herrick catches the melancholy 
 
March. 41 
 
 rather than the joyous side of the daffodil, and moral- 
 ises upon it with a sweet severity : — 
 
 Fair Daffadils, we weep to see 
 
 You haste away so soon ; 
 As yet the early-rising sun 
 
 Has not attained his noon. 
 
 Stay, stay, 
 Until the hasting day 
 Has run 
 But to the even-song ; 
 And having prayed together, we 
 Will go with you along. 
 
 Shakspere's IVrarch flowers are the daffodil and 
 the violet. Autolycus, in the Winter's Tale, sings : — 
 
 When daffodils begin to peer, 
 
 With heigh I the doxy over the dale, 
 
 Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year ; 
 For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. 
 
 And Perdita in the same play says : — 
 
 Daffodils, 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes 
 Or Cytherea's breath. 
 
 This last passage is probably the most perfectly 
 felicitous piece of expression in the language, and 
 our best example of discreet and faultless art, co- 
 existing with the flowing opulence of an apparently 
 spontaneous evolution. Much of the exquisite har- 
 
4 Z Country Pleasures. 
 
 mony of the lines will be found to depend on the 
 way in which alliteration, not too conspicuous, is 
 carried from line to line, and on the fact that, per- 
 haps with one exception, there are not in any one 
 line two accented feet carrying the same vowel-sound. 
 
 We have no violets yet to match with our daffodils 
 here ; but a friend sent me the other day a packet of 
 them from Hereford. They had been gathered in the 
 lanes, and are, I think, viola odorata — Shakspere's 
 violet. The corolla is white, but there is a dash of 
 yellow on the nectary, and the calyx is pale blue. I 
 put them into a shallow vessel of water and they 
 revived, and have given us in the room for days the 
 scent of ' Cytherea's breath.' 
 
 It is pleasant to see flowers so plentiful in the 
 town now. In the market-place there are bunches of 
 lilac and baskets of wallflowers for sale ; children cry 
 primroses and violets in the street, the country carts 
 come in with wreaths of daffodils about the horses' 
 heads ; and, to-day, I met in the heart of the city a 
 stately girl — she might have been Herrick's Julia — 
 carrying, somewhat proudly, a great bunch of daffo- 
 dils in front of her. If Burne Jones or Gabriel 
 Rossetti or Frederick Shields had seen the thing 
 they would have made a picture of it and called it 
 ' The Lady of the Daffodils.' 
 
March. 43 
 
 XI. -SPRING-TIME ON THE COAST. 
 
 March 27. 
 
 After a mild morning on the twenty-first the frost 
 set in again with great severity at night and lasted for 
 some days. The fickleness of our English spring is 
 proverbial :— 
 
 As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed, 
 And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze, 
 Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets 
 Deform the day delightless. 
 
 More than once we have had snow. On the twenty- 
 second a few ' fortuitous atoms ' came wavering down 
 in the early morning : we wondered if it could be 
 snow ; then followed the large woolly flakes, and after 
 that a whirling drift. The birds seemed quite startled. 
 In half-an-hour the landscape was transformed — we 
 were in mid-winter : in an hour it was all gone again, 
 with the exception of a few flakes which looked like 
 white blossom on the green of a budding elder. On 
 the twenty-fourth there was a heavier fall. The snow 
 was piled up on the window-sills ; there were icicles 
 a foot long ; and all day there was a strip of snow 
 plastered on the north-west sides of the trees. The 
 cold has brought the robin to the window again and 
 my gentleman-sparrow sits on the thorn waiting for 
 his crumbs. The throstles seek their food not on the 
 
44 Country Pleasures. 
 
 lawn but on the softer ground under the rhododen- 
 drons. In the orchard-house the peaches are showing 
 their delicate pink blossom. In the greenhouse the 
 hyacinths are over, but their place has been taken by 
 the barbaric colour of the tulips, — • 
 
 Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew. 
 
 I had opportunity last week of comparing notes 
 of the country life here with that in a Lancashire sea- 
 side village in the parish of North Meols. Although 
 vegetation was not much further advanced, the air 
 was, of course, milder than in this neighbourhood, 
 and the sky wore that soft and humid blue which is 
 the prime characteristic of spring. In an old Rectory 
 garden, neglected and weedy, but beautiful in its 
 negligence, I found the daffodils in full bloom, shaking 
 their golden heads over an embroidery of crocus and 
 primrose, or flaming like torches down some dark and 
 grass-grown alley. Overhead the rooks were at work 
 patching and mending their old nests. Some were 
 slowly making wing with material from adjoining 
 fields, some were sitting in the half-formed nests, 
 looking uncomfortably large for their habitations, and 
 others were perched on the swinging branches, ap- 
 parently watching or superintending the progress of 
 repairs. It is curious to find how few people there 
 
March. 45 
 
 are who dislike the noise of a rookery. It is a proof 
 of the power of association. The sound is harsh and 
 dissonant enough, but it calls up so many pleasant 
 pictures before the mind that it becomes quite a 
 solace to listen to it. In the fields the ploughman 
 was busy turning over the furrows, and all round 
 there was the ceaseless music of the lark. I was 
 listening for hours, but the ' rain of melody ' had no 
 pause, for as one tiny singer grew weary of pouring 
 out his ' full heart ' another, and sometimes two or 
 three together, ascended into the blue and took his 
 place. 
 
 A short field-walk brought me to what once was, 
 and, indeed, in great part, still is, one of the quaintest 
 hamlets in England. The place is full of artistic 
 quality, and it was no surprise to be told that both 
 George Mason and Frederick Walker had found 
 characteristic subjects there. Everything is pic- 
 turesque, and is, it must be added, in a condition of 
 unsanitary confusion. The cottages are mostly white, 
 one-storied, lower at one end than at the other, and 
 thickly thatched. Sometimes the straw roof curves 
 round a little window like a lowering eyebrow, and 
 here and there it is diversified with patches of brilliant 
 moss. A narrow stream runs through the village and 
 is crossed by small foot-bridges. It is not over clear, 
 
46 Country Pleasures. 
 
 but the cows stand in it to drink, and the ducks 
 paddle about and dive for worms. In the farm-yards 
 were some odd-looking and curiously leaning stacks 
 of bean-straw. It was pleasant to hang over the 
 fences and look into the cottage-gardens — gardens of 
 the old sort — -a little bush of silver-edged holly, a 
 crooked willow in a corner with one primrose at its 
 root, a tuft of polyanthus, a few crimson daisies, a 
 bed of sage and thyme, and a bit of fresh, green 
 parsley. 
 
 Knowing that some friends were in the neighbour- 
 hood, I inquired for them from a girl who was leaning 
 against a cottage porch. Had she seen anyone paint- 
 ing ? Yes ; and I should hear of them at the inn. 
 At the inn I discovered one of my friends working from 
 the figure. His picture might be called ' The Toilers 
 of the Sea,' — a group of fisher-folk coming up sadly 
 from the shore, bending under their burdens, the 
 back-ground a wild and gleaming evening sky. The 
 other was down in the meadows, south of the village. 
 I found him painting a green bank and a willow- 
 hedge behind the figure of a woman — a cockle- 
 gatherer ; — 
 
 Blowzed with health, and wind, and rain, 
 And labour ; — 
 
 a piece of genuine life, real and true both in colour 
 
March. 47 
 
 and form, and yet touched with poetic feeling. In 
 these warm meadows we wandered until nightfall. 
 We looked at the old Meols Hall, now a farm-house, 
 where, in the days of Queen Mary, lived a certain 
 Dame Mary Hesketh, who in later times was cast 
 into prison for making converts to the ' papist faythe ' ; 
 we noted the lovely colour of the budding willows — 
 which are everywhere about, bending back from the 
 sea in groves and in hedgerows — a soft, light brown, 
 with a touch of pink in it, harmonising perfectly with 
 the spring sky ; we found our first daisies in the grass, 
 and the little shepherd's-purse on the banks ; and 
 then, turning westward, we could see the undulating 
 dunes of sand, a strip of the blue estuary, and a fleet 
 of boats laid up for the weekly rest from labour. The 
 costumes of the locality are still fine — quite Breton in 
 character. The men have not learned the hateful 
 prison-fashion of cropping their heads ; they have 
 their hair long and wear bright blue jerseys. The 
 women are stalwart, solid, ' dour ' persons ; they still 
 keep to the short petticoat, and have lilac hoods, with 
 stiff, outstanding frills; and both their hands and 
 their faces tell of a hard life by land and on the sea. 
 
48 Country Pleasures. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 Proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim 
 
 Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, 
 
 That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. 
 
 Shakspere, Sonnets, xcviii. 
 
 Oh, to be in England 
 
 Now that April's there, 
 
 And whoever wakes in England 
 
 Sees, some morning, unaware, 
 
 That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 
 
 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 
 
 While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
 
 In England — now ! 
 
 Robert Browning, Home Thoughts from Abroad. 
 
 XII.— MID-LENT AND ALL-FOOLS'. 
 
 April 3. 
 ' Comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb,' 
 is the old saw about the month of March. Whatever 
 rude and leonine blasts he might have indulged in 
 during his early days, certainly his going out had 
 nothing in it of a lamb-like character. I do not remem- 
 ber a pleasanter or a more seasonable March than this 
 
April. 49 
 
 has been ; but the last day of it was one of the vilest 
 of the year — a bitter, biting, inclement, and dreary day. 
 Every half hour there was a wild drift of sleet, and 
 the frost was just severe enough to put that thin coat- 
 ing of ice on pond and pool which gives you a sense 
 of uncomfortable starving such as you don't get even 
 in a much lower temperature. Cheerless, however, as 
 the day was out of doors, we made the night cheerful 
 enough within. We had a roaring coal fire and sat 
 round it, remembering that it was the festival of Mid- 
 Lent. Our ancestors certainly deserve much credit for 
 their ingenuity in devising of festivals. Shakspere's 
 ' merry Shrovetide ' is hardly out of sight before we 
 find ourselves baiting, as it were, by the way at a 
 little intermedial feast — a feast in the middle of a 
 fast. Of course we partook of that mysterious cake — 
 simanellus, simnel, or simblin — the last is our ordinary 
 Lancashire pronunciation — whose history and the ety- 
 mology of whose name are both vague enough to form 
 the subject of constant warfare among our antiquarian 
 pundits. Also, we compounded and passed round as 
 a loving-cup the proper beverage for the day, the 
 ancient braggat — bragawd of the Welsh — ancient as 
 Chaucer — 
 
 Hir mouth was sweete as bragat is or meth, 
 Or hoord of apples, layd in hay or heth ; — 
 E 
 
50 Country Pleasures. 
 
 more ancient still, for is it not found some eight cen- 
 turies earlier in Taliesin and Aneurin ? 
 
 I do not profess to have any great skill in these 
 matters, but I think our braggat was fairly mixed, 
 and a right pleasant drink. The curious may care to 
 know that it consists of new-laid eggs well beaten, 
 sugar or honey, hot ale, and a dash of nutmeg or 
 other spice. I suppose it must be something like 
 that 'egg-hot,' of which dear old Lamb was so fond, 
 and to which he makes such frequent allusion. Writ- 
 ing to Coleridge, he says : ' I have been drinking egg- 
 hot and smoking Oronooko, associated circumstances 
 which ever forcibly recall to my mind our evenings 
 and nights at the Salutation.' 
 
 This festival, besides being known as Simnel 
 Sunday, Mid-Lent Sunday, and Braggat Sunday, is 
 also called by the singular name of Mothering Sun- 
 day. The designation had probably a purely eccle- 
 siastical origin ; but in later times it fitted itself to a 
 pleasant social observance, and in country places the 
 day is still known as a time when children revisit 
 their parents, taking with them as a gift a simnel 
 or other confection. Herrick, in one of his many 
 poems addressed to Dianeme, alludes to this 
 custom : — 
 
April. 51 
 
 I'le to thee a simnell bring, 
 'Gainst thou go'st a mothering ; 
 So that when she blesseth thee, 
 Half that blessing thou'lt give me. 
 
 During the latter half of last month there was 
 frost nearly every night, the thermometer being 
 often down to twenty-five degrees ; but as a compen- 
 sation, we had bracing air and much noble sky- 
 scenery : — the half moon riding through those undu- 
 lating fields of white and grey cloud which make the 
 most capacious-looking heaven we ever see ; or the 
 sun, setting large and bright in. a translucent west — 
 pale green and of infinite depth and barred only by 
 a few streaks of violet cloud — or overhung sometimes 
 by threatening masses of vapour which are best de- 
 scribed in the old Bible-phrase as like ' garments 
 rolled in blood.' 
 
 The changes of temperature have been very great, 
 and show what we have to prepare ourselves for 
 during what we are pleased to call spring weather. 
 In the afternoon of one day the thermometer rose 
 to 51 in the sun ; while it had been down in the pre- 
 vious night to nineteen degrees. It is wonderful how 
 well the birds stand the cold. Going out on starry 
 nights before the moon had risen, and walking with- 
 out noise under a high bank, I have seen them sit- 
 ting in the bare hedge against the sky by five or six 
 
 E 2 
 
52 Country Pleasures. 
 
 together ; and, even when the snow has been on the 
 trees, they have seemed merry enough, fluttering over 
 the old nests and scattering the flakes about with 
 their wings. The starlings, however, during the 
 severest weather, relinquished their nest-building, 
 and were seen going about in flocks again. 
 
 It is interesting also to note how little the vegeta- 
 tion is injured — it is, of course, retarded — by the cold. 
 I have seen the tenderest half-uncurled leaf-buds filled 
 night after night with snow or congealed moisture, 
 and yet they show no blackening or sign of decay. 
 The worst thing the frost did for us was to lay down 
 the daffodils : but part of them rose again, and many 
 are still only in bud ; and, some bright morning, ere 
 long, there will be a new and glorious display. The 
 only perceptible fruit-blossom out of doors is that 
 of the pear-trees. It is formed but not opened or 
 coloured, and it has been quite stationary now for 
 more than a fortnight. In the garden the common 
 elm is in flower, the bright yellow leaf-buds of the 
 horse-chestnut are conspicuous when the sun is on 
 the trees, and in the vinery the dry-looking canes are 
 breaking all over into fresh green. 
 
 Monday, the first of April, was signalised by a 
 pretty smart fall of snow in the early morning. When 
 one considers what the poets have written about 
 
April. 53 
 
 ' ethereal mildness ' and the like, this seems to be a 
 not inappropriate occurrence for the day. As I have 
 already quoted from Charles Lamb, I may as well 
 conclude with another extract from his delightful 
 pages — an extract which I take the liberty of apply- 
 ing to my own uses : — 
 
 ' The compliments of the season to my worthy 
 masters, and a merry first of April to us all ! ... 
 Take my word for this, reader, and say a fool told it 
 you, if you please, that he who hath not a dram of 
 folly in his mixture, hath pounds of much worse 
 matter in his composition. . . . And what are 
 commonly the world's received fools, but such 
 whereof the world is not worthy? And what have 
 been some of the kindliest patterns of our species 
 but so many darlings of absurdity, minions of the 
 goddess, and her white boys ? Reader, if you wrest 
 my words beyond their fair construction, it is you, 
 and not I, that are the April Fool.' 
 
 XIII.— THE LESSER CELANDINE. 
 
 April 10. 
 
 The flower of the week is the bright little celan- 
 dine, the beautiful but plebeian blossom of the fields 
 and hedges. Crossing a meadow near the house you 
 
54 Country Pleasures. 
 
 come to a runnel of water between two grassy banks, 
 and there, under a thorn, gleaming in the sun, is 
 Wordsworth's flower. 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
 Let them live upon their praises ; 
 Long as there's a sun that sets, 
 Primroses will have their glory ; 
 Long as there are violets, 
 They will have a place in story : 
 There's a flower that shall be mine, 
 'Tis the little Celandine. 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
 In the time before the thrush 
 Has a thought about her nest, 
 Thou wilt come with half a call, 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 Like a careless Prodigal ; 
 Telling tales about the sun, 
 When we've little warmth, or none. 
 
 Wordsworth, in his annotation of the poem, the 
 two finest verses of which I have given above, says :— 
 ' It is remarkable that this flower, coming out so 
 early in the spring as it does, and so bright and 
 beautiful, and in such profusion, should not have been 
 noticed earlier in English verse. What adds much to 
 the interest that attends it, is its habit of shutting 
 itself up and opening out according to the degree of 
 light and temperature of the air.' 
 
 I suppose Wordsworth is right in his inference 
 
April. 55 
 
 that the flower had not been mentioned by any poet 
 before himself; nor, indeed, has it been much alluded 
 to in later verse. Its colour is against it. To the 
 careless observer it would be - ' merely a buttercup,' 
 but the loving student of nature despises nothing, 
 overlooks nothing, and to him nothing is ' common 
 or unclean ' ; he dare not doubt, and his reward is 
 to find beauty lurking in the humblest forms. You 
 must bend low over the celandine before you can see 
 its loveliness, then you discern how brilliant is its 
 burnished yellow, and how symmetrical are its ray- 
 like petals and its heart-shaped leaves. We had an 
 amusing instance the other day of its habit of shutting 
 itself up quickly. One of my boys came running to 
 tell me, with some pride, that he had found the first 
 celandine in our little dell. I went with him to 
 look at his prize. He had marked the exact spot and 
 was sure he had left it there : but to his great mystifi- 
 cation the flower was gone from sight. The day had 
 worn a little towards evening and the petals had 
 suddenly folded themselves tightly up. I found it for 
 him snugly tucked away among the leaves. The sensi- 
 tiveness of the plant is shown not only by its opening 
 and shutting the corolla according to the temperature, 
 but also by a change of colour. It may often be found 
 with the yellow petals blanched white by a cold wind. 
 
56 Country Pleasures. 
 
 The celandine is later in our neighbourhood this 
 year than usual. I have often known it to be the 
 very first of the wild flowers. Wordsworth, though 
 he wrote his poem on the last day of April, speaks of 
 it as a February blossom : — 
 
 February last, my heart 
 
 First at sight of thee was glad. 
 
 No rain, little or no frost, and the wind veering 
 from north to south, through east— this would fairly 
 describe the present prevailing weather. How subtle 
 is the change in the character of the wind with each 
 minute difference in the point of the compass! — 
 maleficent, of course, when due east, and a horror 
 to the highly-strung nerve ; becoming invigorating 
 with the slightest turn to the north ; and genial 
 with a corresponding inclination to the south. Old 
 Tusser, in his Five Hundred Points, thus tells off 
 on his metrical fingers, as it were, the varying 
 qualities of the winds : — 
 
 North winds send haile, South winds bring raine, 
 East winds we bewail, West winds blow amaine : 
 North-east is too cold, South-east not too warme, 
 North-west is too bold, South-west doth no harme. 
 
 In the greenhouse the mignonette, which has been 
 
 kept through the winter, is beginning to flower. One 
 
 or two plants are sufficient to fill the whole place with 
 
April. 57 
 
 a slight but delicious odour — an odour which does 
 not destroy but mingles with the scent of other 
 blossoms. In the open air the leafage of the apple- 
 tree is making itself conspicuous, and the throstles 
 are building in good earnest. I wish this bird were 
 as cunning as the starling, or that I could teach it 
 prudence. Here is the starling creeping through a 
 small hole in the tiles to his snug nest. He is out of 
 the reach of boys and safe even from the marauding 
 cat. His sense of security makes him impudent ; he 
 stands and looks at you with his head cocked up, and 
 goes in and out of his house with an unnecessary 
 frequency, as if he would say : ' This is where I live, 
 and I don't care if you know it. You can't follow me 
 — a starling's nest is his castle.' But the poor foolish 
 throstle, in spite of what, in our ornamental way, we 
 call unerring instinct, will persist in putting his nest, 
 year after year, where those who seek can both see 
 and reach. On the fifth I observed a throstle gather- 
 ing dry grass under a pear-tree ; it pulled and tugged 
 until it had got so large a bunch in its mouth that it 
 looked absurd and could hardly fly away. The next 
 day I found its nest completed, in a low bush of 
 broad-leaved holly. This bird has a taste for letters, 
 for among the grass and slender twigs there was 
 inwoven a considerable piece of a London paper. 
 
58 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Although the outside was rough, the interior was neatly 
 and smoothly plastered with clay, which, when I saw 
 it, was yet moist from the bill of the artificer. On the 
 same day I found another similar nest just finished. 
 The roof of our garden winter-house projects and is 
 supported on rough-hewn posts, which are covered 
 with ivy ; against one of these posts the nest is built. 
 It is dexterously worked into the hanging stems of 
 ivy ; but it is so low that I can look into it as I pass, 
 and so much exposed that I have tied the tendrils of 
 the ivy more closely round it, both for protection and 
 concealment. It has been plastered with mud, and it 
 is also lined — as a piece of luxury, I suppose — with 
 the soft fibres of some decayed wood. Yesterday I 
 found that the first little blue egg had been dropped 
 into the nest which the prescient bird — prescient in 
 preparation if not in selection of place — had finished 
 three days before. 
 
 And here, too, was beauty, the little-regarded 
 beauty of the bird's egg — beauty of form and of 
 colour, perfect elementary form and delicately simple 
 colour — lavished upon a corner where no eye might 
 ever have seen it — where, probably, by no other eye 
 than my own will it ever be seen. 
 
April. 59 
 
 XIV.— THE DAISY. 
 
 April 17. 
 
 Our native flora here is not so abounding in 
 variety as to permit of our disregarding the advent 
 of the simplest flower. I pass, therefore, this week 
 from the common celandine to the still commoner 
 bellis perennis — even its scientific name is a sweet one 
 — the daisy, the flower of the children and of all the 
 poets. 
 
 Of course we have this flower in every season ; 
 like the poor, it is always with us. I have seldom 
 failed to find one, even at Christmas, on a bank 
 under a privet hedge facing the south-west. In such 
 a situation I have seen the hardy little blossom living 
 on and on, through frost and snow, on dark days and 
 on bright, opening timidly at noon, and closing up 
 tightly at three or four o'clock, when the early night 
 was approaching. Under these conditions a single 
 flower is tenderly dwelt upon ; it becomes a friend ; 
 and an almost sentient recognition seems to pass 
 between you. 
 
 But now the 'dog-daisy,' as we call it, is begin- 
 ning to show itself in multitudes. During the 
 present week, for the first time, it has forced itself 
 upon our notice as a salient feature in the earth's 
 
6o Country Pleasures. 
 
 floral decoration. By the little water runnel in the 
 meadow we find it mingling with the celandines ; in 
 the dell at the bottom of the garden it is- side by side 
 with another yellow and somewhat despised, but 
 brilliant flower, the now leafless coltsfoot ; along the 
 walks it is seen creeping up between the gravel and 
 the grass border ; and on the lawns it is beginning, 
 as usual, to spread itself in patches. The daisy is 
 always in greater numbers than you think. In one 
 small plot I have just counted more than a hundred : 
 if I had been asked to guess I should have said there 
 were twenty. It is now the first thing which I see in 
 the morning. A few days ago I thought the bright 
 little specks, as yet unopened, were only great drops 
 of dew. In fact, the flower, while yet moist, glitters 
 like a pearl in the first beams of the sun. It is no 
 wonder that the children should love the daisy. Its 
 lowliness of situation, its simplicity of shape and of 
 colour, its prodigal profusion, will all commend the 
 flower to them. Is the reader happy enough to 
 remember the time when, as a child, his eyes first 
 fell upon a field of daisies ; can he recall the delight 
 which welled up within him when he first found that 
 they were his to enjoy with impunity, even to gather 
 without reproach ? 
 
 Chaucer, who was the sworn knight and impassioned 
 
April. 6 1 
 
 lover of the daisy, makes its place in the year a little 
 
 later than now. With him it is always the flower of 
 
 May — May and the daisy are joint symbols of spring. 
 
 It has been said that Chaucer's many words about 
 
 the daisy were merely conventional. I do not think 
 
 there is any proof of that. His love of the flower 
 
 was both singular and sincere. Shrewd man of the 
 
 world as he was, courtier and scholar as he was, the 
 
 heart of the. child — the poet's sign, was always present 
 
 with him. From what we know of him he was just 
 
 the man to feel about the daisy exactly what he 
 
 has told us. At the same time there is, of course, 
 
 occasionally a strain of hyperbole in his language 
 
 which can only be explained on the supposition that he 
 
 was speaking of some exalted lady under the figure of 
 
 his favourite flower. Like a student, he would leave his 
 
 bed, or the amusements of his time, for the company 
 
 of his books; like a poet he would leave his books for 
 
 the companionship of nature. In the prologue to the 
 
 Legende of Goode Women, he tells us that when 
 
 the month of May is come, and he hears the song 
 
 of birds, and sees the flowers begin to spring, then — 
 
 Farwel my boke, and my devocion ! 
 
 Now have I thanne such a condicion, 
 
 That of al the floures in the mede, 
 
 Thanne love I most these floures white and rede, 
 
 Such as men callen daysyes in our toune. 
 
62 Country Pleasures. 
 
 To them, he says, he has so great an affection that in 
 
 this month of May the day never dawns upon his bed 
 
 that he is not up and walking in the meadow to 
 
 see this flower spreading itself against the sun ; its 
 
 rising is such a blissful sight that it dispels all his 
 
 sorrow ; he offers to it his greatest reverence, and his 
 
 love is so hot that when evening comes he runs forth 
 
 to see how it will go to rest ; and, he adds — 
 
 Alias, that I ne had Englyssh, ryme, or prose, 
 Suffisant this flour to preyse aright I 
 
 And doune on knees anoon ryght I me sette, 
 And as I koude, this fressh flour I grette, 
 Knelyng alway, til it unclosed was, 
 Upon the smale, softe, swote gras. 
 
 Chaucer, as I have said, connects the daisy 
 
 with the month of May : Shakspere makes it an 
 
 April flower. In Lucrece there, is this exquisite 
 
 image : — 
 
 Without the bed her other fair hand was, 
 On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white 
 Show'd like an April daisy on the grass. 
 
 And in the song which concludes the play of Love's 
 
 Labour's Lost, the white and red of the flower is 
 
 alluded to : — 
 
 Daisies pied and violets blue 
 And lady-smocks all silver-white. 
 
 In L' Allegro Milton uses Shakspere's phrase: — 
 
April. 63 
 
 Meadows trim, with daisies pied ; 
 Shallow brooks and rivers wide ; 
 
 and in Comus he speaks of the daisies, not the 
 meadows, being ' trim ' — 
 
 The wood nymphs, decked with daisies trim. 
 
 This last expression is quite accurate, for the flower 
 is neat and trim even to demureness, especially if we 
 take it in bud, when the little yellow centre is sur- 
 rounded by a circlet of crimson, and that again by a 
 ring of white, each being pressed closely upon the 
 other. 
 
 The anthology of the daisy would be very incom- 
 plete without Herrick's felicitous contribution. His 
 little poem is based upon what I have already alluded 
 to — the daisy's habit of folding itself up early for the 
 night : — 
 
 Shut not so soon ; the dull-ey'd night 
 
 Has not as yet begunne 
 To make a seisure on the light, 
 
 Or to seale up the sun. 
 
 No marigolds yet closed are, 
 
 No shadowes great appeare ; 
 Nor doth the early shepheard's starre 
 
 Shine like a spangle here. 
 
 Stay but till my Julia close 
 
 Her life-begetting eye ; 
 And let the whole world then dispose 
 
 It selfe to live or dye. 
 
64 Country Pleasures. 
 
 There is one line of Burns, which has made im- 
 mortal that mountain daisy which he turned down 
 with his plough in April 1786. It is the first and the 
 best line in his poem : — 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower. 
 
 I must not omit Shelley's accurate and beautiful de- 
 scription of the flower : — 
 
 Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, 
 The constellated flower that never sets. • 
 
 Wordsworth, who desired to bring back to the flower 
 its ' long-lost praise ' — the praise which, he says, it 
 had in Chaucer's time — wrote many poems on the 
 daisy. With him it was the ' cheerful flower,' the 
 ' poet's darling,' the ' child of the year,' and ' nature's 
 favourite ' ; but the lines of his on this subject which 
 will be longest remembered are these : — 
 
 Sweet silent creature ! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a. share 
 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 
 During the last few days we have had perfect 
 April weather — a warm temperature, with sun, wind, 
 and rain alternate and commingled. The throstle's 
 nest in the ivy has now three eggs in it ; and the hen 
 is sitting closely. The first egg, as I mentioned last 
 
April, 65 
 
 week, was laid on the ninth, the other two were laid 
 each morning of the two following days, and then the 
 incubation began. The pear-blossom on the southerly 
 wall of the house is now white and fully opened ; but 
 that which is in the orchard is still only half unfolded, 
 and is tipped with red. Twice in the year the thorns 
 are supremely beautiful ; once when the vivid green is 
 all outspread, and yet has not lost its freshness ; and 
 again when the green is hidden by the profuse and 
 snowy flower. The first of these stages has now been 
 reached, and on some trees the blossom is just begin- 
 ning to form itself. 
 
 XV.— ON THE MOORLAND. 
 
 April 24. 
 
 When the wind is easterly here, we have always 
 one compensation — we can see the hills. Under 
 ordinary conditions the last thing we should expect 
 to discover would be a blue line of upland on the 
 horizon ; but if the wind is with the sun-rising, and 
 if it should also happen to be a day on which the 
 ejection of smoke is less than usual, then a stranger 
 would be startled by the nearness and distinctness of 
 the hill-country. The range runs from east to south- 
 east. It begins in Yorkshire with a craggy peak 
 overlooking the vale of Saddleworth, it just touches 
 
66 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Lancashire, crosses a narrow tongue of Cheshire, 
 and finishes in Derbyshire with the great buttress 
 of Kinder Scout. To many people in the South of 
 England it is a subject of wonder why we in the 
 North should make so little use of this grand recrea- 
 tion ground. We often run much further afield and 
 fare considerably worse. If Wordsworth or Scott 
 had written about it as they have done about their 
 own neighbourhoods, what a change we should have 
 seen ! 
 
 Standing in my own garden I can always feel the 
 breath of the hills — cold, perhaps, and often touched 
 by the smoke of intervening towns, but never other 
 than refreshing — and a walk of six or seven miles 
 across country will take me at any time into their 
 wildest and most unfrequented solitudes. By the 
 railways, too, the edge of any part of the region may 
 be reached in less than an hour. This rapidity of 
 access is not unimportant, for the more quickly we 
 can change our habitual surrounding the more bene- 
 ficial is the effect on the mind. As often as we have 
 opportunity, therefore, we escape to the hills. It was 
 not an encouraging morning when, a day or two ago, 
 we started for Hayfield, with intention to cross into 
 Edale, the most secluded of the Derbyshire valleys. 
 The rain fell persistently ; but still we had hopes of 
 
April. 67 
 
 a change, for each now and then a stray sunbeam 
 seemed to wander down among the moisture ; and 
 so we were allured onward to the heights. As we 
 climbed slowly up we were not without the sights 
 and sounds of spring. In the lower meadows the 
 new-fallen lambs were gambolling round the ewes : 
 higher up the lark soared and sang heedless of the 
 rain. Then we came out upon the broad moorland. 
 The lark was heard no longer, and not the faintest 
 sound rose up from the distant valleys. One voice 
 only could we hear, and that the most characteristic 
 of the moorland — the shrill and plaintive cry of the 
 startled birds as they flew from us across the heather. 
 Although there were of course none of those fiery 
 tints which make the peculiar splendour of autumn, 
 there was not wanting, even under that clouded sky, 
 a certain wild beauty of colour — the brown and dark 
 green of the whinberry, and many curious strips of 
 bright emerald where the moss grew over the marshy 
 land. There is no loneliness like that of the high 
 moor. On the peak of the loftiest mountain you 
 generally see some indication of human neighbour- 
 hood or habitation ; but having once climbed to the 
 table-land of the moor, you are in an isolation of 
 solitude which can only be compared with that of mid- 
 ocean. For the literature of the moorland — moorland 
 
 F 2 
 
68 Country Pleasures. 
 
 such as this— one must turn to the Brontes. Here is 
 a passage — one out of many in Jane Eyre — which 
 shows how completely ' Currer Bell ' had caught the 
 spirit of such scenery : — ' I saw the fascination of the 
 locality. I felt the consecration of its loneliness ; my 
 eye feasted on the outline of swell and sweep — on the 
 wild colouring communicated to ridge and dell, by 
 moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by 
 brilliant bracken, and mellow granite crag. These 
 details were just to me what they were to them — so 
 many pure and sweet sources of pleasure.' 
 
 The rain now began to fall more heavily, and we 
 found also that we had somewhat missed our way, 
 the lofty crags of Kinder — they rise to nearly two 
 thousand feet — being too far to the north of us. 
 Making out the point in the ridge, some two miles 
 away, from which the descent into Edale must begin, 
 we struck boldly across the open moor ; but the rain 
 got worse and worse, a cold wind began to rise, the 
 ground was getting plashy under foot, and, most 
 ominous of all, a few slow clouds were seen creeping 
 up from the hidden valleys and meeting those which 
 were lowering in the sky. We knew what that meant ; 
 and turning back at once, began to make our way in 
 a south-westerly direction towards the valley in which 
 lies the little town of Chapel-en -le-Frith. It was well 
 
April. 69 
 
 that we took this course, for soon after the whole moor- 
 land was lost in swirling mist and cloud. If we had 
 found our way into Edale at all — and the chances 
 were much against it — we should have got a right hos- 
 pitable reception at the clean little hostel, the Nag's 
 Head, as we know from experience ; but we should 
 have been too late to leave the dale, and must have 
 spent the night there. Descending by a steep and 
 miry path we came to the little fold or hamlet of 
 Shire-oaks, where we made sure of our way, and took 
 our last look at the wild and threatening moorland. 
 
 And now, though the rain was still heavy, we 
 came upon a scene of great beauty. Crossing a steep 
 and wonderfully green meadow where the lady's- 
 mantle was showing its broad leaves, we found our- 
 selves in one of the prettiest of Derbyshire lanes — 
 and in this matter Derbyshire comes next, I think, to 
 Devonshire. Here the bramble and the wild rose 
 were making a brave show of leaves ; and, of flowers, 
 there was the primrose in great tufts ; the common 
 blue violet ; the little strawberry blossom, — 
 
 Look at it — the flower is small, 
 Small and low, though fair as any, — 
 
 the celandine in numbers large enough to produce 
 bright patches of yellow, and last, the wood-sorrel, 
 most fragile and delicate of all our wild-flowers — a 
 
70 Country Pleasures. 
 
 white, fairy chalice, faintly veined with lilac and set 
 in the midst of its triple leafage of brilliant green. 
 
 We were wet and weary when we walked into 
 Chapel-en-le-Frith ; but what of that, the toilsome- 
 ness and the rain will soon pass from the memory ; 
 but what will never be lost is that which is alone 
 worth preserving — the wildness of the moorland and 
 the April beauty of the lane. 
 
 We begin now to feel the full glory of the spring 
 and to say to ourselves ' surely the winter is gone.' 
 It is always some time in April, sooner or later, that 
 the great transformation suddenly takes place ; and 
 usually two or three days of warm rain will do the 
 work. In those lines on the new-year, which are per- 
 haps the most melodious in In Memoriam, the poet 
 makes significant mention of the joyousness of 
 April : — 
 
 Dip down upon the northern shore, 
 O sweet new-year delaying long ; 
 Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 
 Delaying long, delay no more. 
 What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
 Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
 Can trouble live with April days, 
 Or sadness in the summer moons ? 
 
 And, truly, it is no easy matter for trouble and sad- 
 ness, though they wage a hard fight for it, to make 
 good their footing among us in the midst of all this 
 
April. 71 
 
 new and bursting life. It is almost too rapid now for 
 my chronicling. The chestnut has thrown back its 
 glutinous and hairy sheath and set free its leaflets, 
 which still, however, hang down towards the stem ; 
 the elm and the poplar are green ; and if you stand 
 with your back against the bole of the sycamore you 
 will see what a thick roof of leaves it has spread over 
 you. The pear-blossom is beginning to fall, while that 
 of the apple and the cherry if you look carefully for it, 
 will be found to be just expanding. The currants and 
 gooseberries, too, are in bloom. In the greenhouse the 
 reign of the azalea and the geranium has begun, the 
 first roses are out, and the scent is that of musk. In 
 my throstle's nest the first tiny chick has made its 
 appearance : it is about as big as a walnut, and the 
 hen has got it snugly laid between the yet unhatched 
 eggs. It is beautiful to see the little palpitating life, 
 with its outspread and upturned mouth, lying with the 
 two eggs, like two blue pillows, on either side of it. 
 
 To-day I observe that the beech is budding, and 
 that its colour is that of the dead leaves which have 
 just passed away. Its complexion now is that to 
 which it will come at last. Like ourselves, who in 
 our old age fall into a second childhood, so this leaf 
 in its decay will be again what it is in its first bud. 
 
72 Country Pleasures. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down 
 Through the clear windows of the morning, turn 
 Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, 
 Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring ! 
 
 Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds 
 Kiss thy perfumed garments ; let us taste 
 Thy morn and evening breath ; scatter thy pearls 
 Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. 
 
 William Blake, To Spring. 
 
 XVI.— MAY-DAY. 
 
 May i. 
 
 We enter to-day on the ' merrie moneth ' of our 
 forefathers ! the bounteous and flowery month, the 
 month of youth and of love. Shall we not, in the 
 words of Leigh Hunt, ' persist in keeping up a certain 
 fragrant and flowery belief on the altars of May and 
 June ' ? It is not often that the May of actual life 
 comes so near to that well-known ideal of the 
 poets as it has done this year. At least we have had 
 warmth, and that is something to console ourselves 
 with, for in my notes of past years I see again and 
 
May. 73 
 
 again on May-day — 'frost,' 'sharp frost,' and 'killing 
 frost.' But this last week we have had a continuance 
 of fine warm weather. On one morning only — April 
 twenty-sixth — there was a slight rime on the grass, 
 and just one degree of frost marked on the minimum- 
 thermometer. The pear-blossom has budded, bloomed, 
 and fallen — a rare thing with us — without being once 
 in jeopardy from extreme cold. Yesterday there was 
 heavy rain, but it was pleasant to see it come, for we 
 felt that leaf and blade and root were all thirsting to 
 receive it ; and the birds, I observed, never stopped 
 their music. It was the last of those ' schowres swoote ' 
 with which, as Chaucer has it, April pierces the 
 drought of March, bathing every vein in that virtuous 
 liquor of which is engendered the flower of May. In 
 the evening the rain ceased : but there was still much 
 moisture in the air — it was that kind of weather 
 during which we say, and almost with literal truth, 
 ' things may be seen to grow.' 
 
 As it was the eve or vigil of Nature's greatest 
 festival, we gave up the time to wandering in rural 
 idleness up and down the garden, for indeed it seemed 
 a shame to be indoors. At first the boys would have 
 me look at some young pigeons. Climbing a peril- 
 ous ladder in the barn, they brought down the nest, 
 in the bottom of which two helpless and awkward- 
 
74 Country Pleasures. 
 
 looking birds were lying huddled together. It is 
 marvellous how rapidly the young pigeon grows. 
 These were but eight or nine days old and yet they 
 were as large as a throstle. Going round the pond we 
 found a newly-built blackbird's nest in a snug corner 
 formed by the junction of a cross-ledge with a stump 
 in the paling. It was sheltered by a thicket of elder 
 and contained four eggs. In the orchard the cherry- 
 blossom was fully expanded, and very profuse, cover- 
 ing the trees as with a sheet of white, and the apple- 
 bloom was in that delightful stage when it shows itself 
 as points of rose-red. In the Dutch garden there 
 was a bed of tulips in full blaze of colour. They had 
 been planted without arrangement, so that the scarlet 
 white and yellow have come up promiscuously, and 
 I never pass them without thinking of those quaint 
 cotton gowns which were worn by our grandames in 
 the days of the Georges. On the old English flower- 
 bed, from which the daffodils have nearly all gone, we 
 found the large-globed ranunculus, its yellow flowers 
 resting on the singularly round boss of leafage ; the 
 tall Solomon's-seal, its pendulous buds just opening ; 
 and the delicate white and green Star-of-Bethlehem. 
 These two last are seldom seen now except in cottage 
 gardens ; but they are both wonderfully graceful, and 
 if they had uncouth names and cost large sums of 
 
May. 75 
 
 money they would be great favourites in the con- 
 servatory. Our next turn was through the wood, 
 where we found that the primroses were just at their 
 best : as it was by this time nearly dusk, they seemed 
 to gleam like pale fire at the roots of the trees. On 
 one tuft we counted between sixty and seventy flowers. 
 Our ramble was now over, and coming round by the 
 house, we saw that the Siberian-crab was in full bloom 
 and that the beeches had spread out their silken and 
 transparent leaves. These last, with the pink sheath 
 still hanging upon them, looked as beautiful as a mass 
 of flowers. Inside we found the younger children had 
 been long in bed, vainly trying to fall asleep in the 
 daylight, so as to be early awake in the morning. 
 
 Although we were not up with the dawn to-day, 
 we were in time to go a-maying, or, as Lysander says 
 in A Midsummer Night's Dream — 
 
 To do observance to a morn of May ; 
 
 and though no one had given us Herrick's invitation 
 at the chamber door, his words had not been out of 
 
 mind : — 
 
 Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
 The dew bespangling herbe and tree. 
 Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, 
 Above an houre since, yet you not drest, 
 Nay I not so much as out of bed ; 
 When all the birds have mattens seyd, 
 
76 Country Pleasures. 
 
 And sung their thankfull hymnes ; 'tis sin, 
 
 Nay, profanation, to keep in, 
 When as a thousand virgins on this day 
 Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 
 
 The air out of doors was warm, though there was 
 but little sun, and either rain in the night, or a heavy 
 dew, had drenched the ground. Once or twice I saw 
 the blue sky ; but it was quickly clouded again, and 
 the feeling became that of a misty and mellow autumn 
 morning, without its sense of decay. Under such a 
 light the green of the trees is always peculiarly vivid. 
 By this time I had wandered into a neighbouring 
 clough, and looking down into one of its steep ravines 
 I thought I had never beheld anything so fresh and 
 brilliant as were the beeches and thorns which, a hun- 
 dred feet below me, were mingled with the less for- 
 ward trees. And now I could hear the voices of the 
 jocund company I was in search of. Before long 
 they came in sight, trooping along the narrow path, 
 some fifty or more in number, — children of all ages, 
 their faces flushed with running and climbing, and 
 the hands of the little ones filled with flowers. It 
 seemed to be a return to the days of old. My heart 
 was with them. ' My heart,' I said — 
 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 
 The fulness of your bliss I feel — I feel it all. 
 
 Oh, evil day 1 if I were sullen 
 
May. 77 
 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 
 And the Children are culling 
 On every side, 
 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 
 Fresh flowers. 
 
 And the flowers were plentiful as well as fresh. We 
 have not many May-mornings on which so large a 
 bouquet could be made. There was the bluebell — 
 scarcely opened, it is true, but already fragrant ; the 
 wind-flower, its petals white within, tinged with rose- 
 colour without ; the red campion, the star-like satin- 
 flower, the wood-sorrel, the celandine, and Shak- 
 spere's lady-smock, — the May-flower of the children. 
 During the day the weather has been almost 
 sultry, and in the afternoon the grey clouds turned to 
 an angry yellow ; then a wind seemed to tear them 
 open from behind, and low thunder began to growl. 
 And so the symbols of life and death are mixed — the 
 spring-flower and the scathing flash, beauty and 
 terror, sorrow and delight, how swiftly they follow 
 each other ! 
 
 XVII.— THE HISTORY OF A THROSTLE'S NEST. 
 
 May 8. 
 
 Of such country life as we find to be still possible 
 here, there is no part so delightful or so free from the 
 
78 Country Pleasures. 
 
 sophistication of the approaching town as that which 
 appertains to the habits and to the music of our 
 feathered friends and neighbours. Inside our en- 
 closures the birds are jealously preserved and guarded. 
 We give them all the protection we can ; and probably 
 our place is to them not only a home, but also an 
 asylum and a refuge. They take the food we give them 
 unmolested and ungrudged, and we think ourselves 
 well repaid by the pleasure of listening to their songs 
 and of watching their artless and artful ways. 
 
 This morning I found that the young throstle in 
 the nest on the ivied post had taken its departure. It 
 was on the sixth of April that I first observed this 
 nest. It was then newly-plastered with wet dung or 
 clay, and lined with a little rotten wood. On the 
 ninth the first egg was laid ; and on the tenth and 
 eleventh I found the second and third. The thrush 
 often lays four or five eggs ; but in this case there 
 were not more than three. The bird then began to 
 sit, and I have visited her every day since. I always 
 took food with me, and gave a low whistle when I 
 approached her nest, so that she knew, when I was 
 coming and was not startled. At first she flew away 
 at the sound of my whistle ; but afterwards she began 
 to know me, and would sit still until I was within 
 hand's-reach of the nest. On the twenty-fourth one 
 
May. 79 
 
 egg was hatched ; and as thirteen days is, I think, the 
 usual period of incubation, this was probably the last 
 of the three. By the following day the young bird 
 had grown considerably, and the yellow mouth was 
 wide open. On the twenty-ninth a small perforation 
 had been made in one of the remaining eggs, appa- 
 rently by the beak of the old bird, but no more chicks 
 have been hatched. On the second of May the little 
 creature began to show its plumage — on the crown of 
 the head, on the wings, and down the centre of the 
 back. On the fourth it was almost entirely feathered, 
 and was so large that it seemed to fill the nest. If 
 there had been three birds instead of one, this par- 
 ticular mother would have been in the same quandary 
 as that old lady familiar to the nursery, who had to 
 rear her numerous progeny in an incommodious shoe. 
 Finally, as I have already said, the fledgling took its 
 flight to-day, the eighth of May, or about fourteen 
 days after the time when it was hatched. This com- 
 pletes my domestic history of a Throstle's nest. 
 
 The nests are now very numerous. This week I 
 have come upon several. Two blackbirds have built 
 on an old ivy-covered wall between the farm-yard 
 and the garden. The nests are worked with great in- 
 genuity into the stems of the ivy, and are somewhat 
 sheltered by a row of poplars in front of them. They 
 
8o Country Pleasures. 
 
 are about eight feet from the ground, and in one of 
 
 them the hen sits quite still, with her head over the 
 
 edge of the nest, while I stand underneath and look 
 
 at her. In a field near the pond, embedded in a tuft 
 
 of dry rushes, there is a small nest which contains 
 
 four tiny, dullish brown eggs ; I am not sure yet to 
 
 what bird these may belong : and on a stump in an 
 
 exposed situation I found, a few days since, the nest 
 
 of a warbler or hedge-sparrow. Here, too, there 
 
 were four eggs, but of a light blue, and the most 
 
 beautiful I have seen. 
 
 Those bright blue eggs together laid 1 
 On me the chance-discovered sight 
 Gleam'd like a vision of delight. 
 
 In the meadows just now the dandelion is making 
 a glorious show — turning the green, in fact, into cloth 
 of gold, such as the old knights might have jousted 
 upon. I hope we are none of us vulgar enough to 
 despise this flower because it is so common. It is 
 neither fragrant in smell nor delicate in form, but it is 
 strong and beautiful, bold and buxom — the saucy 
 quean of the vernal bevy. My tastes are, perhaps, 
 depraved ; but I must confess that I have even con- 
 nived at the existence of a stray specimen of this 
 flower in my garden, on a bit of rock-work or in some 
 out-of-the-way corner visited only by myself. 
 
May. 8 1 
 
 It is pleasant to find that even the dandelion has 
 its laureate, Mr. J. Russell Lowell, in some verses which 
 I think are not much known, thus sings its praises : — 
 
 Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold I 
 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold — 
 
 High-hearted buccaneers, — o'erjoyed that they 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
 Which not the rich earth's ample round 
 May match in wealth ! — thou art more dear to me 
 Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 
 
 Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 
 Though the primeval hush of Indian seas, 
 
 Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
 
 Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
 
 'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now 
 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 
 Though most hearts never understand 
 To take it at God's value, but pass by 
 The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 
 
 Thou art my tropics and my Italy : 
 
 To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 
 
 The eyes thou givest me 
 
 Are in the heart and heed no space or time : 
 
 Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
 Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment 
 In the white lily's breezy tent, 
 His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 
 < From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 
 
 The apple-blossom is now a mass of mingled white 
 
 G 
 
82 Country Pleasures. 
 
 and red, with a slight background of green — and what 
 beauty that means every one knows. It is no wonder 
 the painters should have so often tried, and so often 
 in vain, to catch this dainty effect. I notice that its 
 scent is that of a faint hyacinth ; while that of the 
 cherry blossom is much stronger, and resembles the 
 hawthorn. The birch and the lime are now about 
 half in leaf, but the mountain-ash is fully expanded. 
 Among the perennial plants we note this week that, on 
 our old English bed, the lady's-mantle is in full bloom. 
 The last two days have been cold and wet, with a 
 heavy wind from the north-east, which has blown off 
 the ripe petals from the orchard-trees ; without, how- 
 ever, doing any harm ; but the fourth and fifth were 
 nothing less than days of perfect Midsummer — the 
 sky cloudless, and the thermometer rising as high as 
 ninety-six degrees. The twilights were especially 
 beautiful. Walking out at eight o'clock, I saw the 
 peacocks flying to their roost high up in a tall elm. 
 They preferred to sleep in the open air. The birds 
 were all in chorus, and, as is usual with them, increas- 
 ing in loudness as the night came on ; the thrush, 
 the blackbird, and the robin being most conspicuous. 
 Just as we turned in, the thin crescent of the new 
 May moon was seen glimmering above the still leaf- 
 less boughs of the ash-trees in the wood. 
 
May. 83 
 
 XVIII.— THE WHITE-THORN. 
 
 May 15. 
 
 A branch of white-thorn in flower and a bunch of 
 sweet-scented lilies, both gathered in the garden, 
 made our table garniture on the twelfth — old May- 
 day. 
 
 The ancients had many festive privileges ; but 
 they had not, as we have, two May-days in one year. 
 On the first we went forth to 'do observance,' as I 
 have already told, but we were not able to come 
 back ' with white-thorn laden home.' 
 
 So far, therefore, our May-morning was shorn of 
 its proper rites ; but on the twelfth we made amends, 
 and brought in, with no little satisfaction, the typical 
 blossom of the month. All our old writers seem to 
 have taken it for granted that on the first of May 
 the thorn would be in bloom ; and, after all, when 
 we remember that their ' first ' was our ' twelfth,' the 
 seasons, as experience of the present year shows, 
 have not changed so much as we sometimes imagine. 
 Gilbert White in his Naturalist's Calendar, the re- 
 sult of observations taken from 1768 to 1793, puts 
 down the flowering of the hawthorn as occurring, in 
 different years, upon dates so widely apart as the 
 twentieth of April and the eleventh of June ; and 
 
 this was in the southern county of Hampshire. The 
 
 G 2 
 
84 Country Pleasures. 
 
 twelfth of May, therefore, should be considered, and 
 
 especially in Lancashire, as an early date— earlier 
 
 than the average. 
 
 Milton seems to have been familiar with frost as 
 
 coming contemporaneously with the hawthorn ; for 
 
 although in the short ' Song on May Morning,' we 
 
 find the passage — 
 
 Bounteous May, that dost inspire 
 Mirth, and youth, and warm desire 1 
 
 in Lycidas he says : — 
 
 Killing as the canker to the rose. 
 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
 Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
 When first the white-thorn blows. 
 
 One cannot always account for associations : but 
 I never smell the hawthorn without thinking of 
 Chaucer. Perhaps there is something in its honest 
 and healthy sweetness which reminds us of the old 
 poet's character and work. If the daisy were not his 
 chosen sign, I would have Chaucer painted with a 
 sprig of hawthorn in his hand. 
 
 In the pages of Chaucer's latest disciple, we find, 
 
 as we might expect, a pleasant mention of the thorn 
 
 after the manner of the master : — 
 
 Now must these men be glad a little while 
 
 That they had lived to see May once more smile. 
 
May. 85 
 
 And on that morn, before the fresh May dew 
 Had dried upon the sunniest spot of grass, 
 From bush to bush did youths and maidens pass, 
 In raiment meet for May apparelled, 
 Gathering the milk-white blossoms and the red. 
 
 Saturday, the eleventh, was a notable day. In the 
 morning I found that there had been during the night 
 a heavy wind blowing from the south-east, with floods 
 of rain. The garden paths and the lanes were strewn 
 with new leaves, and even with twigs of beech, 
 chestnut, and elm, which the wind had torn off the 
 trees. In the afternoon the breeze dropped and there 
 was a warm, brooding sky, with ' shadow streaks of 
 rain.' In the evening it became evident that a storm 
 was coming on again. At seven o'clock I noticed that 
 the countless daisies on the lawn and the great dande- 
 lion on the rockery were tightly shut up. Patches of 
 grey mist began now to drive rapidly across the sky, 
 although beyond these, and far away, there stood up 
 immense masses of white cloud perfectly still in the 
 clear blue — a revelation as it were of an untroubled 
 heaven beyond the turbulent sphere of the earth. 
 Then there came a near flash of lightning and an ex- 
 plosion of thunder, which seemed to break with terrible 
 violence under my feet. Some of the birds darted 
 out of their nests and flew round in terror ; but two 
 of them, a robin and a thrush, sang on unmoved 
 
86 Country Pleasures. 
 
 through it all. I could hear them filling up the 
 pauses even while the thunder rolled. The day closed 
 with a brilliant sunset. This kind of weather is not, 
 as might be supposed, at all unusual in May ; indeed 
 it is characteristic. Frederick Tennyson, in a little- 
 known but very beautiful poem, published in 1854, 
 describes a similar May-day storm. After speak- 
 ing of the stillness and beauty of a noontide, in 
 which — 
 
 The clouds hung in the purple skies 
 
 At anchor, like great argosies, — 
 
 he goes on to tell how — 
 
 Swiftly o'er the land is driven 
 The Uragan, like smoke of War, 
 From mountain-peak to sandy shore : 
 The hills are dark, the earth is gray, 
 All creatures fly the self-same way, 
 Floods swell the thunder, and the herd 
 And herdsman with one fear are stirr'd, 
 The lightning fires the rick and farm, 
 Red flames roar onward with the storm, 
 And cries, and wails, and dismal knells 
 Mingle, as the tumult swells, 
 Towers crash, and granite mountains craze, 
 And Fear beholds the end of days ! 
 
 The ash is now breaking into leaf. I can just de- 
 tect the greenness on the topmost branches, the lower 
 ones are still bare. The oak-leaf was in the same 
 stage about twelve days earlier. So if there be any- 
 
May. 87 
 
 thing in the old adage about the oak and the ash we 
 ought to have dry weather. 
 
 In the garden the laburnums are in full bloom. 
 In some counties this tree is called ' golden chain.' 
 The simile is more appropriate than the Laureate's — 
 
 Dropping-wells of fire ; 
 
 for the colour is much nearer that of gold than of 
 flame. Our little dell is blue with the hyacinth, and 
 there are two or three red campions in flower. The 
 strawberries also are in bloom ; the bud is on the 
 mountain-ash, the elder, the lilac and the guelder- 
 rose ; and the fruit is set and well-formed on the 
 gooseberry and the pear. We see before us already 
 the promise of autumn. 
 
 To-night the moon, which is already at full, is 
 shining on the hawthorns. They are much whiter 
 than they were on the twelfth ; and as the old fami- 
 liar scent reaches me, the mind wanders away to 
 other scenes and to earlier days. I bethink me of a 
 rude hamlet by the margin of a Cheshire mere, where, 
 in the season, the whole land seems to lie under a 
 coverlet of white bloom. In a narrow lane, whose 
 sandy banks rise some eight or ten feet high, there is a 
 black-and-white timbered house, standing at the top 
 of a steep garden, where all the old flowers are in 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 bloom. Above the two bee-hives, which rest on a 
 wooden bench, there is a small leaded window, and 
 in my dream I open the casement — a boy once more 
 — and catch for the first time in my life the cool 
 morning air laden with that homely sweetness which 
 is the breath of the English thorn. 
 
 XIX.— BEES AND BLOSSOMS. 
 
 May 22. 
 
 In the present general outburst of vernal foliage we 
 naturally forget that the evergreens, as well as the 
 deciduous trees, are putting forth their new leaves. 
 This is one of those lesser beauties of the spring, 
 easily overlooked, but full of interest when once 
 observed. 
 
 The yew-tree now shows itself as a mass of leafage 
 so dark as to be almost black, but wearing a fringe 
 of yellowish green ; the box has six or seven bright, 
 new leaves at the end of each spray, in sharp contrast 
 with the sombre but polished growth of last year ; 
 the ivy-buds are silver-grey, like the willow ; those of 
 the holly are edged with red, and the rhododendron 
 is a light green. In that delightfully child-like carol 
 of Kit Marlowe, which gave such pleasure to th'e 
 
May. 89 
 
 gentle soul of dear old Izaak Walton, the Passionate 
 Shepherd promises to his Love — 
 
 A belt of straw and ivy-buds 
 
 With coral clasps and amber studs. 
 
 It may have been the flower-bud which is here 
 alluded to, but I think not ; for the song breathes of 
 spring, and the ivy flower does not come until very 
 late in the autumn, nor is it by any means so daintily 
 beautiful as is a wreath of the half-opened leaves. 
 The holly is blossoming now as well as leafing. The 
 flowers grow in a curious cluster underneath the circle 
 of leaves, and, though inconspicuous, are pretty 
 enough when carefully examined. The new leaves 
 of the holly are without spines, and as they are 
 chiefly seen at the ends of the topmost branches, it 
 must have been to them that Southey referred as 
 'the high leaves upon the holly-tree ' : — 
 
 All vain asperities I, day by day, 
 Would wear away, 
 Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
 Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree. 
 
 While speaking of the evergreens, I must observe 
 what a great boon to us are the rhododendrons. All 
 the winter through, when almost everything else is 
 cheerless and bare, they make a belt of bright foliage 
 round the house — foliage which, fortunately, never 
 
90 Country Pleasures. 
 
 looks better than when the pitiless rain is falling 
 upon it ; and now for more than a month they have 
 been spreading out for us great masses of bloom — 
 splendid when seen in bulk, and much more beautiful 
 in detail than is usually supposed. The white-flower- 
 ing kinds came out first. The unopened buds of 
 these are of a pink colour, while the full-blown flowers 
 are pure white ; so that you often get from them the 
 effect of a bush of white and red roses. The crimson 
 sorts are out now, and with the saffron azaleas, also 
 in bloom, they make a fine mass of colour in the 
 garden, repeating the harmony, seen near them, of 
 red hawthorn and laburnum. 
 
 Among the rhododendrons you. can always find 
 the bees. I saw the first bee here on the nineteenth 
 of April. It was one which had strayed into the 
 greenhouse. It seemed full-grown and was sumptu- 
 ously attired in its raiment of black and amber fur. 
 A week later I found one in the open air, working 
 alternately among the rhododendrons and the currant- 
 bushes. By the middle of this month the air was 
 filled with their humming. On one hot afternoon I 
 counted thirty or forty of them threading the mazes 
 of a single apple-tree in bloom. Their persistent and 
 hurrying industry is quite fascinating. I stood watch- 
 ing one the other day for a quarter of an hour. It 
 
May. gi 
 
 had chosen a white rhododendron, and was working 
 the tree systematically. It pushed into every blossom, 
 trying even the unopened buds, and in some cases 
 making good for itself a violent entrance. How swift 
 is the motion of its wings, as it hangs in ecstasy of 
 expectation over the flowers ! — so swift indeed that 
 the eye cannot catch it — you see only an apparently 
 unmoving and nearly transparent slip of gauze. As 
 the bee enters the flower the humming ceases, begin- 
 ning again, after an instant of silent spoliation, with 
 the most exact recurrence, just as the large body 
 makes its dexterous and backward exit. After it had 
 finished the whole bush it rose suddenly, and before I 
 had time to escape played defiantly round and round 
 my head, with a loud buzzing, as if to say, ' There, if 
 I liked I could punish you for your inquisitive 
 temerity ' ; and then, with a swimming motion, away 
 it went up into the sky, above the tree tops, and further 
 than my eye could follow. After it had gone a big, 
 prosaic fly came and gleaned over the same ground. 
 I do not know that anything finer has been written 
 about the bee than these three stanzas, which I select 
 from the ' Legend of the Hive,' an early poem by 
 Stephen Hawker, the strange parson of Morwen- 
 stow. 
 
92 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Behold those winged images, 
 
 Bound for their evening bowers, 
 They are the nation of the bees, 
 
 Born from the breath of flowers : 
 Strange people they ! a mystic race, 
 In life, and food, and dwelling-place. 
 
 They built them houses made with hands, 
 
 And there alone they dwell : 
 No man to this day understands 
 
 The mystery of their cell. 
 Your mighty sages cannot see 
 The deep foundations of the bee. 
 
 Low in the violet's breast of blue, 
 
 For treasured food they sink : 
 They know the flowers that hold the dew, 
 
 For their small race to drink. 
 They glide — King Solomon might gaze 
 With wonder on their awful ways. 
 
 The weather during the last week has been cold 
 
 and stormy, with many heavy showers of rain from 
 
 west by north and by south. Yesterday morning 
 
 there was a dash of hail, the ' felon winds ' had been 
 
 stealing both leaf and bloom from the trees, and in 
 
 the night we had been within one degree of freezing ; 
 
 but notwithstanding this we are saluted by delicious 
 
 gusts of perfume from the hawthorns ; and more and 
 
 more we find ourselves living in a green covert, which 
 
 day by day, to our great satisfaction, is shutting out 
 
 familiar landmarks and the sight of neighbouring 
 
 houses. 
 
May. 93 
 
 XX.— STILL DAYS: THE CHRONICLE OF 
 A HEDGE-WARBLER'S NEST. 
 
 May 2g. 
 
 It would be a pity if we were to conclude sunshine 
 essential to beauty. If that were so our English 
 landscapes, at any rate, would be in bad case. How 
 often we find our grey, even our rainy days and 
 nights, 'to be full of loveliness, and of that quality 
 which we call restfulness. Nature seems to fall 
 into repose and the mind reposes with her. 
 
 Let me sketch one or two of these low-toned pic- 
 tures. About the middle of this month I found it 
 sufficiently mild at midnight to sit out of doors. A 
 thick curtain of cloud was drawn over the moon ; but 
 there was light enough to see the fruit blossom on the 
 trees, the closed daisies on the lawn, a few wide-open 
 stars of narcissus, and a large bed of white, perennial 
 candytuft, the flowers of which were also unaffected 
 by the night. The peculiarity, even the charm, of 
 such a scene lies in its contracted character ; the 
 horizon seems to be immediately behind our own 
 circle of trees, and the sky itself belongs to us and is 
 so low that it might be resting upon the tree-tops. 
 
 Or, again, let us take what is called a dull after- 
 noon. It is quiet and warm, the clouds file slowly 
 
94 Country Pleasures. 
 
 across the sky, and though always moving, they 
 never break so much as to let through the sun ; there 
 is neither brightness nor shadow ; but one even light 
 suffused over the whole landscape, not strong enough 
 to strike the eye, as harsh noises do the ear, and yet 
 sufficient to show all those gradations of green which 
 are the prime beauty of spring. Now and then there 
 are a few drops of rain visible on the smooth water of 
 the pond, but they are not heavy enough to wet the 
 ground. The birds are mostly at rest — only an 
 occasional twitter tells how silent we are — and there 
 is scarcely any motion except that of the long out- 
 stretching branches of the trees which sway up and 
 down with a regularity that becomes almost mesmeric. 
 Nor should the beauty of a rainy evening be over- 
 looked. Why should we dread the rain so much ? In 
 the spring or summer, and in the country, nothing is 
 more delightful. I once knew a hard-working city 
 parson, whose dream was that some day he would get 
 back to the rural neighbourhood where he was born, 
 and then that his great pleasure would be — what think 
 you ? — to so clothe himself that whenever the rain was 
 falling he might walk about with impunity. A pleasant 
 fancy to nurse in the hard streets ; but, alas, his 
 emancipation came only when it was too late to be 
 enjoyed ! Certainly one of the finer aspects of nature 
 
May. 95 
 
 is lost to us until we have learnt the secret charm of a 
 shower among green leaves. How thick the foliage 
 looks in the fading light, and how brilliant the long 
 grass — never longer than this year — under the trees 
 in the orchard ! There is nothing moving except a 
 stray frog which leaps heavily across the path, out of 
 one bed into another ; and no sound but that of the 
 rain, until, a little before nine o'clock, a throstle breaks 
 out into an almost delirious song before settling down 
 for the night. 
 
 Last week there seemed to be a general departure 
 of young birds. As I went round, I found one nest 
 after another deserted. The little younglings were 
 fledged and had flown — to use an old Lancashire 
 word, appropriate enough to them, they had 'flitted.' 
 In the finest of all the precious poems left to us by 
 Henry Vaughan the Silurist, there is one stanza 
 which will be in the memory of all those who are 
 familiar with his writings — 
 
 He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know 
 
 At first sight if the bird be flown ; 
 But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 
 That is to him unknown. 
 
 I could not restrain some such sorrowful feeling as is 
 here alluded to from creeping over my mind as I 
 looked at the empty tenements, and wondered what 
 
96 Country Pleasures. 
 
 had become of the tender creatures over whose fortunes 
 I had been watching so long. 
 
 The first nest which was cleared was that of the 
 hedge-warbler. I have already spoken of the beauty 
 of the eggs of this bird. They are small in size and 
 of a bright and spotless blue. I first saw the nest, 
 containing four eggs, on the second of May. It was 
 in an exposed situation, on the top of a stump, and 
 against a paling ; but it was protected a little from 
 the rain by an overhanging ledge. It was not far from 
 the ground, and though soft and neatly formed, a long 
 tuft of dry grass had been allowed to remain hanging 
 below, as if more material had been brought together 
 than was found necessary for the completion of the 
 structure. The hedge-warbler is bold and familiar in 
 its relations with man, and this will account for the 
 position of the nest ; but I have often thought how, 
 as the bird continued her long and patient vigil, by 
 night and^by day, the frequent footfall on the other side 
 of the paling must have ' shot light horror through her 
 pulses.' On May the tenth, the young warblers were 
 out of their shells, but they were so huddled together 
 at the bottom of the nest that I could not tell how 
 many there were. All that one could see was a round 
 lump of pink flesh, covered with a little dark-coloured 
 down, from which there protruded two heads ; but 
 
May. 97 
 
 underneath there might have been more. During the 
 period of incubation I only found the old bird once 
 off the eggs : but after the hatching she was generally 
 on a neighbouring tree during the daytime. As 
 night approached she was always on the nest. She 
 became so tame that she would allow me to stand 
 over her without moving, and I was able to see how 
 closely she covered the young brood with her wings. 
 It was always a wonder to me that they were not 
 smothered. On the fourteenth I saw for the first 
 time that all the eggs had been hatched, for there were 
 now quite visible four, red, upturned throats. All 
 bird's nests seem to me to err by defect, and on the 
 fifteenth there was so little room for the young ones 
 that they had to arrange themselves cunningly, one 
 being underneath and three on the top. All the 
 mouths were up and turned one way — towards the 
 light and air. By this time the heads were covered 
 with rudimentary black feathers ; the bodies were of 
 a dusky brown ; and the bills began to show a tinge 
 of yellow. On the eighteenth they looked ridiculously 
 large for their small nest, and I said to myself, ' If they 
 do not fly soon they will tumble out.' Their eyes 
 were, now, for the first time, open and intelligent ; and 
 they seemed to look up to me as if for help. When 
 I saw them last a little green had begun to show itself 
 
g8 Country Pleasures. 
 
 among the light brown feathers under the head ; and 
 on the nineteenth they were gone. This was nine or 
 ten days after they had been hatched. 
 
 The fruit-tree blossom is now over ; but the rasp- 
 berry canes are in flower. The heavy rain has dashed 
 the hawthorn and the laburnum, and I am afraid they 
 will not recover their splendour ; the red hawthorn 
 has suffered least. Two new blooms, however, are 
 out — the guelder-rose and the mountain-ash. 
 
 To-day being the twenty-ninth, we have taken 
 down the hawthorn in the hall and put up a branch 
 of oak, not so much, it must be confessed, in honour 
 of Charles as of the royal tree itself — the king of the 
 English wood. It is on record that at one time the 
 whole parish of Moston was covered with great oaks ; 
 now they are all small and of recent growth ; but as 
 I look up at their green leafage — green and thick as 
 any — I picture to myself that giant at Boscobel, the — 
 
 Famous brother-oak 
 Wherein the younger Charles abode 
 
 Till all the paths were dim, 
 And far below the Roundhead rode, 
 
 And humm'd a surly hymn. 
 
June. gg 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 
 Then if ever come perfect days ; 
 Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
 Whether we look or whether we listen, 
 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
 Every clod feels a stir of might, 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
 And groping blindly above it for light, 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers. 
 
 J. R. Lowell, The Vision of Sir Launfal. 
 
 XXL— MORE ABOUT BIRDS : MEADOW-PIPIT 
 AND BLACKBIRD. 
 
 June 5. 
 In my last notes I sketched the true story of a 
 
 hedge-warbler's nest : this week I can furnish in addi- 
 tion one or two slight monographs on similar subjects. 
 Within our enclosures there is a piece of meadow- 
 land which has been left uncultured for a time, and 
 is now pretty thickly studded with long tufts of 
 
 rushes and of coarse grass. In these I have found 
 
 h 2 
 
ioo Country Pleasures. 
 
 several nests of the meadow-pipit, or titlark. I 
 came upon the first of them on the sixth of May. 
 The nest is small and built upon the ground, so that 
 the stems of the rushes rise closely round it, and in 
 such a way as to conceal it effectually from a casual 
 observer. The bird is not unlike the skylark in colour, 
 but is smaller ; the tail is long and edged with white. 
 It is well known, and has many names besides the 
 two already given ; most of these are intended to 
 indicate either its habitation or its song : among 
 them are moss-cheeper, ling-bird, titling, wekeen, 
 moor-tit, heather-lintie, and meadow-lark. When I 
 was approaching the nest, but still at some distance 
 from it, I saw a bird rise and fly away over a fence. 
 This was probably the male. When I got nearer, a 
 second bird rose and made off slowly, with a low jerking 
 flight, along the ground, as if it had been lame. This 
 would seem to be one of the habits of the bird, for 
 Yarrell says : — ' The parent bird has been 'observed 
 to feign being wounded for the purpose of drawing 
 attention from its nest.' The eggs were four in 
 number, of a light brown without gloss, and about 
 the same size as those of the hedge-warbler. In two 
 days after this the eggs were gone, and in their place 
 there lay at the bottom of the nest a round ball of 
 down, from which protruded two small heads about 
 
June. 101 
 
 the size of the end of my pencil. On the ninth there 
 were three mouths to be seen, but the bodies were 
 not distinguishable from each other. By this time 
 the old bird had got to know me somewhat, and 
 retreated but a short distance, resting, during my 
 stay, upon a neighbouring post. On the eleventh I 
 saw that all the four eggs had been duly hatched. 
 On the fifteenth the bills were yellow, and the bodies 
 much darker in colour. On the eighteenth I found 
 one of the young birds in the field, at some distance 
 from the nest. I could not see that it had been hurt, 
 and it was alive ; but it died in my hand after a 
 few minutes. It was a dainty little creature, light- 
 coloured, and beautifully marked ; but the legs 
 seemed too slender to carry it, and the wings too 
 small for flight. I suppose it was the restless genius 
 of its race, the poor Icarus of the brood. The other 
 young ones, more prudent and less ambitious, were 
 still snugly ensconced in the nest. On the morning 
 of the twentieth, I saw that they were ready to fly : 
 and on the evening of the same day they were gone. 
 The bottom of the nest was not plastered like that 
 of the thrush, but beautifully soft and elastic, the 
 latter quality being produced by the arrangement of 
 many layers of very fine grass mixed with a little 
 hair. 
 
102 Country Pleasures. 
 
 It is strange that a bird should build in such an 
 exposed and unprotected place. A chance foot might 
 have crushed the young brood at any time, and they 
 seemed to have little shelter from the heavy rains 
 which fell frequently during the period of fledging. 
 On wet and stormy nights I often thought of them 
 in their poor lodging ; and it was a pleasure to believe 
 that after all, perhaps, they were warm enough with 
 thai soft bed underneath and the mother's wings 
 closely covering them above. In the morning, when 
 I visited them and saw the parent bird chirping 
 blithely about, I used to say to myself, in the words 
 of the old poet — 
 
 Many a sullen storm, 
 For which coarse man seems much the fitter born, 
 
 Rain'd on thy bed 
 
 And harmless head ; 
 And now as fresh and chearful as the light 
 Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing 
 Unto that Providence, whose unseen arm 
 Curb'd them and cloath'd thee well and warm. 
 
 In my notes of May the eighth, I mentioned a 
 blackbird's nest which I had found high up on an ivied 
 wall. The hen was then sitting, and I am not, there- 
 fore, able to fix the period of incubation. As I passed 
 I could see her head over the edge of the nest ; but on 
 the eleventh, finding her away, I mounted a ladder and 
 discovered that three young birds had been hatched. 
 
June. 103 
 
 This was in the daytime ; at dusk the hen was on 
 the nest again, and this, I think, was her usual custom, 
 for I only found her sitting with her young once in the 
 middle of the day, while at night she was always there. 
 On the twentieth the nest was too small for the three 
 big dusky birds which it contained. When I stood 
 and whistled under the nest, one young bird put out 
 its head and looked at me. On the twenty-first they 
 were still in the nest, but seemed quite full-grown ; 
 and on the twenty-second they had flown. This was 
 eleven days after I first saw them. The nest of this 
 bird is deserving of notice. It is larger and more 
 untidy than that of the thrush, but the way in which 
 it has been dexterously worked in between the wall 
 and the stems of the ivy is wonderful ; the latter, 
 indeed, have evidently been forced away from the 
 wall, and then their elasticity made use of to bind 
 the nest up and make it tight. At the same time, 
 the ivy-leaves have been so economised as to make a 
 perfect and overhanging roof. 
 
 The blackbirds are more numerous this year than 
 usual. They are on the lawn every morning break- 
 fasting on the wriggling worms, and I never miss 
 their loud fluting at night. I suppose they are 
 waiting for my cherries. But what of that ? I am 
 content to take sweet music in exchange for stone 
 
104 Country Pleasures. 
 
 fruit, and join heartily in the laureate's well-known 
 invitation : — 
 
 O blackbird I sing me something well : 
 
 While all the neighbours shoot thee round, 
 I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, 
 
 Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell. 
 
 In the greenhouse the large, dark, purple clematis 
 is in bloom — a noble flower, some four or five inches 
 across ; and out of doors we have promise of another 
 splendid blossom, for the first foxgloves are in bud. 
 
 Since the month of June came in the weather has 
 been broken— a little sunshine and much rain, some- 
 times with heavy wind. On the third, the morning 
 was peculiarly warm and still, and so overhung with 
 cloud as to seem dark. The rain had fallen through 
 the night so quietly that it lay on the grass like dew, 
 some six or seven separate pearls being seen on each 
 long blade. On first opening the window I thought 
 these white rain-drops were some new flower that 
 had sprung up in the night, or that the old haw- 
 thorn bloom had been blown over the lawn. 
 
 I ha,ve often observed how much greener the trees 
 appear under these cloudy conditions than they do 
 when the sky is clear and the light full. Standing at a 
 window, where I could look into the midmost branches 
 of a tall beech, and see one great bough making a green 
 
June. 105 
 
 floor beneath, and another forming a green roof above, 
 I felt, as I have frequently done before, how enviable 
 a home the birds and other small forest creatures have 
 had given to them, and how pleasant it would be, 
 even for oneself, to creep up sometimes and make a 
 temporary lodge in that leafy wilderness. Happening 
 to mention, in a vein of pleasantry, to my friend the 
 Professor the longing which L felt for such a retreat, 
 I found him looking as if I had confessed to him 
 some new development in me of original sin. ' You 
 should not,' he said with a reproachful frown, ' con- 
 sider these things so lightly. The least you can do 
 is to regard with a serious and pious feeling the 
 memory of your ancestry. In all probability the idea 
 which haunts you now is an inborn instinct passed on 
 to you through innumerable and infinitesimal ducts 
 from some far-off ffion when your progenitors nested 
 or herded in such a superterrene covert as that which 
 now so fastens itself upon your fancy.' I answered 
 meekly that I would endeavour in future to accord 
 to my elementary ancestors a proper reverence ; and 
 that I should be indeed thankful if they had en- 
 dowed me with no worse propensity than the desire 
 to live in trees. 
 
io6 Country Pleasures. 
 
 XXII. -WHITSUNTIDE: THE SKYLARK. 
 
 June ii. 
 
 Slowly or swiftly, as the mind chooses to shape it, 
 the year moves onward in its round — a creeping and 
 a petty pace to some ; to others a wild and breathless 
 dance. But slow or swift the inevitable points are 
 reached, passed, and left behind for ever. And so 
 here, in its course, is Whitsuntide — an ancient 
 holiday and a modern one — adapting itself to chang- 
 ing creeds and new civilisations, as even its names 
 sufficiently indicate — Pentecost, Pfingsten-tag, and 
 Whitsuntide. An old writer, describing the English 
 Whitsuntide in his day, says : ' The house-keepers 
 met and were merry, and gave their charity. The 
 young people were there too, and had dancing, bowl- 
 ing, shooting at butts, &c, the ancients sitting 
 gravely by, and looking on. All things were civil 
 and without scandal.' And so it remains — ' the 
 young people are there too ' ; indeed the festival, as 
 known to ourselves, may be described as that of the 
 poor, and the children of the poor. 
 
 In Lancashire, especially, we seem resolved to 
 retain something of the traditional joviality; and 
 happily, too, the pleasures of the time are for the 
 most part connected with ideas of the country. And 
 
June. 107 
 
 who would wish them curtailed ? None, we should 
 suppose, unless he were either a misanthrope or a 
 churl, who had ever seen the faces of hundreds of 
 children lit up simultaneously with a flash of delight 
 as their Whitsuntide excursion showed them, perhaps 
 for the first time in their lives, certainly for the only 
 time in the year, a real green field, or a mountain- 
 side, or the marvel of the advancing ocean. 
 
 This year, unfortunately, the conditions are not 
 favourable to holiday-making. We have passed into 
 a stormy cycle ; the thunder has been frequent, the 
 rain has fallen in sheets, and the fields are under 
 water. As I write, the trees are tossing their 
 branches with a wintry wildness in the face of the 
 moon, when the clouds will let her be seen. Our 
 pond here has overflowed all its bounds and made 
 mischievous rivulets along the garden paths ; and 
 even a noisy waterfall has asserted itself in the dell. 
 The boys have consoled themselves by fishing — not 
 with much success — and by the construction of mimic 
 waterwheels. 
 
 Herrick gives us, as usual, the sylvan note of the 
 
 festival — 
 
 When yew is out, then birch comes in, 
 
 And many flowers beside, 
 Both of a fresh and fragrant kinne, 
 
 To honour Whitsuntide. 
 
io8 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Green rushes then, and sweetest bents, 
 
 With cooler oken boughs, 
 Come in for comely ornaments, 
 To re-adorn the house. 
 Thus times do shift ; each thing his turne do's hold ; 
 New things succeed as former things grow old. 
 
 Because there was rain without, was that reason 
 why there should be no appropriate bravery within ? 
 It seemed not, and therefore on Saturday I went into 
 the garden, and made a great nosegay for Sunday 
 morning ' to honour Whitsuntide ' — not a dainty 
 hand-bouquet, but a capacious bunch of leaves and 
 flowers that covered half the table. There was a 
 branch of oak — one sees, as one looks at the delicious 
 green, why Herrick calls it ' cool ' — a branch of birch, 
 some fronds of hart's-tongue, the ribbon-grass for 
 grace, the sword-grass for stiff dignity, a splendid 
 peony for a centre of colour — is any English flower 
 finer than this? — the blue corn-flower, the pencilled 
 iris in many tints, and a few classic-looking yellow 
 trumpet lilies. 
 
 Yesterday, in the afternoon, there was a temporary 
 cessation of the storm, and we took a short journey 
 to a pleasant village in the south-east corner of the 
 county. We had such an evening as can only come 
 after a day of heavy rain ; and being upon high 
 ground we saw some thirty or forty miles of cham- 
 
June. iog 
 
 paign country stretching beneath us — green meadows, 
 
 dark woods rising like unbroken walls or opening to 
 
 reveal the landscape beyond, broad tracts of ruddy 
 
 moorland over which the slow trains seemed to creep, 
 
 innumerable hamlets, each marked by its tower or 
 
 spire, and, in the far distance, as a bounding line, the 
 
 dusky hills of Derbyshire. At twenty minutes before 
 
 nine I saw a lark in the sky and heard him singing — 
 
 grand egotist as he is — as if he had been the very 
 
 genius and incarnate voice of the whole splendid 
 
 scene. 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With that voice was loud. 
 
 It has been said that the skylark never sings after 
 
 the sun is below the horizon, and that Shelley was 
 
 wrong in speaking of the bird as singing — 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 Of the sunken sun. 
 
 But the poet was unquestionably right, as my obser- 
 vation on this occasion, and on many others, enables 
 me to certify. 
 
 At this particular time the moon was perceptibly 
 brightening ; and although there were thin streaks of 
 fading colour in the upper sky, the sun had been set 
 for twenty or thirty minutes, and the west was already 
 cold and grey. The bird was in no hurry to finish 
 
no Country Pleasures. 
 
 his vesper ; but came slowly down from a great 
 height, singing on the way and making but a short 
 drop at the last. There were no trees near him, and 
 I saw him waver over the meadow until he found his 
 nest and sank quietly into it. So you see the lark 
 ' startles the dull night ' not only at its departure, as 
 Milton puts it, but also upon its appearing. 
 
 XXIII.— SUMMER IN THE MIDLANDS. 
 
 Church Stretton : June 17. 
 
 The end of Whitsuntide was better than the begin- 
 ning. On the night of the thirteenth a change came 
 and by the next day the weather, as befits the month 
 of June, had become bright and warm. After making 
 a flying visit to the Lancashire sea-coast, and breath- 
 ing for a few hours that fine air which, when the wind 
 is in the north-west, comes over from the Cumberland 
 hills and mingles with that which rises from the 
 scented pastures of the Fylde, we shifted our quarters 
 into the middle of the southern division of Shropshire. 
 And there we make our notes for the week. 
 
 Far from noise and smoke of town, 
 we say to ourselves ; and again with the earlier 
 poet — 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
 
june. 
 
 in 
 
 These words express the feeling that we had as 
 we found ourselves really at rest in the deep and, 
 sequestered country — the real country, where no trace 
 or hint of the city or of manufacturing pursuits re- 
 mained to obtrude itself, if we except, as we must, 
 the inevitable iron link by favour of which we had 
 arrived. And indeed it was but a pleasant morning's 
 ride out of Lancashire and across Cheshire into this 
 fine county of Salop, lying about midway between 
 the northern and southern extremities of England, 
 watered by the Severn — the 'queen of rivers' — well 
 cultivated, well wooded, yet not without its own 
 picturesque hills, and having the Welsh mountains 
 running along the whole of its western boundary. In 
 this direction we Lancashire people find our quickest 
 access into a region of purely pastoral and agricul- 
 tural life. 
 
 We leave the railway at Church Stretton station 
 and walking towards the hills, soon come into the 
 quiet village. There is a large inn ; but it is kept by 
 a company and seems out of harmony with its sur- 
 roundings, so we take refuge in a smaller and home- 
 lier hostel, the oldest in the place, an ancient manor- 
 house, in fact, where we find unpretentious comfort, 
 excellent fare, and that kindness which cannot be 
 bought ; and where, also, there is nothing to break in 
 
112 Country Pleasures. 
 
 upon the rural simplicity which is the charm of the 
 place. 
 
 Church Stretton has one main street and not 
 much else. Looked at from a little distance, it is 
 simply a grey square tower — the church tower — a 
 cluster of red roofs, a thick belt of wood and a high 
 background of turf-covered hills. These hills, which 
 are close to the village and west of it, form what is 
 called the Long Mynd ; across a narrow valley to 
 the south-east is another range known as the Cara- 
 doc. The Long Mynd is some 1,700 feet high, the 
 Caradoc is about 1,200. 
 
 Even at noon the village seems to be asleep. 
 Hardly a sound reaches the ear except the drowsy 
 crowing of a cock and the chiming of the quarters by 
 a silvery bell in the grey church tower. The people 
 move about so slowly and have such an air of repo'se 
 about them, that by the time we have been there an 
 hour or two, we begin to be ashamed of our compara- 
 tively hurried gait, and try to tone down our motions 
 to that sleepiness which we associate with a certain 
 scene in ' Rip Van Winkle.' Passing through the 
 churchyard and round by the Rectory — which is 
 hidden in magnificent timber — we come into a steep 
 lane that leads towards the hills. Here we find all 
 the wealth of summer. The hedges are high and 
 
June. 113 
 
 thickly set with well-grown hollies : the limes are in 
 their fullest leafage, and are also in flower. Along 
 the banks we gather the two forget-me-nots — that 
 which grows on the dry soil and that which frequents 
 the wet ditch ; two species of herb-robert, the 
 woodruff, smelling like new-mown hay and bearing 
 its little white diamond-like flower ; the three stel- 
 larias ; the fox-glove, already grown to a stately 
 height ; the woodbine, profuse with its odour ; and 
 the wild rose, reticent both of its colour and its smell, 
 but none the less delicious on that account. Higher 
 up, when we come upon the hill-side, we find the eye- 
 bright and the bird's-foot. Here we look down upon 
 a green hollow, through which a clear stream mean- 
 ders. Before us is a narrowing valley, formed by 
 curiously shaped and overlapping hills. Following 
 the path for a couple of miles, and passing an old 
 water-driven mill, we come into a wild and narrow 
 gorge, where there is a little fall, locally known as the 
 ' Light Spout.' Here the rock breaks through the 
 turf, and the green is made more vivid by contrast 
 with dark masses of heath. We climb up by. the fall 
 and on to the top of the hill ; and there, at the height 
 of a thousand feet, we find the mountain pansy, grow- 
 ing thickly among the pasture. It is a lonely scene 
 but very lovely as we look upon it, under a sky 
 
1 14 Country Pleasures. 
 
 clouded, but sometimes breaking into blue. When 
 we get back to the village the night is setting in, and 
 the course of life there is quieter than ever. It seems, 
 indeed, as if it would cease altogether if it were not 
 for the silvery bell in the grey tower which goes on 
 chiming the quarters. 
 
 The next day is Sunday. The morning is cloud- 
 less, but cool and sweet, the wind having got round 
 to the north. The first sound we hear is that which 
 has now become to us the voice of Church Stretton 
 — the grey tower chiming the quarters. At eight 
 o'clock a peal is rung, soft and unobtrusive. When we 
 get into the churchyard the old clerk is locking the 
 doors after an early service. We wander about 
 among the graves, and remember how near we are to 
 the Welsh Border as we read the names engraven on 
 the stones — Evans, Lloyd, Gwynn, and, in one case, 
 ' Henry and Mary Tudor.' 
 
 At church-time we are returning from a short 
 stroll among the hills and pause at a point where we 
 overlook the village. We are listening to the mellow 
 bleating of the sheep in the distant folds, when the 
 bells in the grey tower begin once more, and slowly 
 we discover that now the ringers are skilfully running 
 over the notes of a sweet and familiar hymn — the 
 Quam Dilecta of Bishop Jenner. We descend and 
 
June. 115 
 
 join the quiet company which is slowly passing between 
 the graves and through the Norman doorway, with 
 the words of old George Herbert on our lips : — 
 
 O Day most calm, most bright, 
 The fruit of this, the next world's bud, 
 Th' indorsement of supreme delight, 
 Writ by a friend, and with his bloud ; 
 The couch of time ; care's balm and bay : 
 The week were dark but for thy light : 
 
 Thy torch doth show the way. 
 
 In the evening we crossed the valley and ascended 
 Caradoc. The way ran by deep lanes and through 
 field-paths. All the flowers were there again, but the 
 most frequent were the honeysuckle and the rose. 
 When we had climbed six hundred feet up the hill, so 
 deep was the silence that we heard, as we stood and 
 paused for breath, the cuckoo calling from a wood 
 down in the valley and at least a mile away. On the 
 summit we found, more plainly marked than we ex- 
 pected, the ancient camp of Caractacus — Caer Cara- 
 doc. Round the grim rocks and over the old-world 
 ramparts we saw the swifts, or black-martens, darting 
 about in great numbers. Were their nests built at that 
 great height — twelve hundred feet above the sea — or 
 had they come up from the valley in search of food ? 
 
 After seeing the sun dip below the great plain, out 
 
 of which rose the Wrekin, we descended rapidly : and, 
 
 1 2 
 
n6 Country Pleasures. 
 
 as we skirted the bottom of the hill in the deepening 
 twilight, suddenly we heard the cuckoo again. This 
 time he was close by, and on the open ground. Turn- 
 ing suddenly round, we saw him rise and fly into a 
 deep wood. It was now nine o'clock, but yet his song 
 was not over. Again and again we heard, his myste- 
 rious cry issue from the dark retreat into which we 
 had seen him enter. There was a fascination about 
 it, and we lingered until we were sure that his voice 
 would be heard no more. We had been fortunate 
 enough to catch sight of the strange creature — strange 
 in his habits and his history — and could not say with 
 Wordsworth — 
 
 O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice ? — 
 Still longed for, never seen. 
 
 We bade him good-night, therefore, with this one 
 
 charming stanza of an almost forgotten poet : — 
 
 Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 
 
 No winter in thy year 1 
 
 The lights were being extinguished as we got back 
 into Church Stretton, and the silvery chime from the 
 grey tower, announcing ten o'clock, seemed to ripple 
 along the street and up and down all the leafy alleys 
 of the village. 
 
June. Liy 
 
 XXIV.— MIDSUMMER NIGHTS AND DAYS. 
 
 June 25. 
 
 The summer is come at last in all its plenitude of 
 light and warmth. And that means for us, first, the 
 definite cessation of the winter fire, which usually 
 keeps on an intermittent existence all through the fickle 
 days of spring ; it means breakfasting with open win- 
 dows, and with the song of birds echoing through the 
 house ; it means, in short, what is but a rare and a brief 
 thing in our northern part of England— pleasant life 
 in the open air; the early morning walk in the dewy 
 wood, when the shafts of light look wet and green ; 
 and long lingering in the garden at night, when the 
 ' mild twilight, like a silver clasp, unites to-day with 
 yesterday, and Morning and Evening sit together, 
 hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight.' 
 
 The sky is not quite starless here. I have just 
 come in from the garden. It wants but a quarter to 
 eleven, and yet there is still a faint tinge of daylight- 
 blue remaining in the heavens, and it is light enough 
 to see the time by one's watch. In the north-west 
 there are some fleecy clouds, which wear a silvery 
 tone. There is no doubt that the light comes up from 
 where the sun has set, for the lower edges of these 
 clouds are the brightest. A few small starry points 
 
n8 Country Pleasures. 
 
 and one bright planet are visible. I could just make 
 out the Great Bear, almost in the zenith, and with the 
 tail pointing due south. There was not light enough 
 to distinguish the colours of flowers, but on the 
 perennial beds I could see patches of the old-fashioned, 
 white, sweet-scented pink, and in the wood it was 
 possible to make out some tall white foxgloves stand- 
 ing like fairy vestals under the shade of the trees. To 
 look at their delicately diminishing rows of snowy 
 bells under such circumstances was indeed ' A Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream.' So long is the day at this 
 time of the year. How short the night is I have 
 proved for myself. Being awake and abroad on one 
 day this week at half-past two, I saw unmistakable 
 indications of the dawn, and heard not one but many 
 birds already in full song. Those who have not seen 
 it can have little conception of the strange and ma- 
 gical beauty of a summer morning at this hour. The 
 stars were all gone, but the thin moon was rising in 
 the east : the sun would soon follow after, and the 
 saffron colour of the day was already passing over the 
 sky and tinging the clouds. I know of no other 
 appearance in nature which gives the same idea of 
 soft, quiet, gradual, and yet altogether certain and 
 irresistible subjugation. It is the kingdom of light 
 driving out the kingdom of darkness. On the same 
 
June. ng 
 
 day the birds were still singing at half-past nine in 
 the evening. On other occasions I have heard the 
 thrush as late as ten o'clock. There would be, there- 
 fore, for these little busy throats and wings only some 
 four or five hours of rest out of the twenty-four. 
 Wordsworth's poem on ' The Longest Day ' naturally 
 recurs to us here : — 
 
 Evening now unbinds the fetters 
 
 Fashioned by the glowing light ; 
 All that breathe are thankful debtors 
 
 To the harbinger of night. 
 
 Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
 
 Eve reviews her calm career ; 
 For the day that now is ended, 
 
 Is the longest of the year. 
 
 Summer ebbs ; — each day that follows 
 
 Is a reflux from on high, 
 Tending to the darksome hollows 
 
 Where the frosts of winter lie. 
 
 The quotation about the twilight, made just now 
 from memory, was taken out of a really beautiful 
 piece of prose by Longfellow, which appears as a 
 lengthy note to his translation of Bishop Tegner's 
 Children of the Lord's Supper. Since writing it I 
 have been led to refer to the note itself, which describes 
 the rural life of Sweden, and in it I find the following 
 passage about Midsummer which I had forgotten : — 
 ' And now the glad, leafy Midsummer, full of blossoms 
 
120 Country Pleasures. 
 
 and the song of nightingales, is come ! Saint John has 
 taken the flowers and festival of heathen Balder ; and 
 in every village there is a Maypole fifty feet high, 
 with wreaths and roses and ribands streaming in the 
 wind.' This festival of Midsummer is hardly at all 
 regarded now. It was once, along with Yuletide, its 
 wintry counterpart, the most famous of the year. 
 The night of the twenty-third, under the name of St. 
 John's Eve, was a time of great rejoicing and also of 
 many mysterious observances. Fires were lighted in 
 the towns and the people danced round them, and 
 threw garlands into the flames. In the country it 
 was usual, as at so many other times of the year, to 
 go into the woods and bring home great branches of 
 trees, which were put over the doors of the houses. 
 This is alluded to by old Barnaby Googe : — 
 
 Then doth the joyfull feast of John the Baptist take his turne, 
 When bonfiers great, with loftie flame, in every towne doe burne ; 
 And yong men round about with maides doe daunce in every 
 
 streete, 
 With garlands wrought of Motherworth, or else with Vervain 
 
 sweete. 
 
 On this night, too, it was usual to remain awake, in 
 order to watch for departed souls, which were said 
 to wander about and return to their old haunts : and 
 in most parts of Europe there are curious superstitions 
 
June. • 121 
 
 connected with the gathering, on this particular night, 
 of the seed of St. John's fern. 
 
 The woods are just now in their fullest leaf. This 
 is indeed the ' leafy month of June,' but the leaves are 
 already all of one colour or nearly so. If we look at 
 them in the mass, we see they are all dark green, and 
 there is little variety, except that which arises from 
 the play of light and shade. This will last but a short 
 time. The chequered tints of autumn will quickly 
 make their appearance ; and yet it is but a few weeks 
 since we left behind us the refreshing and wonderfully 
 various greens of spring. 
 
 At the beginning of the month I took the trouble 
 
 to set down the trees round the house here according 
 
 to the place which they then occupied in the scale of 
 
 colour. Beginning with the darkest green, they come 
 
 in the following order : — 
 
 i. Chestnut. 9. Birch. 
 
 2. Hawthorn. 10. Beech. 
 
 3. Lilac. 11. Ash. 
 
 4. Elder. 12. Lime. 
 
 5. Mountain-ash. 13. Ivy. 
 
 6. Elm. 14. Willow. 
 
 7. Laburnum. 15. Oak. 
 
 8. Sycamore. 
 
 It may be observed that the colour and beauty of the 
 leaf depend very much upon its texture. Some are 
 nearly opaque, some let the light fall through them, 
 
122 Country Pleasures. 
 
 and some have the upper surface highly polished. Of 
 those mentioned, the transparent leaves are the syca- 
 more, beech, lime, and oak. The most opaque is the 
 lilac. The polished leaves are the hawthorn, birch, 
 beech, ash, ivy, willow, and oak. 
 
 Cowper has a passage in The Task, in which he 
 carefully notes the colours of the leaves ; but his 
 observation was evidently made later in the season 
 than my own, for the oak at the beginning of June 
 was the lightest of all, and he speaks of it as being of 
 
 the deepest green : — 
 
 „ No tree in all the grove but has its charms, 
 
 Though each its hue peculiar ; paler some, 
 
 And of a wannish grey ; the willow such, 
 
 And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, 
 
 And ash far stretching his umbrageous arm ; 
 
 Of deeper green the elm ; and deeper still, 
 
 Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. 
 
 Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun, 
 
 The maple, and the beech of oily nuts 
 
 Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve 
 
 Diffusing odours : nor unnoted pass 
 
 The sycamore, capricious in attire, 
 
 Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet 
 
 Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright. 
 The poet is very accurate in his description of the 
 sycamore. It is now the only exception to the general 
 green. If looked at, especially from above, it will be 
 seen that at the top of each spray there is a cluster of 
 new leaves which are of a brilliant red. 
 
July. 123 
 
 JULY. 
 
 Then came hot July boyling like to fire, 
 That all his garments he had cast away. 
 
 Behind his back a sithe, and by his side 
 Under his belt he bore a sickle circling wide. 
 
 Spenser, The Faerie Quecnc. 
 The fire of July 
 In its passionate noon. 
 
 J. H. Newman, The Queen of Seasons. 
 
 XXV.— TROPICAL SUMMER: IN THE HAYFIELD. 
 
 July 3- 
 It is but little more than a week since we felt for 
 the first time that we were fairly leaving behind us 
 the uncertain temperature of the spring. Since then 
 we have had not only an English summer at its best, 
 but a summer of the Tropics. In the middle of the 
 day the thermometers have been giving all sorts of 
 extraordinary registers. In my garden here I know 
 that even at half-past five in the evening of the twenty- 
 sixth of June the point marked was 113 ; and so late 
 as eight o'clock on the twenty-seventh, when the 
 
124 Country Pleasures. 
 
 coolness of night should have been coming on, the 
 registration was still 8o°. At this time I was sitting 
 under a beech-tree at the edge of the large pond, and 
 it seemed to me that all the birds in the garden were 
 making incessant journeys, to and fro, across the water. 
 Probably they found that their usually cool and shady 
 quarters were yet burning with the heat of the day. 
 On the twenty-eighth, although it was still singularly 
 hot, a strong wind sprang up from the east ; and after 
 this (the wind continuing in the same quarter) each 
 day became cooler. Many leaves were shrivelled by 
 the great heat, and were brought to the ground in 
 showers by the wind, which at one time became violent 
 enough to strike off the heads of the taller flowers, and 
 even to break down branches of the trees. 
 
 After all, this bountiful outburst of sunshine, 
 though grievous to some people, has been a great 
 boon to most, and has put a wealth of life into the 
 blood which will be felt even when the snows of 
 December are upon us. The rapidity with which the 
 flowers came out during the days of greatest heat 
 was very remarkable. The purple foxgloves, the 
 orange lilies, the tall yellow iris, the campanula, the 
 musk, the marigold, and the sweet-william were most 
 conspicuous. But best of all were the roses. Between 
 our orchard and the wood there is a little trellised 
 
July. 125 
 
 avenue covered on both sides with bushes of a hardy 
 climbing rose, in colour, white, with a blush centre. 
 These were timidly showing their buds about the 
 middle of June, and each day two or three would 
 open : but, under the influence of the heat, they burst 
 out in hundreds ; and I observe that the scent is more 
 delicious and the colour deeper than on any previous 
 year. This is owing, no doubt, to the continuous 
 sunshine and to the absence of rain. In the green- 
 house the most noticeable things are the centaurea, 
 with its yellow thistle-like bloom ; the great pas- 
 sion-flower, and the plumbago — inharmonious name 
 for one of our most unique and delicately coloured 
 blossoms. 
 
 The hay harvest, later here probably than in most 
 places, has been nearly got in. The scent of it is 
 about the house all day long, and no garden posy is 
 sweeter than a swath of new-mown hay. There are 
 few passages in our English country life more pleasant 
 than this, or fuller of healthy and delightful associations. 
 We are in the hayfield early in the morning, and 
 realise for ourselves the truth of those fine lines in In 
 Memoriam : — 
 
 O sound to rout the brood of cares, 
 The' sweep of scythe in morning dew; — 
 
126 Country Pleasures. 
 
 and again in the evening, when the long day's work is 
 nearly done, and when groups of happy children make 
 pictures all over the meadow. 
 
 Following the mowers yesterday we saw them cut 
 away the grass above the nest of a poor field-mouse. 
 The mother escaped, and the young ones were un- 
 touched by the scythe. My boys gathered them up 
 and took them home. The nest is nothing more than 
 a little round bed made of closely-nibbled grass, soft 
 enough, but not shaped or woven like that of a bird. 
 There were six in the litter. They are curious-look- 
 ing creatures, very light in colour, little more than an 
 inch long altogether, and the head itself being nearly 
 as large as the body. They are blind like young 
 puppies, but seem able to use their tiny mouths. It 
 seemed a hard thing to break in so rudely and so sud- 
 denly on what was probably, a moment before, a happy 
 and contented little homestead. Some such feeling, I 
 suppose, was in the mind of Burns when he wrote his 
 well-known poem : — 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
 O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 
 But, mousie, thou art no thy lane 
 In proving foresight may be vain ; 
 
July. 127 
 
 The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 
 
 Gang aft a-gley, 
 An' lea' us nought but grief an' pain, 
 
 For promis'd joy. 
 
 Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
 The present only toucheth thee : 
 But, Och 1 I backward cast my e'e 
 
 On prospects drear 1 
 An' forward, tho' I canna see, 
 
 I guess an' fear I 
 
 This morning early the long-continued dry weather 
 was broken by a copious shower, the first we have had 
 since the twenty-third of June. After the rain the air 
 was delightfully cool and sweet. The sun came out, 
 and on the lawn I saw a blackbird, not hurrying about 
 for food, as it would have done earlier in the year, but 
 quietly preening its wings and brooding on the warm 
 earth like a domestic fowl. I imagine this means 
 that the young ones have been settled in life, and 
 that the troubles of parentage are over. 
 
 We have had no more rain during the day, but the 
 air has been fresh and full of changes. At sunset the 
 sky was in many moods at one moment. In the south 
 the clouds were cool and rainy, and had the roll of 
 David Cox about them ; in the north-east they were 
 ribbed and lighted as Linnel would have had them : 
 while in the west there was one of those luminous and 
 
128 Country Pleasures. 
 
 burning sunsets — the very embodiment of splendid 
 power — a thing which everybody may see, which so 
 few care to see, and which only one man has yet 
 been able to paint with any approach to adequacy. 
 
 XXVI.— THE FOXGLOVE GARDEN. 
 
 July 10. 
 
 Although we have had no return this week of that 
 fervent heat recorded in my last notes, there has been 
 a good deal of clear and pleasant sunlight, tempered 
 and softened on most days by a fresh breeze from the 
 west. It is the glory of the summer ; and, for a little 
 while, we are the ' children of the sun,' and live in 
 his presence. 
 
 On days like these the idea of solar worship, such 
 as it once existed, is not at all startling. As we 
 follow the sun in his long course through the sky, 
 from the first glimmer of dawn to the last flush of 
 his setting, and feel how ourselves and all our sur- 
 roundings are overspread and enfolded by his exist- 
 ence, we can understand how the ancient Guebres 
 should see in him the symbol, if not the very pre- 
 sence itself, of a beneficent power. 
 
 Under the influence of some such idea Goethe, in 
 that wonderful Hymn which occurs in the prologue 
 
July. 129 
 
 to Faust, has, I think intentionally, confused the 
 visible sun with the unseen Deity. The Archangel 
 Raphael sings : — 
 
 The sun makes music as of old 
 
 Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, 
 On its predestined circle rolled 
 
 With thunder speed : the Angels even 
 Draw strength from gazing on its glance, 
 
 Though none its meaning fathom may : — 
 The world's unwithered countenance 
 
 Is bright as at creation's day. 
 
 In a subsequent verse there are the following lines : — 
 
 But thy servants, Lord, revere 
 The gentle changes of thy day. 
 
 And then comes the ambiguous chorus : — 
 
 The Angels draw strength from thy glance, 
 Though no one comprehend thee may : — 
 
 Thy world's unwithered countenance 
 Is bright as on creation's day. 
 
 During the last day or two the skies have become 
 more clouded, and there has been a little rain — truly 
 the 'gentle rain from heaven,' falling so softly 'upon 
 the place beneath,' and coming, when so much needed 
 by the parched earth, that it seemed not only our 
 poet's apt image of mercy, but the very ' quality ' 
 itself. Before the rain came, many of the trees and 
 shrubs were beginning to suffer. The rhododendrons 
 
130 Country Pleasures. 
 
 were the first to hang down their leaves, and as they 
 give us now our brightest green, we took care to 
 afford them copious drenchings of water. Just at 
 this time there is probably the least variation of tem- 
 perature during the twenty-four hours. As there is 
 no sharp line between the light and the dark, so 
 there is the least difference between the heat of the 
 day and the cool of the night. On several occasions 
 I have observed only a fall of ten degrees from 
 the middle of the afternoon to the lowest point at 
 night. 
 
 The most conspicuous flower of the week is the 
 foxglove. So early as the middle of January its 
 foliage began to brighten ; and now its white and 
 purple bloom is the beauty of the garden. If we 
 take into account its size, its perfection of form, and 
 its richness of colour, we shall admit that there is no 
 English wild-flower to equal it. Linnaeus is said to 
 have gone down upon his knees before the splendour 
 of the gorse ; and one might well stand for hours in 
 admiring contemplation of the foxglove as it bends 
 its richly adorned stem backward and forward in the 
 breeze. 
 
 In the garden here we are great in foxgloves. We 
 encourage them everywhere. They mingle with the 
 smaller perennial flowers ; they stand like sentinels 
 
July. 131 
 
 behind the plots of geraniums ; we come upon them 
 
 unawares in many shady and out-of-the-way corners 
 
 where nothing else will grow ; and besides that, they 
 
 have a sort of garden all to themselves. This garden 
 
 is a sloping bed underneath a hedge of hawthorn. It 
 
 is some forty yards in length and four or five in 
 
 width, and with the exception of a few primroses, 
 
 which of course are over now, we let nothing grow 
 
 there but the foxglove. This year the plants in 
 
 flower contemporaneously are not so numerous as 
 
 usual, but I have seen in previous years many 
 
 hundreds in bloom at once. Only in one other place 
 
 have I ever come upon so many together, and these 
 
 were on the bank of a steep lane climbing out of 
 
 Porlock on to Exmoor. It may be supposed that the 
 
 effect is monotonous, but that is not so. Each plant 
 
 varies in height and in shape, the purple and the 
 
 white are mixed, and, besides this, it is one of the 
 
 peculiarities of the foxglove that the bells on the 
 
 same stem are graduated in tint according to their 
 
 age. 
 
 Somewhere in the writings of Mr. Ruskin I 
 
 remember to have seen a passage in which he speaks 
 
 of the foxglove as typifying the various stages of 
 
 human life. The comparison is remarkably apposite. 
 
 At the tip of the long stem is the small, green, 
 
 K 2 
 
132 Country Pleasures. 
 
 unopened bud ; then, passing down with most perfect 
 gradation, we see, first, the colour begin to flush, then 
 the buds are slightly open, then the development of 
 beauty is complete; next, decay has begun, the 
 corolla flies off with a gust of wind and leaves the 
 pistil bare ; then at the bottom there is the seed vessel, 
 green, like the first bud, and boasting no loveliness of 
 form ; and last, if we wait long enough, there is death, 
 when the once beautiful and stately stem topples 
 over and lies rotting on the ground. 
 
 The fertility of the foxglove is very great. We 
 have plants here which rise to the height of six feet, 
 and which will bear, during their course, a hundred 
 and twenty flowers. The product from these would 
 probably be not less than ten thousand seeds. What 
 opulence of life, what seeming waste of life ! and— can 
 we repress the question — to what intent? In the 
 presence of such a phenomenon we naturally ask — 
 
 Are God and Nature then at strife, 
 That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
 So careful of the type she seems, 
 
 So careless of the single life ; 
 
 That I, considering everywhere 
 Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
 And finding that of fifty seeds 
 
 She often brings but one to bear ; 
 
July. 133 
 
 I falter where I firmly trod, 
 
 And falling with my weight of cares 
 Upon the great world's altar-stairs 
 
 That slope thro' darkness up to God ; 
 
 I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
 And gather dust and chaff, and call 
 To what I feel is Lord of all, 
 
 And faintly trust the larger hope. 
 
 Our talk about the foxglove has led us into deep 
 waters. The note of the subject, however, was 
 struck in unconscious harmony with the scene which 
 a little while ago was left outside — a grey and rainy 
 • twilight, showing only that one faint and passing 
 gleam of yellow which is the most mournful thing we 
 ever see in the sky. There is no doubt also that 
 Nature, generally, is beginning to assume an air of 
 gravity, if not of solemnity. The childlike joyous- 
 ness is gone. If I am asked to account for this, I can 
 only answer that it seems to me to be owing chiefly 
 to the deep colour of the woods and the silence of 
 the birds. 
 
 XXVII.— THE SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 July 17. 
 ' The deep colour of the woods and the silence of 
 the birds ' — these two things not only account for the 
 change in what may be called the sentiment of 
 
134 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Nature, but they also become increasingly character- 
 istic of the season as we get further into the month 
 of July. More and more we feel, by comparison, 
 how delicious was the ' living green ' of spring — to 
 quote that happy phrase which occurs in one of our 
 best hymns : — 
 
 Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
 Stand dress'd in living green. 
 
 As we look on the present sombre monotony of the 
 leaves, we know that it means rest, fulfilment, achieve- 
 ment — peace, perhaps ; but not force, freshness, hope, 
 elasticity. These are gone when development is 
 complete. 
 
 My garden -book to-night was that choicest volume 
 of the year, the Selected Poems of Matthew Arnold, 
 and I found myself turning over, perhaps for the 
 fiftieth time, the ' Monody of Thyrsis ' : a poem which 
 has probably a surer chance of immortality than most 
 modern pieces, for the reason that it combines in an 
 unusual degree classic perfection with the freedom of 
 the romantic school. And in one beautiful stanza I 
 find described an aspect of human life which seems to 
 me the correlative of that condition in external nature 
 which we are at present considering — 
 
July- 135 
 
 Round me too the night 
 In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. 
 
 I see her veil draw soft across the day, 
 I feel her slowly chilling breath invade 
 
 The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey ; 
 I feel her finger light 
 Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train ; — 
 
 The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, 
 
 The heart less bounding at emotion new, 
 And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. 
 
 That is just what we feel with regard to the woods : 
 the bounding force is gone, and the premonitory 
 breath of autumn has already made invasion upon 
 them. 
 
 It seems early to talk of autumn: but the summer 
 is short, — our shortest season — and, even while we 
 are noting the dark and unvarying green, we see the 
 tints of the later time beginning to creep in. The 
 beech is the first to show patches of brown ; and on 
 the birch you see a bright yellow leaf here and there, 
 like an accidental splash of colour. The sycamore 
 still wears the new red leaves, which I have spoken 
 of before. This tree is the most party-coloured of 
 all. I wish I could get some one to paint the four 
 leaves which I have just taken from one bough. The 
 first — the newest — is a brilliant red, the second is red, 
 shaded with green, the next is all dark green, and the 
 last is so mixed with brown that it gives the effect of 
 
136 Country Pleasures. 
 
 the finest bronze. So we get as it were all the sea- 
 sons represented on one tree ; just as, in fact, these 
 seasons run one into each other. In winter when, by 
 the calendar, everything should be torpid or dead, you 
 can always find some spot of vivid green which fore- 
 tells the spring; in spring the winter lingers and 
 covers up the blossom with snow ; in summer the 
 autumn is often precipitately busy with the touch of 
 decay ; and in the very depth of autumn we usually 
 have a respite and fall back into the warm wealth of 
 summer. 
 
 Among the forest-trees the willow is now the 
 lightest green ; next to that is the ash ; and if we look 
 very closely we shall see that at this particular time 
 there are a few new leaves, of light colour, on nearly 
 all the trees. Those on the hawthorn are often red, 
 and make the spray a beautiful object. John Clare, 
 in his Shepherd's Calendar, has noted the colour of 
 the willow at this time. Under the month of July 
 he says : — 
 
 The shepherd still 
 
 Enjoys his summer dreams at will ; 
 
 Bent o'er his hook, or listless laid 
 
 Beneath the pasture's willow shade, 
 
 Whose foliage shines so cool and gray 
 
 Amid the sultry hues of day. 
 
 And then there is the silence of the birds. That 
 
July. 137 
 
 too has made a great distinction between the spring 
 and the summer. Nature may be very lovely, even 
 when she is silent, but she is not cheerful. The winds 
 and the waters ; the birds, the bees, and a thousand 
 other winged creatures speak for her; and when these 
 are not heard she is apt to become sad even in her 
 beauty. Of these voices, that of the birds comes 
 nearest to us and touches us most, and is therefore 
 now missed more than any other. We have been 
 accustomed to listen even in the dawn to — 
 
 The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds; 
 
 the joy of the morning has been to throw wide open 
 the windows and let in the tempestuous melody ; nor 
 could the dimmest evening-twilight become mournful 
 so long as a single thrush continued his song. But 
 now all this is changed: the birds whistle sometimes, 
 but they do not sing. 
 
 In the wood there are some six or seven ash-trees 
 standing so closely together as to make by their top- 
 most boughs a continuous field of leaves. Here, as 
 the evening draws on, there is a great congregation 
 of finches. There must be at least a hundred. Lean- 
 ing against one of the boles I wait quietly till the 
 birds are accustomed to my presence and then watch 
 what is going on. I can but imperfectly guess at the 
 
138 Country Pleasures. 
 
 meaning of what I see. They are all, however, in 
 incessant motion. They chase each other ; they flit 
 from bough to bough ; and, if the wings are still, the 
 tail is moving. Sometimes, in parties of a dozen or 
 so, they seem to make excursions into the garden ; 
 but they quickly return. Their life for an hour is 
 restless and fussy ; and, partly from their motion, 
 partly from the effect of the wind, the light leaves of 
 the ash are in constant oscillation. And all this 
 time there is going on a ceaseless and unmusical 
 twittering, which reminds me of what I have heard 
 of the chattering of monkeys in? a tropical forest. 
 By nine o'clock the busy scene is over ; but two or 
 three, like late revellers, are still chirping and 
 tumbling about among the leaves. When it was nearly 
 dark, in order to assure myself that they were resting 
 for the night in the branches, I shook, though but 
 slightly, one of the smaller trees, and more than a 
 score of birds came fluttering out. 
 
 Apart from these there are but few birds to be 
 seen now. The swallows here, this year, are less 
 numerous than usual ; and the lark is but seldom 
 heard. The last occasion was on the morning of the 
 twelfth. On the lawn there is now and then a young 
 throstle, delicate in shape and light in colour ; and a 
 few days ago I saw the yellow-wagtail. 
 
July. 139 
 
 In the" orchard the currants and gooseberries have 
 been gathered, and the cherries are nearly ripe. I 
 should note that a few heads of bloom are still lin- 
 gering on the elder. This tree was the first to show 
 its leaves, and is the last to retain its flower. 
 
 The weather all the week has been dry and warm, 
 with only very slight rain. On the thirteenth the 
 moon had a mellow autumnal look, and for the first 
 time I felt a crispness in the air, both morning and 
 evening. On the fifteenth, the day sacred to that 
 Swithin (bishop of a thousand years back) who has 
 such a curious legendary connection with the rain, not 
 a drop of moisture fell, not even that slight sprinkling 
 which would have enabled the old gossips to say that 
 the good saint, according to ancient wont, had been 
 christening the green apples which now hang so 
 thickly on the trees. 
 
 XXVIII.— HOT SUMMER AGAIN : A GOSSIP 
 ABOUT BIRDS. 
 
 July 24. 
 To-day the long reach of dry and sultry weather 
 has at length been broken. The early morning was 
 so cool and dark that before the windows were un- 
 covered we knew that the welcome rain was coming. 
 It was a pleasant thing to watch the great clouds 
 
140 Country Pleasures. 
 
 come labouring up — gathering each moment in 
 volume, until at length they broke and sent down the 
 abundant showers for which we were all waiting. The 
 most unimaginative person could hardly have helped 
 feeling that the parched grass and the drooping leaves 
 were in some obscure way enjoying, along with our- 
 selves, the advent of the rain. The hot ground seemed 
 almost rising to meet it as it fell. This appearance 
 was the result of the steaming vapour, which soon 
 after could be seen creeping like a blue mist along the 
 margin of the wood. 
 
 How beautiful is the rain ! 
 
 After the dust and heat, 
 
 In the broad and fiery street, 
 
 In the narrow lane, 
 
 How beautiful is the rain ! 
 
 During the week there has been an unmistakable 
 return of that intense heat which we had at the end 
 of June. The highest temperature was reached on 
 the twenty-first. At five o'clock in the evening of 
 that day the thermometer in the sun stood at 114° : 
 and the lowest temperature at night was 6o°. The 
 sky was a clear dome in which the sun undisputed 
 reigned the whole day long ; or, if there came clouds 
 at all, they were only the thinnest lines of white and 
 gauze-like cirri, which, even as they were formed, 
 
July. 141 
 
 began to. vanish away. The air was burned through 
 and through, until it became an almost entirely trans- 
 parent medium, and objects appeared not more than a 
 third of their usual distance. The hills which are ordi- 
 narily invisible, or seen only as a dim, unbroken, and 
 colourless wall, were of a light and airy blue, and re- 
 vealed themselves in unsuspected variety of form ; 
 each fold and hollow having become sharp and clear. 
 In the garden the foxglove bells were quite distinct 
 at a distance of more than a hundred yards. 
 
 In the afternoon it was too hot even to lie and 
 
 read — 
 
 The Tuscan poets on the lawn ; — 
 
 the lawn, in fact, was burning like the floor of an 
 oven ; but there was one place where it was pos- 
 sible — 
 
 Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
 
 To drink the cooler air, and mark 
 The landscape winking through the heat — 
 
 And this was in the thickest part of the orchard, 
 
 where a crooked and moss-grown pear-tree stretches 
 
 its boughs into those of an apple, and both come near 
 
 to the ground. As I crept out of the fierce sunlight 
 
 into the shade of this covert, a pair of large thrushes 
 
 started out of the leaves, and came whirring across 
 
 my face. Like myself, they had come there to hide 
 
 from the heat, and I was sorry to disturb them ; but 
 
142 Country Pleasures. 
 
 a man must reserve to himself the right to lie under 
 his own trees ; and besides I wanted to share the re- 
 treat with them in a friendly way, and not to drive 
 them out. I suppose they found no other place 
 suit them so well, for they came back cautiously three 
 or four times, flitting from tree to tree, but finding a 
 strange biped still in possession, to my disappoint- 
 ment, they always flew away again. The bees being 
 bolder, or less observant, kept on buzzing round my 
 head ; and I had occupation enough in watching their 
 motions, and in observing the changes on the grass, as 
 the leaves were gently moved by some faint breeze. 
 Now and then there would also come past the eye a 
 delicate seed of dandelion, floating along like a fairy 
 parachute. 
 
 When the sun got lower, I went round to the pond. 
 There was now a little breeze— at least in this place 
 —and the beech, under which I was sitting, seemed 
 to make an effort, each now and then, to bring the tip 
 of its longest bough into contact with the water. 
 The pigeons, attracted by the coolness, were sweeping, 
 in a very unusual manner, backward and forward over 
 the pond. They got as near as they could, but were 
 afraid to touch the water. At length one of them, 
 after many attempts and much dexterous flying, 
 managed to give his legs a bath, drawing them 
 
July. 143 
 
 through the water as he darted along. He was 
 evidently proud of the feat, and perhaps none the less 
 because the other birds, though they often tried, were 
 unable to accomplish the same thing. 
 
 During this hot weather the ducks seemed to have 
 a fine time of it. They were on the pond all day : 
 and, I should think, for most of the night. Generally 
 they were occupied in swimming quietly round the 
 shady edge, and in catching certain flies which are to 
 be found in the interstices of an old brick embank- 
 ment : but occasionally they varied the monotony of 
 this proceeding by turning up their tails and bobbing 
 under the water in that ungraceful and laughable 
 fashion which is one of their peculiarities. 
 
 We have had much amusement lately in watching 
 a young brood of ducklings which have been hatched 
 by an old and very large Dorking hen. Of course 
 the .young ones got on the pond, and the hen was in 
 a dilemma. She could not join them, and she could 
 neither coax nor frighten them off again ; and so, 
 while they went skimming about like little balls of 
 down, she was reduced to following them round the 
 edge, making her way through the bushes and over 
 the stones as well as she could. Once I paw her, in a 
 fit of desperation, dash on to the water after them, 
 neck or nothing. I ran for a plank to rescue her ; 
 
144 Country Pleasures. 
 
 but before I could get back she had managed, half 
 swimming half flying, to regain the bank, although in 
 a sadly wet and draggled condition. When six o'clock 
 in the evening came, nature and habit were generally 
 too much for her. After watching sedulously all the 
 day, she would then turn sorrowfully away, and make 
 for her perch in the hen-house, leaving the young pro- 
 digals to continue their vagaries alone, and wondering, 
 no doubt, why she should have been cursed with such 
 an incomprehensible and erratic brood. These young 
 ducks were evidently of a sportive turn, and seemed 
 to have a sense of humour, for one evening I found 
 that the half-dozen of them had got on to two small 
 strips of wood which were being driven by the wind 
 up and down the pond. The thing was inimitably 
 grotesque. They jumped into the water and scram- 
 bled back again ; they ran round the edges of their 
 rafts ; they erected their bodies so that their two little, 
 budding wings looked like arms ; they jostled each 
 other about ; and, altogether, behaved just as I have 
 seen my boys do when bathing in the same pond. 
 
 But I must bring my record of this hot day to a 
 close, and I may as well finish among the birds. A 
 little after midnight, when the half moon was rising, I 
 could see the outline of the pea-hen as she perched 
 on the highest point of one of the highest gables 
 
July. 145 
 
 about the house. I was startled at first, for she was 
 perfectly still, and looked like a gothic finial carved 
 in stone. She is a wise bird, and had made her roost 
 where any cooling wind which might happen to be 
 abroad would be sure to reach her. 
 
 XXIX.— THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 Ju'y 31- 
 In a quaint little book called The Household of 
 Sir Thomas More, there is a passage on flowers and 
 gardens which I must venture to quote in full. I do 
 this because, in the first place, it happens to hint at 
 the kind of garden which I myself most affect ; and 
 second, because it sets forth so well that old feeling 
 with regard to flowers — fond, credulous, superstitious 
 perhaps — which, although in these modern days we 
 cannot pretend to entertain it ourselves, we are most 
 of us pleased to hear of in our ancestors. The truth 
 is I have been seeking opportunity to make this 
 quotation, and I imagine the reader will thank me 
 for making it : -- 
 
 ' Landing at Fulham, we had a brave Ramble 
 thro' the Meadows. Erasmus, noting the poor Chil- 
 dren a-gathering the Dandelion and Milk-thistle for 
 the Herb-market, was avised to speak of forayn 
 
146 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Herbes and theire Uses, bothe for Food and Me- 
 dicine. 
 
 ' " For me," says Father, " there is manie a Plant 
 I entertayn in my Garden and Paddock which the 
 Fastidious woulde cast forthe. I like to teache my 
 Children the Uses of common Things — to know, for 
 Instance, the Uses of the Flowers and Weeds that 
 grow in our Fields and Hedges. Manie a poor 
 Knave's Pottage woulde be improved, if he were 
 skilled in the Properties of the Burdock and Purple 
 Orchis, Lady's-smock, Brook-lime, and Old Man's 
 Pepper. The Roots of Wild Succory and Water 
 Arrow-head mighte agreeablie change his Lenten 
 Diet ; and Glasswort afford him a Pickle for his 
 Mouthfulle of Salt-meat. Then, there are Cresses 
 and Wood-sorrel to his Breakfast, and Salep for his 
 hot evening Mess. For his Medicine, there is Herb- 
 twopence, that will cure a hundred Ills ; Camomile, 
 to lull a raging Tooth ; and the Juice of Buttercup 
 to cleare his Head by sneezing. Vervain cureth 
 Ague ; and Crowfoot affords the leaste painfulle of 
 Blisters. St. Anthony Turnip is an Emetic ; Goose- 
 grass sweetens the blood; Wood-ruffe is good for 
 the Liver ; and Bindweed hath nigh as much Virtue 
 as the forayn Scammony. Pimpernel promoteth 
 Laughter ; and Poppy, Sleep ; Thyme giveth pleasant 
 
July. 147 
 
 dreams ; and an Ashen Branch drives evil Spirits 
 from- the Pillow. As for Rosemarie, I let it run alle 
 over my Garden Walls, not onlie because my Bees 
 love it, but because 'tis the Herb sacred to Remem- 
 brance, and, therefore, to Friendship, whence a Sprig 
 of it hath a dumb Language that maketh it the 
 chosen Emblem at our Funeral Wakes, and in our 
 Buriall Grounds. Howbeit, I am a Schoolboy prat- 
 ing in Presence of his Master, for here is John Clement 
 at my Elbow, who is the best Botanist and Herbalist 
 of us all." ' 
 
 ' Manie a Plant which the Fastidious woulde cast 
 forthe ' — that is the point. We are too apt to judge 
 of flowers, as we do of men, by their great names, or 
 by some exterior and vulgar quality; or we like them 
 because they are the fashion, and not by virtue of 
 their own intrinsic sweetness and beauty. I have no 
 wish to depreciate the splendid and ingenious produc- 
 tions of the modern florist, or to deny that a trim 
 garden is a source of pleasure to me ; but I like the 
 old-fashioned flowers best, and ' a careless order'd 
 garden,' in which even what we are pleased to call 
 ' weeds ' may be allowed to grow without breaking 
 the harmony of the place, is what I care for most. 
 
 It is said that a garden should always be considered 
 
 simply and wholly as a work of art, and should not 
 
 L 2 
 
148 Country Pleasures. 
 
 be made to look like nature. That is true enough. 
 Nothing, indeed, can be in worse taste than the land- 
 scape-gardener's imitations of nature. But there is 
 another plan. If your garden be large enough you 
 can let nature have its own way in certain parts of 
 it. This takes time, but the result is eminently 
 delightful. For the most part you have only to stand 
 aside and watch. If anything at all be done" it should 
 only be a little judicious pruning — accomplished in 
 such a way that it need not be observed — and the 
 blending by unobtrusive gradations of the artificial 
 with the natural. I well remember how skilfully this 
 was done in that ' careless order'd garden ' of the 
 present laureate, at Freshwater, in the Isle of Wight, 
 
 where — 
 
 Groves of pine on either hand, 
 To break the blast of winter, stand ; 
 And farther on, the hoary Channel 
 Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand. 
 
 And, curiously enough, the only other garden which 
 
 I invariably think of in this connection is that of 
 
 Tennyson's predecessor. However it may be to-day, 
 
 I know that thirty years ago that which struck me 
 
 most at Rydal Mount, and which appeared to me its 
 
 greatest charm, was this union of the garden and the 
 
 wilderness. You passed almost imperceptibly from 
 
 the trim parterre to the noble wood ; and from the 
 
July. 149 
 
 narrow, greefl vista to that wide sweep of lake and 
 mountain which made up one of the finest landscapes 
 in England. Nor could youdoubt that this -unusual 
 combination was largely the result of the poet's own 
 care and arrangement. He had the faculty for such 
 work. Mr. Justice Coleridge, speaking of him in 1836, 
 said : ' Wordsworth combined, beyond any man with 
 whom I ever met, the unsophisticated delight in the 
 beauties of nature with a somewhat artistic skill in 
 developing the sources and conditions of them. . '. . 
 His own little grounds afforded a beautiful specimen 
 of his skill in this latter respect ; and it was curious 
 to see how he had imparted the same faculty in some 
 measure to his gardener.' 
 
 We need not therefore be so much afraid of weeds 
 in the garden. Only give them their own province. 
 We shall then soon learn how much may be gained 
 by simply letting things alone. Here, for instance, 
 is a remote path where I often come and sit. Behind 
 a rude wooden seat there is a stony bank, which is 
 now covered with wild and luxuriant vegetation. 
 There is the curious horsetail, looking like a miniature 
 forest of pines ; some sword-like leaves of the iris ; a 
 low bush of holly ; a patch of green moss ; some 
 bright tufts of clover ; a few rushes, and, best of all, 
 the great leaves of the coltsfoot, perfect in form and 
 
150 Country Pleasures. 
 
 although so common, delicately soft in colour. 
 Observe how the green turns to a shade of purple 
 where the veins run into the stem ; and how beautiful 
 is the white colour on the under side of the leaf. On 
 this rough and uncultured bank there is loveliness 
 enough for many a long visit. And then if I walk 
 towards the wood I find the path soft and green even 
 in this dry weather ; and all around are wild flowers 
 and plants despised by some but beautiful enough to 
 me. The white-rayed chrysanthemum ; the loose- 
 strife ; the little bird's-foot ; the yellow vetchling ; 
 the ranunculus in many varieties ; the lesser willow- 
 herb, the opened capsules of which are now thickly 
 covered with downy seeds; that great willow-herb, 
 which children call ' apple-pie ' ; tall purple thistles, 
 ragged and weird in outline ; many grasses, green 
 and silvery grey, each one of which is a study in 
 itself; and, most conspicuous of all, the great docks 
 and sorrels, the very pictures of rude and vigorous 
 life, and yet not ungraceful, crowned, as they now are, 
 with their reddish-brown spikes of bloom. It needs 
 only one ray of sunset to transform these into mag- 
 nificent flowers. 
 
 By this time I have got round to the old English 
 flower-bed, where only perennials with an ancient 
 ancestry are allowed to grow. Here there is always 
 
July. 151 
 
 delight ; and I should be sorry to exchange its sweet 
 flowers for any number of cartloads of scentless bed- 
 . ding-plants, mechanically arranged and ribbon-bor- 
 dered. This bed is from fifty to sixty yards long, and 
 three or four yards in width. A thorn hedge divides 
 it from the orchard. In spring the apple-bloom hangs 
 Over, and now we see in the background the apples 
 themselves. The plants still in flower are the dark 
 blue monkshood, which is seven feet high ; the spiked- 
 veronica ; the meadow-sweet or queen-of-the-meadow ; 
 the lady's-mantle, and the evening-primrose. This 
 last may be regarded as the characteristic plant of the 
 season. The flowers open about seven o'clock, and, as 
 the twilight deepens, they gleam like pale lamps and 
 harmonise wonderfully with the colour of the sky. On 
 this bed I read the history of the year. Here were 
 the first snowdrops; here came the crocuses, the 
 daffodils, the blue gentians, the columbines, the great 
 globed peonies, and last the lilies and the roses. 
 
 Autumn now draws on apace. The brownest 
 trees are the beech and the sycamore ; the greenest 
 are the ash, the willow, and the brave elder. On the 
 wall of the house the fragrant jessamine — Milton's 
 'pale jessamine' — has just opened its white, starry 
 flowers, and the scent is wafted through the window 
 in a morning. 
 
152 Country Pleasures. 
 
 The weather this week has been dry again, but 
 without excessive heat, the wind being generally in 
 the north-west. This wind, probably from its fresh- 
 ness or from some association, always suggests to me 
 the neighbourhood of the sea ; and I remember that 
 before I write my next notes I shall have exchanged 
 the narrow though beautiful limits of the garden for 
 the wild coast of Arran. 
 
August. 153 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea 
 Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slow to come ? 
 Am I not always here, thy summer home ? 
 Is not my voice thy music, morn and eve ? 
 My breath thy healthful climate in the heats, 
 My touch thy antidote, my bay thy bath ? 
 Was ever building like my terraces ? 
 Was ever couch magnificent as mine ? 
 Lie on the warm rock-ledges, and there learn 
 A little hut suffices like a town. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson, Sca-Shorc. 
 
 XXX.-- ON THE COAST OF ARRAN : WILD 
 FLOWERS AND THE FIRST ASPECT. 
 
 Corrie : August 6. 
 
 This morning has brought round a not unwelcome 
 change in the weather. During the night there 
 has been much heavy rain, coming not before it was 
 wanted on the burnt pastures and the dusty roads. 
 There must have been wind also, for very early the 
 sea was what the fisher-folk call ' heavy,' and the 
 waves were flinging about and breaking themselves 
 to pieces on the rocks as if they still felt the agony 
 of some trouble which itself had passed away. Now 
 
[54 Country Pleasures. 
 
 the water is calmer, and is only weltering about in a 
 lazy and exhausted manner. There is a light wind 
 from the south-east ; and though the sky is all grey 
 and clouded, we feel that before long there will be 
 sunshine abroad again. 
 
 It is just the morning for rest. How far away, 
 how alien to all that we see, seems now to us the 
 ' fitful fever,' and turmoil of life ! We are trying to 
 persuade ourselves that idleness is a virtue, and have 
 almost succeeded. And why should we go hurrying 
 up and down ? The sea is before us ; the mountains 
 are behind ; what more do we need ? Why, even, 
 should we succumb to the desire to take ship and sail 
 away farther and farther into the wild North ? It is 
 surely enough to be here. 
 
 One of the first things one has to do when absent 
 on a long vacation is to find a point of pleasant con- 
 tact between the old home and the new. Life loses 
 half its charm to me when it is robbed of that quality 
 which we call continuity. To-day is but a poor thing 
 if it be not at once dependent upon yesterday, and 
 contributory to to-morrow. As Nature is said, from 
 the scientific side, to abhor a vacuum, so from the 
 aesthetic side she revolts more than at anything else 
 against any violent breach of continuity. The hiatus 
 is that which she can least of all endure. It was 
 
August. 155 
 
 this feeling, no doubt, which lay at the root of the 
 
 poet's desire — 
 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 Be the bond what it may — whether 'natural piety,' 
 or some other bond — those days are certainly the 
 happiest which are ' bound each to each,' and that 
 life is the most undesirable which is made up of iso- 
 lated and incongruous sections. 
 
 And this point of contact we find chiefly in the 
 wild-flowers. Many things here are more beautiful 
 than at home ; — 
 
 The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, 
 And by the sea, and in the brakes. 
 The grass is cool, the sea-side air 
 Buoyant and fresh, the mountain-flowers 
 More virginal and sweet than ours. 
 
 They may be sweeter, but they are none the less the 
 same. In the thicket behind the garden here the 
 wild bramble trails its prickly stem and its white 
 flowers up and down, just as it is doing now in the 
 thorn-hedge above the foxglove bed in our own 
 garden far away ; and as we ascend the lower and 
 pastoral slopes of the mountain, we see all our old 
 favourites — the brilliant dandelion ; the little red- 
 tipped bird's-foot ; the delicate eye-bright ; the blue 
 campanula swinging its airily hung bells in every 
 
156 Country Pleasures. 
 
 faint breeze ; and the daisy, with its yellow disk and 
 its white rays reduced to one-fourth their usual size, 
 but brighter than ever — a perfect diamond in the 
 green pasture. I think I notice that the higher we 
 climb, the smaller, and at the same time the more 
 vivid in colour, do all the flowers become. And then 
 in the hedges there are herb-robert, and meadow- 
 sweet, and yarrow, and willow-herb, and the white 
 convolvulus, of which in the garden at home we have 
 a hundred times too much, gadding up and down as 
 it does in all places where it has never been asked to 
 grow. Those who think of these northerly shores as 
 being sterile would wonder to find so many flowers 
 quite close to the sea. At the edge of a wood only 
 a few yards from the water, and where the salt spray 
 itself must often fall, there are diminutive rose-bushes 
 now covered with ripe berries ; the wild chrysan- 
 themum ; the purple vetch ; the woodruff, tiny in 
 size, but sweet as ever ; and even the dainty forget- 
 me-not ; while the woodbine festoons the trees, 
 climbing up them to a height of twenty feet. There 
 is one other connecting link which I must not omit 
 to mention. The last bird which we saw on the lawn 
 at home was the merry little pied-wagtail ; and here, 
 after the gulls, I find him, to my surprise, the most 
 prominent of feathered creatures. How could I help 
 
August. 157 
 
 taking off my cap to him as to an old friend ? He is 
 very tame, and spends his time hopping busily about 
 among the sea-weed ; or shaking his black-and-white 
 tail on a sandy patch of grass in front of the door, 
 where he comes to look for chance crumbs. 
 
 The Island of Arran lies in the Estuary of the 
 Clyde between Cantire and the mainland. It is 
 reached by steamer from Glasgow, or by a shorter 
 sea passage from the grimy port of Ardrossan. The 
 former route is circuitous but beautiful ; by the latter 
 you sail straight upon the island and are quickly 
 there. If the day be hazy it will seem, as you come 
 near, only a wild cloud among other clouds ; then the 
 fair green fields take shape and colour ; and, as the 
 vessel comes near the land, you are astounded by the 
 unexpected size and form of the mountains, which 
 seem to rise upon you from behind the shores. If the 
 air be clear you see the whole twenty miles' length of 
 the island from a great distance, and at one view — a 
 mass of blue mountains, every rib of which seems 
 sharp and distinct. But best of all is to come upon 
 it in stormy weather. Then, keeping your footing as 
 best you may on the rolling deck of the steamer, and 
 with the rain streaming into your eyes, you look out, 
 as you are told, and when but a few strokes of the 
 paddle-wheel from the shore you see some awful 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 thing — black, mighty, grotesque — start out of the 
 mist and lean over, threatening you, as it were, with 
 imminent ruin. It is impossible that anything should 
 look more like an enchanted or demon-haunted island 
 than the usually peaceful Arran does under such an 
 aspect. It is worth while to go many times in order 
 to catch this sight. Wordsworth in one of his sonnets 
 has finely sketched the island as seen from a steam- 
 boat in the Firth of Clyde : — 
 
 Arran ! a single-crested Teneriffe, 
 A St. Helena next — in shape and hue, 
 Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue ; 
 Who but must covet a cloud-seat, or skiff 
 Built for the air, or winged Hippogriff ? 
 That he might fly, where no one could pursue, 
 From this dull Monster and her sooty crew; 
 And, as a God, light on the topmost cliff. 
 Impotent wish ! which reason would despise 
 If the mind knew no union of extremes, 
 No natural bond between the boldest schemes 
 Ambition frames, and heart-humilities. 
 Beneath stern mountains many a soft vale lies, 
 And lofty springs give birth to lowly streams. 
 
 These wonderful 'peaks and ridges,' which are 
 chiefly in the northern half of the island, are quite 
 unique. They do not owe their attractiveness to their 
 great height, for Goatfell, the loftiest, is only 2,866 
 feet, but to their extraordinary form. Few peaks are 
 more angular, eccentric, or precipitous : many of them 
 
August. 159 
 
 are like huge cliffs rather than mountains. They 
 are full of surprises ; and the sky-line of their 
 summits is infinitely varied, from the round bastion 
 of Am Binnein to the toothed edge of Caistael-Ab- 
 hael and the sharp nipple of Cioch-na-h'oighe or the 
 Maiden's Breast. 
 
 XXX1.—CORRIE AND GLEN-SANNOX. 
 
 Corrie : August 13. 
 
 On the eastern coast of Arran there are two chief 
 ports of landing — Brodick and Lamlash. At these 
 places there are piers at which the steamers touch. 
 Farther south, and beyond Lamlash, is Whiting Bay : 
 to the north of Brodick is Corrie. Here you must 
 come ashore in huge flat-bottomed ferry-boats which 
 pull out when the steamers are seen approaching. 
 If, however, the weather should be very rough, this 
 mode of landing is not available ; and it is better, 
 therefore, especially if you have much luggage, to 
 make for one of the larger places. Our destination 
 being Corrie, we left the steamer at Brodick. The 
 sun was just setting behind the Goatfell range of 
 mountains, and his light fell with a strange effect on 
 the edges of the green waves as they rolled into the 
 small and perfectly rounded bay. The first sight of 
 
160 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Brodick leaves a very favourable impression. To the 
 left is the soft basin of Glen Cloy ; to the right the 
 wilder and yet beautiful entrance to Glen Rosa, while 
 in the central foreground there are the white houses 
 of the village, and the deep sandy shore on which 
 the boating and the bathing goes on all day long 
 with great persistency. 
 
 The distance to Corrie is six miles ; but by taking 
 a small lug-sail boat you may cross from one horn of 
 the bay to the other, and so cut off two miles of the 
 circuitous road. By this route you land at an old 
 sandstone pier just under Brodick Castle, the seat of 
 the Duke of Hamilton, who owns the whole of the 
 island with the exception of one or two small estates 
 which have been retained with singular tenacity by 
 a family of the name of Fullarton since the time, it 
 is said, of Robert the Bruce. The present castle, 
 which is a fine building with turrets and battlements 
 and pointed gables, stands on the site of an ancient 
 stronghold which was besieged and taken by Bruce 
 from Edward I. The head of the house of Hamilton, 
 in Queen Mary's time, was James Earl of Arran and 
 Duke of Chatelherault. He was first peer of the 
 Scottish realm, and was made by the Queen lieu- 
 tenant-general in Scotland. It is to him that Scott 
 alludes in his ballad of 'Cadyow Castle'; — 
 
August. 161 
 
 First of his troop, the chief rode on ; 
 
 His shouting merry-men throng behind ; 
 The steed of princely Hamilton 
 
 Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 
 
 Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault ! 
 
 Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree I 
 Each warrior bends his Clydesdale bow — 
 
 Murray is fallen and Scotland free. 
 
 The four-mile walk to Corrie is one of the pleasantest 
 kind. On one side is the sea, bordered by a narrow 
 strip of green land, covered with ferns and tall flags 
 and many sea-flowers, including the pink and the 
 campion. On the other side there is woodland 
 scenery all the way, and, sometimes, of the finest 
 character. The trees are not small and stunted, as 
 is so often the case near the sea, but rise in noble 
 proportions ; and, as you pass, you are frequently 
 compelled to pause before some vast grove of pine or 
 beech, under which you see the great grey boulders 
 moss-covered, riven sometimes, and strangely over- 
 hanging ; or the unbroken beds of fern stretching 
 away into the green gloom beyond. Now and then 
 a little burn comes down through the thicket with its 
 message from the mountains, which, though unseen, 
 are not far behind. When about a mile from Corrie, 
 by the edge of a stream called the White Water 
 which flows from the side of Goatfell, we notice an 
 
1 62 Country Pleasures. 
 
 enormous granite boulder, the largest in Arran — much 
 larger, I should think, than the Boulder Stone in 
 Borrowdale. Its weight is estimated at more than 
 two thousand tons. These vast boulders are very 
 common here, and give quite a character to the scenery 
 at many points along the road between Brodick and 
 Glen-Sannox. 
 
 The hamlet of Corrie is the most primitive of those 
 which may be called frequented places on the island. 
 There is an inn, and a school, and some score of white 
 cottages running along the beach in a single line. One 
 of these is the shop, and the only shop — the store, in 
 fact, where everything is sold that is sold. Here, too, 
 we post our letters and deposit our telegrams, which 
 are then sent by hand to Brodick. In front of some 
 of the cottages there are little gardens walled off from 
 the water. Not much grows in them, I think, for the 
 Scotch are not given to gardening on their own 
 ground ; but the fuchsia and the hydrangea grow large 
 and bloom freely against the houses ; and in a garden 
 behind the particular tenement which we ourselves oc- 
 cupy there are a few roses, nasturtiums, and geraniums, 
 and a background of birch and willow and mountain- 
 ash, the latter being covered just now with its bright 
 red berries. Above the village is a steep green slope, 
 part being pasture-land and part being covered with 
 
August. 163 
 
 low wood. In these upland fields the cattle graze 
 
 and the children play all day long ; and at night and 
 
 morning groups of bare-legged lads and lasses may 
 
 be seen winding down with milk from the farms. 
 
 This green foreland is broken in places by tiny 
 
 gorges, down each of which comes a little stream. 
 
 In these places, on certain days of the week, may be 
 
 seen the familiar picture of the Highland Washing — 
 
 the fire kindled in the open air, the steaming pot, and 
 
 the wide tub in which the clothes are trodden with 
 
 naked feet. 
 
 Coming down to the sea we find a line of rocks 
 
 richly tinted — limestone and sandstone, white and 
 
 grey, pink and brown — upon which the water, never 
 
 muddy, breaks at all stages of the tide. In one place 
 
 some narrow spits of rock run out into the sea ; and 
 
 here there is a little creek into which the ferry-boat 
 
 comes from the steamers. The life of Corrie centres 
 
 upon this point. It is her pier, her market-place, her 
 
 forum, her promenade. When the steamer arrives, 
 
 all Corrie is out upon these white rocks, from the tall 
 
 kilted Highlander to the toddling baby ; and finds, 
 
 as well as it can, standing room on the slippery 
 
 ledges. Here, too, the fishermen and boatmen are 
 
 never unrepresented ; and in the evening you may 
 
 hear the politics and the theology, and the gossip of 
 
 M 2 
 
164 Country Pleasures. 
 
 the hamlet turned , over and over: and even after 
 dark the sturdy figures are still there, cut out like 
 black silhouettes against the lighter plane of the sea. 
 The geologists tell us that there is hardly any 
 other place in the world, of similar extent, which 
 offers so much variety in the way of scientific pheno- 
 mena as does this little island of Arran. In scenery, 
 also, it has considerable variety, and its atmospheric 
 changes are both rapid and wonderful. To-night the 
 sky is one of marvellous beauty. In the south there 
 are lurid clouds, which make the Holy-Island, beyond 
 Lamlash, look like a mountain of iron ; in the east 
 the sky is bright and barred with luminous clouds ; 
 while the Ayrshire coast and the Islands of Cumbrae 
 and Bute are coloured with green and gold. The far 
 north, too, is clear ; and there we see the great hills 
 which lie around Loch Fyne and Loch Lomond. If 
 I go back for a day or two I am struck by the ever- 
 changing series of pictures which are presented to 
 me. On Saturday the morning was grey and rainy, 
 the sea shoreless and heaving; but at night there was 
 the most gorgeous moonlight imaginable — a yellow 
 radiance filling the sky and falling in broad bands of 
 silver on the dark waves. Sunday morning was clear 
 and calm ; but in the evening, as we sat in the kirk 
 at Sannox, we heard the wind howling and shaking 
 
August. 165 
 
 the windows, and we had to walk home in heavy rain. 
 As the night wore on the storm increased, and at mid- 
 night the roar of the sea was awful. The water flew 
 over the shore in sheets, and in the dim moonlight we 
 could see the white waves start for a moment out of 
 the dark, as they broke on the edges of the rocks. A 
 few lines of Swinburne's, indistinct, and yet powerful 
 in their indistinctness, seem to catch for me the 
 
 spirit of this scene : — 
 
 A sea that heaves with horror of the night, 
 As maddened by the moon that hangs aghast 
 With strain and torment of the ravening blast, 
 Haggard as hell. 
 
 Yesterday again, the morning was bright and warm, 
 
 and after we had emptied our boat of the water which 
 
 had half filled it in the night, though lying high on 
 
 the rocks, we pulled about the little creeks and bays 
 
 under a serene sky ; but before evening it was evident 
 
 that we were going to have more wind and rain ; and 
 
 about six o'clock I started for Glen-Sannox. This 
 
 famous glen, which is the great sight of Corrie, as 
 
 Glen-Rosa is that of Brodick, is best seen in the 
 
 twilight and under a stormy sky. The entrance is 
 
 about two miles from Corrie, and the glen itself is 
 
 some three miles in length. Great wildness is its 
 
 characteristic, and yet there is a certain symmetry even 
 
 in its savage grandeur. Cioch-na-h'oighe and Suidhe- 
 
1 66 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Fergus stand like great warders on each side, Cior- 
 Mhor, an almost precipitous wall of rock 2,618 feet 
 high, and with a finely varied summit line, fills up the 
 end. As I stand in the mouth of the glen I notice 
 how grand are the lines on Suidhe-Fergus. They are 
 the furrows caused by falling streams in wet weather, 
 and sweep in one bold and simple curve from the 
 ridge to the base. This very much increases the ap- 
 parent height. The colour begins with green, on 
 both sides of the glen, varied by broad and shining 
 slabs of white or blue rock, and darkens gradually till 
 it finishes in the black mass of Cior-Mhor — black all 
 over, except for the mist wreaths and the white 
 torrent by which it is seamed. The wind is from the 
 west, and comes fiercely down the gorge as if it would 
 drive back the intruder; there are now strange sounds 
 also, coming from unseen gullies with an almost 
 human cadence — cries from far away, like the voices 
 in Ossian. It is time to return, for the twilight, 
 though long, ceases suddenly, and I make my way 
 rapidly down towards the sea. Being alone, it was 
 with a sense of relief that I found I had rightly struck 
 the little footbridge by which I must needs cross the 
 torrent ; and that I was now on a good path by which 
 I could find my way even in the dark. Standing on 
 this frail bridge with the night falling round me and 
 
August. 167 
 
 the loud roar of the river in my ears, that pathetic 
 
 verse in Logan's ' Braes of Yarrow ' came naturally 
 
 into my mind : — 
 
 They sought him east, they sought him west, 
 They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
 They only saw the cloud of night, 
 They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 
 
 When I got back into the coast-road it was just 
 
 nine o'clock ; and I took one last shuddering look at 
 
 the fearful glen, now filled with swirling mist, and 
 
 dark as midnight, out of which I seemed only to have 
 
 escaped just in time; but in front of me the full moon 
 
 was shining on the yellow sands and on the black 
 
 boats drawn up for the night in Sannox Bay. 
 
 XXXII.— BY THE SEA. 
 
 Corrie : August 20. 
 
 Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 
 One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice. 
 
 These are the two voices here; nor is either of 
 them ever silent. We may turn from this to that, 
 but in one or the other we find all our life and all 
 our pleasure. ' 
 
 It is often said that the sea is both monotonous 
 and melancholy, but the longer we remain in its close 
 neighbourhood the less are we disposed to allow that 
 
1 68 Country Pleasures. 
 
 it is monotonous. Melancholy it may be, as it 
 is fierce or wild or lovely by turns, but it is not 
 monotonous ; rather it is, next to the sky, the most 
 changeful thing we know : and by this I do not mean 
 only the obvious motion and restlessness of the 
 waves, but the more subtle and ever-varying alterna- 
 tion of the whole aspect of the sea. It is usual to 
 suppose that these moods are mainly in the mind of 
 the observer ; but that is not so. The sea, like 
 nature generally, has its own absolute conditions — 
 conditions which prompt and suggest, rather than 
 follow, emotions in the mind of man. To feel all 
 this, however, one must live continuously near the 
 sea : casual acquaintance and fortuitous observation 
 are not enough ; we must be devout in our attention 
 and sympathetically ready to wait upon her in all her 
 changes. 
 
 We are so contiguous to the sea here that, look- 
 ing through the window as I write, I can see nothing 
 but the wide stretch of waters, just as I should if I 
 were sitting in the cabin of a vessel ; and if I stand 
 at the door I can fling a stone into the fringe of the 
 tide. Crossing the road, one step brings me upon 
 the rocks, and here you may sit all the day long with 
 the sea-breeze blowing round you and the sound of 
 the water ever in your ears. This sound is usually 
 
August. i6g 
 
 resolvable into three elements. There is first the 
 great boom of the waves, the chorus of many waters, 
 far and near, heard in one deep unison ; then there is 
 a noise as of liquid being poured continuously out of 
 one vessel into another — that, I think, is caused by 
 the falling crest of the waves ; and, lastly, there is a 
 low and lisping talk ever going on between the water 
 and the pebbles. On these rocks there is life in many 
 forms. On very warm afternoons the white butter- 
 flies will hover about you, and even venture a little 
 way out to sea. Day after day I have visited a 
 bright yellow dandelion which, emboldened by a tuft 
 of coarse grass, has established itself in a cranny of 
 limestone, and blooms on in spite of the salt water 
 which must often sweep over it. In the pools and 
 tiny basins there are a thousand fairy creatures, whose 
 motions you may watch even as you lie reposing — 
 green and threadlike tentacula issuing and retreating, 
 purple atoms spinning round and round in some 
 strange dance which is the beginning and end of their 
 existence, gorgeous anemones and many a tiny shell, 
 delicately built and cunningly coloured : — 
 
 Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
 Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
 Small, but a work divine, 
 Frail, but of force to withstand, 
 Year upon year, the shock 
 
170 Coventry Pleasures. 
 
 Of cataract seas that snap 
 The three-decker's oaken spine 
 Athwart the ledges of rock. 
 
 Here, too, one may get the invigorating morning dip, 
 either where the water is cool and deep, or where, 
 more shallow, it breaks green upon the stones. 
 
 We have often the finest sea when the wind is due 
 north. Then the sky is usually clear and sunny, and 
 the waves roar and thunder on the ledges, curling 
 over only when they are six or eight feet high. Far 
 off the water is purple, nearer it is a deep blue, in- 
 shore it is all green and edged with white foam. 
 When the waves have risen to their greatest height 
 and just before they break, I observe that through 
 the transparent water we have a vision of a strange 
 gulf, and of the great slabs of rock at the bottom, 
 seen rising up and presented as in a mirror. With 
 the wind in the south-east the sky is often covered 
 with clouds, and then the sea is a grey plain stretch- 
 ing away in graduated bands. It is most melancholy 
 under windless rain ; most joyful when there is wind 
 enough and sun enough to make rapid interchange 
 of colour — black, blue, purple, and green — and rapid 
 movement, without the huge and threatening wave. 
 
 The rainbows have been very frequent during 
 the week. They come quickly, one after the other ; 
 
August. 171 
 
 and, when the sun is high in the heavens, they fall 
 entirely on the plane of the sea, sometimes just en- 
 circling our little creek ; then they pass farther away; 
 and later on they may be seen with their ends resting 
 on the water while the arch falls on the far-off moun- 
 tains of the opposite shore. One tempestuous night 
 when the moon was low in the south we had a large 
 and vivid lunar rainbow, stretching over a heaving sea 
 in the north. Unlike the solar bow it seemed to glare 
 upon us as a weird symbol of awe and desolation 
 rather than as the sign of reconciliation and peace. 
 
 With no appearance of the sea, however, have I 
 been more impressed than with that which on a fine 
 morning accompanies the sunrise. Between four 
 and five o'clock the sun climbs out of the mist 
 which usually envelops the Ayrshire line of coast, 
 and throws his beam suddenly upon the water. The 
 scene is marvellously joyous, and the very embodi- 
 ment of gladsome life. The effect of the low and yet 
 brilliant light falling on the waves, as they roll in 
 with an incessant and crosswise motion, is to make 
 each one of them seem as if it danced and laughed at 
 the same time. It must have been to some such 
 scene that .ZEschylus alludes in the often rendered, 
 often adapted line, in the Prometheus : — ' The in- 
 numerable laughter of the waves.' ' The countless 
 
172 Country Pleasures. 
 
 dimpling of the waves of the deep.' ' Of ocean waves 
 
 thou smile innumerous ! ' In Milton there is a parallel 
 
 passage :— 
 
 Cheer'd with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles. 
 
 In Byron the resemblance is closer : — 
 
 There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
 Reflects the tints of many a peak 
 Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
 These Edens of the Eastern wave. 
 
 In one of John Keble's hymns it takes the follow- 
 ing form : — 
 
 When up some woodland dale we watch 
 
 The many-twinkling smile of ocean, 
 Or with pleas'd ear bewilder'd catch 
 
 His chime of restless motion ; 
 Still as the surging waves retire 
 They seem to gasp with strong desire, 
 Such signs of love old Ocean gives, 
 We cannot choose but thinks he lives. 
 
 The life of Corrie is, of course, coloured much 
 more by the sea than it is by the mountains. There 
 is some quarrying of sandstone, a little on the way 
 towards Brodick ; and there are a few shepherds ; 
 but the men live chiefly by boating and fishing. 
 About half-way through the village there is an old 
 and picturesque stone harbour, lying at the foot of 
 a little cleft in the hill, where limestone was formerly 
 got. Here there are generally to be seen two or 
 
August. 173 
 
 three trading smacks — the ' Bella,' and the ' Jeannie,' 
 and the ' Zephyr.' They take loads of sand or gravel 
 to Glasgow, and return with any cargo they can get, 
 coming round perhaps, by the Head of Loch Fyne, 
 or the Sound of Mull, or the coast of Cantire, and so 
 making a voyage of about a fortnight. Here too are 
 the fishing boats and the strange looking trestles- 
 some twenty feet in height— on which the fishermen 
 spread out their nets to dry. These trestles give 
 quite a character to the place, especially when they 
 are seen standing out against the last gleam of 
 twilight in the north. People who know Clovelly 
 say that this particular part of Corrie gives them 
 just a slight remembrance of that unique village 
 in the West. The fishermen get sea-trout along 
 the shore ; farther out to sea they find whiting, 
 mackerel, haddock, and gurnet ; for herrings they go 
 to Loch-Ranza, or to Mauchrie Bay, on the west side 
 of Arran. 
 
 These fisher folk are a curious race and quite half 
 amphibious. They should, at any rate, I think, be 
 included in the marine zoology of the island. They 
 like the water better than the land, and always turn 
 their faces to the sea as a sunflower to the sun. One 
 fine old fellow interests me much. He must be nearly 
 ninety, for his father came to the island and entered 
 
174 Country Pleasures. 
 
 into the service of the ' third duke back ' one hundred 
 and twenty years ago. From morning till night he 
 hangs about the sea, and is ever looking wistfully 
 over the water, as if he thought some ship might 
 bring back the lost treasures of his youth. In sunny 
 weather he sits basking on the top of the rocks ; in 
 rain and storm he crouches behind them ; but all 
 'the same, his eyes are ever fixed on the sea. He has 
 had his troubles. Thirty years ago he lost his wife, 
 who was the ' bonniest woman on the island ' ; when 
 he was over sixty he broke his leg, and was lame for 
 years ; and his lad— his ' braw lad '—well, the bitter 
 war, the Crimean war, took him and never sent him 
 back. And yet he is cheery, and looks to the now 
 near and inevitable end with pious hope. Like most 
 Scotchmen of the past generation, he is great in the 
 ' Auld Testament.' He thinks the ' ministers are 
 often a' wrang,' and is confident in his own ability 
 to set them right upon certain crucial points in Scotch 
 theology. My own notion is that most ' ministers ' 
 would find him a grim and tough antagonist to deal 
 with. Finally, I must say of him, that he looks over 
 the comedy of life with a philosophic eye, and has 
 arrived at certain broad and incontestable conclusions. 
 One of his favourite sayings is the following : ' Well, 
 there's a deal o' ingenuity in maun. His Maker's 
 
August. 175 
 
 work is varra perfect, an a'togither wonderful ; but 
 there's somethin' in oursells, too — somethin' in our- 
 sells ; an' a deal o' ingenuity in maun.' 
 
 XXXIII.— ON THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Corrie : August 27. 
 
 I have spoken already of the nearness of the sea ; 
 the hills are equally near. We reach the mountain- 
 foot as easily as we do the sea-margin. Turning by 
 the garden wall we begin to climb at the first step. 
 Not that we are at once scaling the precipitous 
 granite, or ascending the dark and tortuous glen ; 
 but we are immediately on that steep, green foreland, 
 which is literally the foot of the mountain stretched 
 forward into the sea. It is one of the peculiarities of 
 Arran, and especially of the northern section, that 
 the great central peaks are everywhere belted, 
 towards the sea, by this green terrace, which runs 
 along with singular distinctness and regularity at a 
 height of four or five hundred feet. It is said to 
 indicate the ancient level of the water. If that be. so 
 the sea must once have broken upon the sheer granite. 
 
 Immediately over the village we pause at the gate 
 of a little garden, for which room has been found on 
 the steep hill-side. It belongs to Dugald, the shep- 
 
176 Country Pleasures. 
 
 herd. Dugald is one of the personages of Corrie. He 
 has a large sheep farm, and we rarely go on to the 
 hills without finding him somewhere about, wander- 
 ing with slow stride and peering up and down, into the 
 thickets and along the hollows of the water courses, 
 looking for his sheep ; or hallooing to his dog away in 
 the distant corrie. He is a kindly and open-hearted 
 creature, gentle as befits his occupation — a ' gentle 
 shepherd ' in fact. He knows all the ferns and plants, 
 and where the rarest are to be found. He will tell you 
 the names of the peaks, direct you to the passes, and 
 show you how to find your way over the ridges out of 
 one wild glen into another. He knows the weather, 
 too; and with a look at the sky all round will apprise 
 you of what is coming. On the beach the prophecies 
 are very wide, and generally resolve themselves into 
 the tolerably safe statement — ' Ah, weel, there may be 
 shooers, but they'll be doin' ye no harm ; just keep 
 ye green, that's a'.' But Dugald is more precise. He 
 will inform you when there will be thunder in the 
 south ; and when you may expect wind from the east ; 
 and when the hill-tops will be clear enough for a long 
 and adventurous climb. For two things he has un- 
 bounded admiration — the great patches of blooming 
 heather, which he says are grander than all the flowers 
 of the South ; and — either with or without the national 
 
August. 177 
 
 adjunct — the clear, soft, living water of the mountain 
 burns, which he seems almost to worship as he kneels 
 to drink it out of his great rough hands. 
 
 In his garden here there are balm and mint and 
 other simples ; the myrtle grows in the open air ; and 
 in no month of winter would you fail to find a rose. 
 There are also one or two apple-trees ; and, under a 
 rough shed, there is a good hive of bees. As we 
 leave the garden we see, higher up, a group of women 
 and boys turning over the scanty crop of moorland 
 hay. It is thin, but very sweet both to taste and 
 smell. It is the one grass-crop of the year, and is 
 usually gathered in the month of August, even as it 
 was of old ; for is it not in the ancient ballad that we 
 
 read — 
 
 It felle abowght the Lamasse tyde, 
 
 When husbonds wynn ther haye, 
 The dowghty Dowglasse bowynd hym to ryde, 
 
 In Inglond to take a praye ? 
 
 Farther up we reach an old limestone cave, the 
 roof of which is thickly studded with fossils. In the 
 cool crevices there are many beautiful ferns ; and 
 outside, clinging to the rock, there are the wild straw- 
 berry and the raspberry. On both of these the fruit 
 is ripe. The blackberry and the hazel are here also : 
 but the fruit is too green yet for eating. In the re- 
 cesses of the limestone the wild doves build, and in 
 
178 Country Pleasures. 
 
 the gloaming, on the solitary road between the woods 
 and the sea, we frequently hear their soft and melan- 
 choly cry. 
 
 As we climb, the birch and the hazel climb with 
 us : but become gradually smaller, though not less 
 beautiful. If we follow the trees we shall find that 
 they always indicate a stream, and where they are 
 thickest there will be water. Here, sitting on a stone, 
 or leaning on a pendent birch, one might linger for 
 hours without weariness listening to the musical 
 tinkle of the water. The trees are low, old, and 
 weird-looking, and their trunks are so thickly covered 
 with moss that as you creep between them they are 
 strangely soft to the touch ; and under the dim, green 
 light look half human in their contortions. The falls, 
 though diminutive, are as lovely as if they were 
 larger : and sometimes you will find a round basin, 
 worn in the rock, quite deep enough for a bath. 
 Wandering with Dugald yesterday morning, we 
 found in one of these pools a poor little lamb 
 drowned. It had been harried by some ill-trained 
 dog, and in its haste to cross the stream had slipped 
 and fallen into the deep water. By the side of these 
 brooks, and among the boulders there is an endless 
 variety of ferns and mosses, and many dainty little 
 flowers. Among the grass we see the leaves of the 
 
August. 179 
 
 primrose and the hyacinth, and can imagine how- 
 beautiful these nooks must be in the early spring, 
 and while the snow is yet lying on the grim rocks 
 above. We notice that the woods are still very 
 green, the sanguine colours of autumn having scarcely 
 made their appearance. Only on the birch is that 
 splash of yellow just coming, which we saw at home 
 a month ago : and in places here and there, the tall 
 bracken has already turned to red, and makes a fine 
 harmony with the heather. Many of the Scotch 
 painters come to Arran some weeks later than now 
 for the sake of the foliage which they cannot get in 
 Skye and the other more northern islands, where they 
 spend the summer. 
 
 Having climbed to the height of five hundred feet, 
 we leave the copses behind and come out upon the 
 open ground of the old sea-level. The flowers which 
 gemmed the turf are now gone ; but there is still the 
 heather, and in great profusion the sweet-scented bog- 
 myrtle. Then we reach a tract of green and marshy 
 land where little grows except the desolate-looking 
 cotton-grass. Beyond this is the naked side of Am- 
 Binnein, up which we must begin to climb. To the 
 left we see the Whitewater, a stream which comes 
 down from Goatfell, and which marks the best way 
 for ascending that mountain from Corrie. It seems 
 
 N 2 
 
180 Country Pleasures. 
 
 only a white thread from here, for there is not much 
 .water in it now; but sometimes it is broad and deep 
 enough to do wild work. A man was once crossing it 
 near the summit, and the wind snatching off his cap, 
 he tried to regain it, and losing his footing was swept 
 remorselessly to the bottom near the sea — dead long 
 before he rested. 
 
 Our way is now by the side of a small stream 
 which comes down from the hollow of Am-Binnein, 
 and is simply rock-climbing. At seven hundred feet 
 we can still hear the roar of the waves on the shore 
 below. At twelve hundred feet there is a solitary 
 mountain-ash clinging to the side of a grey boulder 
 and shaking its branches over the abyss like a flag 
 hung out from a lofty turret window. This is the 
 last of the trees. At fifteen hundred feet the sheep 
 are looking over at us from the edge, and we climb 
 up into the wild basin — devil's punch-bowl, of course — 
 which lies just under the circle of bare serrated rocks 
 which form the summit of Am-Binnein. In such a 
 place one would expect to find a tarn : but tarns and 
 lakes are few here, and in this lies the one defect of 
 Arran scenery. It is probably owing to the same thing 
 that the peaks are often too hard and bare. They 
 give us, better than anywhere else, the iron wall and 
 the saw-edge, but they are wanting sometimes in that 
 
August. 181 
 
 atmospheric softness which is the great charm, for 
 instance, of the Lake-Country. At the same time 
 the nearness of the sea frequently makes up for this, 
 and we see the crags under the finest condition — 
 black and hard when the clouds are dark ; grey, and 
 hard still, when the clouds are white ; soft and purple 
 when under a blue sky ; and most wonderful of all 
 when the blue sky and the dark cloud are mingled — 
 then the colour of the hills is indescribable— deepest 
 blue perhaps. I only know that if a man were to 
 paint it faithfully his canvas would not be believed. 
 At this point we strike to the right ; and, clambering 
 along the great slabs of an almost precipitous wall, 
 come on to the shoulder of Cioch-na-h'oigbe. Here 
 at sixteen hundred feet, we find to our surprise the 
 campanula and another delicate blue flower which is 
 probably one of the saxifrages. At this elevation 
 scarcely anything strikes the ear — 
 
 All sounds are light 
 As tiny silver bells upon the robes 
 Of hovering silence. 
 
 We climb still higher into the hollow under 
 Cioch-na-h'oighe ; and are then warned by the set- 
 ting sun that it is time to turn towards the valley. 
 The view is now a glorious one. Behind are the 
 awful crags darkening fast, for the sun is below 
 
1 82 Country Pleasures. 
 
 them. In front are Bute and the two Cumbraes — 
 golden islands bathed in sunlight ; far away to the 
 left are the hills of Argyle ; and on the right the dark 
 wall of Holy-Island shuts in the view. We descend 
 rapidly, but not without difficulty, to the entrance of 
 Glen-Sannox. We can see, even in the dark, the 
 beautiful burn rolling on its white bed towards the 
 sea : and we pause for a moment at the old graveyard 
 near the shore. A chapel once stood here dedicated 
 to St. Michael, but nothing remains of it now beyond 
 an almost obliterated image of the saint which has been 
 built into the wall of the cemetery. It is a sad and 
 lonely place — sad even when seen at noon, and answers 
 well to that description which Wordsworth has given 
 of ' A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland ' : — 
 
 Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep 
 That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies ; 
 
 The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep ; 
 Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes, 
 Enter in dance. Of church, or Sabbath ties, 
 
 No vestige now remains ; yet thither creep 
 
 Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep 
 
 Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies. 
 
September. 183 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 When soft September brings again 
 
 To yonder goise its golden glow, 
 And Snowdon sends its autumn rain 
 
 To bid thy current livelier flow ; 
 Amid that ashen foliage light 
 When scarlet beads are glittering bright, 
 While alder boughs unchanged are seen 
 In summer livery of green ; 
 When clouds before the cooler breeze 
 Are flying, white and large ; with these 
 Returning so may I return, 
 And find thee changeless, Pont-y-wern. 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough, Written on a Bridge. 
 
 XXXIV.— REMINISCENCES : BEN-GHOIL AND 
 LOCH-RAN Z A. 
 
 Moston : Sept. 3. 
 
 Although the hazel and the birch are the most fre- 
 quent trees in Arran, as, if we may judge from the 
 conventional use made of them in Scottish poetry, they 
 probably are in other parts of Scotland, yet the 
 charmed rowan or mountain-ash, as we call it in 
 England, is common enough to make it a feature in 
 the scenery. And so there is a thread of connection, 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 if it be but a slender one, between our temporary home 
 by the sea and that to which we have just returned, 
 for almost the first thing which caught my attention 
 in the garden here was the mountain-ash, gay with 
 the bravery of its coral-like berries. I think the 
 clusters are not of so brilliant a scarlet as those which 
 we have left behind in the island woods, but still the 
 tree is the same, and the fancy runs back to a certain 
 nook on the mountain side, where of late I have often 
 stood, knee-deep in fern, by a streamlet which comes 
 down a narrow' gorge, and being myself in shadow, 
 have seen, up in the clear sunlight, the waving branches 
 of a slender rowan, bright red and green, against the 
 white cloud or the smokeless blue of the sky above. 
 
 Before we begin again our quiet record of country 
 life here, it may be worth while to set forth a few remi- 
 niscences of Arran while they are yet fresh in the mind. 
 To remain long on the Island without attempting the 
 ascent of the highest mountain is a kind of practical 
 heresy which exposes you to constant reproach. It 
 is well, therefore, to have it disposed of as early as 
 possible. It must not be imagined, however, that the 
 task is merely a perfunctory one, for few of our British 
 mountains will better repay the trouble of climbing. 
 Goatfell has two summits. The southern one is 2,866 
 feet in height, and the northern one 2,628. It stands 
 
September. 185 
 
 back some two or three miles from the eastern coast, 
 and is between Brodick and Corrie. The name 
 ' Goatfell,' by the way, is a vulgar and unmeaning 
 corruption, and should be discarded. Its real appel- 
 lation is Ben-Ghaoith, ' the Mountain of the Winds ' ; 
 or, more euphoniously, Ben-Ghoil. Sir Walter Scott 
 gives it in the latter form : — 
 
 The sun, ere yet he sunk behind 
 Ben-Ghoil, ' the Mountain of the Wind,' 
 Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind. 
 
 The easiest ascent is from Brodick ; but we took 
 the shorter, though more difficult, track which rises 
 from Corrie. It was three in the afternoon when we 
 started. That was a mistake, for the day is then too 
 hot for climbing, and we found it hard work at first. 
 The way lies through the hamlet of High-Corrie — a 
 picturesque gathering of huts up on the hill-side — and 
 then along the Whitewater until that stream — which, 
 lower down, falls through a deep and wooded chasm — 
 has become narrow and shallow enough to be crossed. 
 Here it runs perfectly pellucid over a smooth bed of 
 white stone, and, even under the burning sun, it is 
 as cold as if it flowed from caves of ice. Before you 
 now is the wild hollow, rock-strewn and thick with 
 heather, which lies between Ben-Ghoil and Am- 
 Binnein. To the left is a steep and narrow ridge. 
 
186 Country Pleasures. 
 
 This must be scaled ; and, as there is no path, you 
 have to clamber from rock to rock and wade breast- 
 high through the heather. Once on the ridge it is 
 easier work, and you see" the long and winding road 
 coming over the moorland from Brodick. But what 
 is this portentous thing which, having reached the 
 end of the ridge, still rises above us ? ' It is the last 
 peak ; and, looked at from below, seems almost in- 
 accessible. A more extraordinary piece of nature- 
 building — a pyramid of huge granite slabs piled wildly 
 one on the top of another — it would be difficult to 
 conceive. A path, however, is found amongst the 
 rocks, and the constant tread of feet has made it 
 tolerably easy. The summit itself is simply a broad 
 and bare platform of rock ; the last, in fact, of the 
 great slabs which build up the north front. As at 
 Snowdon, so here — the ascent up what I should call 
 the outside of the mountain is comparatively common- 
 place ; but the moment you reach the peak and see 
 the inner recesses, a prospect of bewildering beauty 
 breaks upon you. For an instant all the wild peaks 
 and deep glens which seem to run from north and 
 west towards Ben-Ghoil are clear and distinct, and 
 amaze you by their number and their fantastic 
 variety ; but suddenly a mass of white vapour, not 
 wet mist but sun-lighted cloud, rolls and tosses over 
 
September. 187 
 
 the ridge of Ben-Ghnuis straight up from the sea in 
 the west, and then the scene becomes abnormal and 
 changes every instant, for the purple crags are 
 apparently swimming about in a white flood, and the 
 narrow burn far down in Glen-Rosa looks like a streak 
 of snow on a ridge rather than what it is — a stream 
 in the bottom of a valley. In a little while the mist 
 is gone again, and we are able to take in the whole 
 wide prospect — Arran itself with the sea all around 
 it, and each little headland stretching into the water ; 
 the mainland of Ayrshire ; the Kyles of Bute ; the 
 countless mountains of the north from Ben-Lomond 
 to Ben-More ; the Mull of Cantire ; beyond that, the 
 faint line of Ireland ; and, coming round again to the 
 Estuary, the great rock of Ailsa, its white precipice 
 and soft green summit shining far off in the sun. It 
 was pleasant to sit down in a crevice of the rocks and 
 run over in one's mind that finely sustained sonnet on 
 Ailsa which John Keats wrote in the little inn at 
 Girvan. I remembered, too, having done the same 
 thing thirty years ago, in the early dawn, on the deck 
 of a steamer as, beating up the Clyde, we sailed 
 under the great rock itself. 
 
 Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid ! 
 
 Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowl's screams I 
 When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams ? 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid ? 
 How long is't since the mighty power bid 
 
 Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams ? 
 
 Sleep in the lap of thunder or sun-beams, 
 Or when grey clouds are thy cold cover-lid ? 
 Thou answer'st not, for thou art dead asleep ! 
 
 Thy life is but two dead eternities — 
 The last in air, the former in the deep ; 
 
 First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies — 
 Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep, 
 
 Another cannot wake thy giant size. 
 
 We descended by a shorter way. Instead of 
 taking the ridge again, we clambered down a trap- 
 dyke on the eastern front of the mountain into the 
 hollow under Am-Binnein ; and then, skirting the 
 southern shoulder of that hill, made straight forward 
 into Corrie. The ascent occupied three hours; we 
 remained an hour on the summit, and were two hours 
 in descending, so that we did not reach the shore 
 until nine o'clock. This means that for the last hour 
 there was a good deal of wild plunging, in the un- 
 certain light, over beds of trackless rock and heather, 
 and a final descent into the rqad over the wall of 
 somebody's garden. 
 
 If you want a long walk from Corrie without 
 mountain climbing, you can either go south to Bro- 
 dick, which is six miles away, or north to Loch-Ranza, 
 which is eight miles. Although the road to Brodick 
 
September. 189 
 
 is very beautiful, we generally found ourselves turn- 
 ing north, for in that direction there is greater variety ; 
 and, after we had got wind and limb into good order, 
 we could manage the journey of sixteen miles to Loch- 
 Ranza and back in the course of the afternoon and 
 evening. The way runs along the coast as far as the 
 entrance into South Glen-Sannox. At that point 
 it turns inland. Carriages ford the stream, but foot- 
 passengers cross by a little wooden bridge. And 
 here we must needs pause, for the scene is one of 
 great loveliness. The stream is just emerging from 
 the dark glen — the frowning hills are visible — and yet 
 a few yards farther on it will find its way into the sea. 
 The water glides over granite-sand, and I have never 
 anywhere else seen it so clear and glassy. The silver- 
 birch grows thickly on the banks ; and, standing half- 
 way over the bridge, you are in deep shadow, and 
 may watch the brown trout threading its way among 
 the stones. It would be possible at this point to have 
 your bath in the sea, and afterwards to wash your feet 
 in the fresh water. If we were to leave the road here 
 and follow the shore we should come upon some very 
 fine coast scenery — lofty hills, rock-crowned and 
 decked with heather ; dark hanging woods ; beds of 
 tall bracken ; and quiet sandy coves— culminating in 
 a wild scene known as the ' Fallen Rocks,' where at 
 
igo Country Pleasures. 
 
 some time or other a whole mountain-side has come 
 rolling down to the sea in great blocks which are 
 many of them as large as an ordinary cottage. But 
 we continue along the road and enter North Glen- 
 Sannox. Here there was once a considerable village ; 
 but in 1832 about eighty families were ejected by the 
 Duke of Hamilton. It is true they were provided 
 with money and were able to form themselves into a 
 successful colony in New Brunswick ; but there must 
 have been great heart-burning and sorrow at the 
 time, and the feeling has hardly yet entirely dis- 
 appeared. I was told that two brothers only were 
 left behind ; and that one of them, a very old man, 
 the last of his race, was found dead in his hut by a 
 shepherd last winter. 
 
 North-Sannox is a vale rather than a glen like the 
 famous one which runs south of it ; and although the 
 hills, being less precipitously rocky, are finely clothed 
 with heather, it has a somewhat melancholy aspect. 
 At the height of two hundred feet a tall stone bridge 
 crosses the North-Burn, which is here a deep and noisy 
 torrent. Such streams are often called ' hoarse,' and 
 to this one that term would be rightly applied. The 
 wind, too, sweeps down the valley and adds its 
 mournful note to that of the river. The scene is the 
 very reverse of that at the wooden bridge over the 
 
September. igi 
 
 South-Burn. There one is reminded of those words 
 of Burns — than which there are none more melodious 
 in Scottish verse — 
 
 Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green ; 
 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. 
 
 Here the note is different, and we say : — 
 
 Now the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze, 
 Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 
 
 The road at this point begins to climb rapidly, 
 and at seven hundred and fifty feet we reach the 
 summit of the pass, and are on the watershed. For 
 a few yards we see the streams running diverse ways 
 on each side of the road — one east, the other west, 
 and then we descend by sharp curves into Glen- 
 Chalmadale, where the prospect is brightened by a 
 few trees and a tract of grass and corn-land won from 
 the sterile moor. After this the sea comes in sight 
 again, and we drop into the quaint and primitive 
 hamlet of Loch-Ranza, where there is a rough little inn 
 at which homely lodging and very simple fare may be 
 got from a gruff but honest landlord. There we rest 
 awhile and have tea and herrings — the one unfailing 
 dish, unfailing yet not to be despised. Then while 
 the boys have a sail in a skiff on the short arm of the 
 
192 Country Pleasures. 
 
 sea which is called the Loch, we stroll down to the 
 beach. 
 
 The place is unique and singularly foreign in its 
 appearance. On a bank of shingle, which the 
 geologists say must be two thousand years old, stands 
 the ruined castle. The date of its erection is un- 
 known ; but in 1380 it was a hunting-tower of the 
 Scottish kings. There was once a convent also, 
 dedicated to St. Bride ; but that is entirely gone. 
 Looking outward is the bay, not a mile in width at 
 its mouth, crowded with fishing smacks — we counted 
 more than a hundred ; inland there are a few white 
 cottages, the short Loch, and a narrow green plain. 
 Then at a distance of not more than a mile and a 
 half, the great mountains rear themselves dark and 
 precipitous. It reminds you of the village of Wast- 
 water, with the sea and the picturesque accessories of 
 a fishing village superadded. The brief description 
 of the place in The Lord of the Isles is worth 
 quotation : — • 
 
 On fair Loch-Ranza stream'd the early day, 
 
 Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are upward curl'd 
 
 From the lone hamlet, which her inland bay 
 And circling mountains sever from the world. 
 
 When the sun has got behind the hills we begin 
 our return. A sudden squall of wind springs up — it 
 
September. 193 
 
 is a common thing here — and we see many of the 
 boats hurrying dexterously round the bank out of the 
 bay into the sheltered Loch. As we climb the hills 
 we look back again and again. The crimson of the 
 sunset is now over the sea, and Cantire beyond is a 
 line of misty gold ; the sea-birds scream, the wind 
 whistles in the trees, and, as the night falls, we feel 
 that Loch-Ranza, though beautiful enough, would be 
 too sad a place to live in. And now we hurry along 
 the ' aspiring road ' ; and, as the darkness deepens, 
 we notice that first the purple of the heather dis- 
 appears, then the green of the grass, and all is brown ; 
 after that the grey boulders are lost, and all is black ; 
 then we see only the white road, running like a clue 
 through the wilderness, and guiding us back over the 
 torrent, hoarser now than ever ; through the dark 
 woods ; past the wild entrance to the South Glen ; 
 and finally along the lonely road by the sea and 
 safely into Corrie once more. 
 
 Other reminiscences crowd upon me ; but I am 
 constrained to pass them by. Else I would have told 
 of many a pleasant cruise round the Island and up 
 and down the great salt lochs, beautiful under a hot 
 sun and clear sky; but to me more beautiful still 
 under fitful cloud and rain, more fascinating in 
 their tender and dreamy loveliness than any Italian 
 
194 Country Pleasures. 
 
 landscape or seascape could possibly be. In short, I 
 ask for nothing finer in the shape of natural beauty 
 than that which these northern skies when working 
 at their best are able to produce upon the purple 
 heath, the green turf, the grey rock, and upon that 
 wide mirror of the sea which lies ever beneath them. 
 
 XXXV. -THE BEGINNING OF A UTUMN. 
 
 September 10. 
 After an absence of a month one is able to look 
 at old and familiar scenes from a new and perhaps 
 a truer point of sight. For the first day or two wood 
 and water, the meadow side, and the garden walk 
 seemed strangely contracted ; just as, on the con- 
 trary, indoors we appeared to walk through wide and 
 ample rooms, by contrast with the narrow chambers 
 which we had left behind in the North. It is no 
 wonder that in the open air we should feel straitened. 
 Living for so long face to face with the sea, we had 
 become accustomed to large draughts of the purest 
 ether, and had learned to look round upon an almost 
 limitless horizon. In comparing one scene with the 
 other, we were most struck with the quicker fall of 
 night. It seems to come almost an hour earlier than 
 we expect it, and there is just a touch of melancholy 
 
September. 195 
 
 in our having to turn inside so soon. We are not 
 long, however, in adjusting ourselves to our new 
 surroundings ; the inner thought slowly bringing it- 
 self into harmony with Nature's outward expression. 
 Naturally the first thing is to discover how much is 
 left us of the summer, as we had seen it last in the 
 end of July ; and how much of the peculiar beauty 
 of autumn has already made its appearance. A few 
 white stars of jessamine may still be seen round the 
 upper windows of the house, but there are not enough 
 of them now to send their odour into the rooms ; and 
 on the Old English flower-bed there are yet lingering 
 isolated specimens of monkshood and of the spiked- 
 veronica. Along the walks, too, the evening-primrose 
 here and there may be seen opening its pale chalice 
 in the early twilight. Among the flowers not noticed 
 before we left, there is the perennial snapdragon, 
 with its rose-coloured flowers and crumpled leaf; and 
 the wild convolvulus, which, taking advantage of our 
 absence, has carried itself with marvellous vigour and 
 fecundity up and down the whole garden. Here it 
 makes a shock-head of leaves at the top of some post 
 or pillar ; there it puzzles you by flinging out a 
 streamer from the summit of an alien bush ; in one 
 place it has covered with fresh green, and entirely 
 
 hidden from view, a mass of decayed docks and 
 
 02 
 
196 Country Pleasures. 
 
 sorrels ; and in another it makes a running spray- 
 pattern along the carpet of moss which lies on a 
 remote path. And in all these places— even on the 
 ground— it displays its fragile flower delicately white, 
 with just a suspicion of green and purple about the 
 veins of the corolla. So much for one of the most 
 arrant and uncontrollable of weeds. Turning to the 
 beds where the more respectable and decently con- 
 ducted flowers are to be found, we see the brilliant 
 asters, in many colours, and the heavy-scented stocks, 
 mingling with the hum-drum geraniums. Here also, 
 in all stray corners, is the demure and sweet little 
 mignonette — everybody's darling — now in fullest 
 bloom and ready to be put in pots for winter's supply. 
 There is, of course, a great change among the 
 trees. The green, where it remains, is more dusky 
 and the tints of red and yellow are gaining rapidly 
 upon the hue of summer. The leaves fall softly as 
 snow, and so lightly that when there is no wind they 
 rest on the evergreens beneath ; and in the walks, 
 when a larger one than usual comes fluttering down, 
 we often mistake it for some brown bird lighting 
 before us. I cannot say that the wood has lost in 
 beauty since the end of July ; to me it has gained, 
 rather, for not only is the colour richer and more 
 varied, but the density of the leafage being reduced 
 
September. 10,7 
 
 to what it was just between the end of the spring 
 and the beginning of summer, the wonderful struc- 
 ture and articulation of the branches are - revealed ; 
 and so we reach that period of the year when for 
 the second time the trees are seen to the greatest 
 advantage. 
 
 September therefore is not without its own peculiar 
 charm, and as we feel its beauty gradually growing 
 upon us we acknowledge that our modern poet's 
 address to the month is fully justified : — 
 
 O come at last, to whom the spring-tide's hope 
 Looked for through blossoms, what hast thou for me ? 
 Green grows the grass upon the dewy slope 
 Beneath the gold-hung, grey-leaved apple-tree 
 Moveless, e'en as the autumn fain would be 
 That shades its sad eyes from the rising sun 
 And weeps at eve because the day is done. 
 
 We have no complaint this year against the sun ; 
 he has done his summer's work well, and the fruit 
 harvest is beyond the average. The orchard-house 
 has yielded a few peaches, only a very few, for although 
 the blossom was plentiful something later on touched 
 it with blight ; but the vinery is giving us just now 
 its finest clusters in fair quantity. The pears were 
 all gathered a month ago ; the ' Keswick ' apples have 
 been got in and are stored away in the apple-room 
 on layers of straw, but the ' Suffields ' and some other 
 
198 Country Pleasures. 
 
 sorts are left to ripen on the trees a little longer, as 
 are also the Siberian crabs. These last are thicker 
 than ever, and make as gay an appearance with 
 their bright scarlet as the cherries did earlier in the 
 season. 
 
 The month so far has been singularly fine, and 
 promises continuance. With the exception of a few 
 drops on the morning of the fifth, there was no rain 
 until yesterday the ninth. The middle of the day has 
 generally been clouded, with the wind south or south- 
 east ; but with the rain there came a change, and the 
 skies since have been clear and blue.' The beauty of 
 morning and evening has been very striking. Last 
 night the temperature, though it had been high in the 
 day, fell to within a few degrees of freezing ; and this 
 morning, which is usually set down as the beginning 
 of autumn, the characteristics of that season were 
 complete. The air was crisp, the sun rose in a grey 
 haze, but the pale blue was felt to be behind it ; the 
 lawn was covered with a heavy dew, pearly and almost 
 as white as hoar frost ; and as one or two blackbirds, 
 long absent, had returned, and were pecking about 
 under the ring of trees, we said to ourselves that we 
 had got back again our — 
 
 Wet bird-haunted English lawn. 
 
 In the garden the low sun was painting the shadows 
 
September. igg 
 
 of the leaves, not only on the moist ground, but also 
 
 on the trunks of the trees themselves ; and there was 
 
 a bee buzzing about among the nasturtiums. 
 
 In the evening, looking west, there came a dull 
 
 crimson light behind the ragged thistles, now covered 
 
 with white down ; then the broad harvest moon, 
 
 almost at full, rose slowly through a radiant and 
 
 yellow mist. And now in the stillness of midnight 
 
 the garden is filled with the scent of the after-grass, 
 
 which has just been cut in some adjoining fields ; and 
 
 the moon, by this time riding clear and high in the 
 
 heavens, brings to mind that magnificent passage in 
 
 the Eighth Book of the Iliad : — 
 
 The stars about the moon 
 Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, 
 And every height comes out, and jutting peak 
 And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
 Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
 Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart. 
 
 There is nothing in these lines which has special 
 reference to autumn ; and yet somehow they seem to 
 be informed with the spirit of that feeling which is 
 the true note of the season — a solemn and elevated 
 joy, accompanying the fulfilment of hope, and not 
 incompatible with the prospect of inevitable decay. 
 
200 Country Pleasures. 
 
 XXXV1.—THE WILD WEST WIND. 
 
 September 18. 
 
 The halcyon weather of last week has quite de- 
 parted : the stillness and the warmth having given place 
 to days of raw and gusty rain. On the twelfth there 
 were heavy showers in the morning, and many leaves 
 were beaten down ; but during the day the air cleared, 
 and, the wind rising, the sky became an arena through 
 which huge clouds, grandly coloured, chased each 
 other until sunset. The next day was quiet again, 
 and, the dawn being misty, we saw once more that 
 fine autumnal aspect to which I have already alluded. 
 Looking from the window the sky is indistinguishable, 
 the trees appear unusually high, and their foliage is 
 only a vague mass of grey ; then the sun begins to 
 creep in, the mist is slowly dispelled, and gradually 
 we make out the details of the scene. We see that 
 the sycamore and the lime are both of them yellow 
 and bare ; the chestnut is yellow but not bare ; the 
 beech' is brown in patches, but the leaves have not 
 fallen ; the oak is comparatively verdant, and the 
 smooth green acorns may be seen resting in their 
 embossed cups ; the elder, the thorn, the willow, and 
 the ash are also green. The last-mentioned tree has 
 lost many of its leaves : they fall even before they 
 
September. 201 
 
 fade, and come down not singly but still clinging to 
 the twigs. The elm is the thinnest of all ; the leaves 
 of the mountain-ash are turning to a deep purple ; 
 and the laburnum is thickly covered with brown seed- 
 pods, hanging with something of that grace which 
 marked the summer flower. While we have been 
 carefully looking at these trees in detail, the golden 
 light of sunrise has slowly invaded them, and at last 
 the blue sky appears behind. 
 
 On the next day the rain and wind began and 
 increased until the evening of the fifteenth, by which 
 time there was a wrecking storm abroad. The leaves 
 were whirled into the air higher than the birds fly, 
 and more of them fell in an hour than' in all the 
 previous days of the month. An enormous mass of 
 vapour came sweeping up from the west, and got 
 lower and lower until it seemed to be dragging itself 
 through the tree-tops, and we could see the fringes of 
 it spinning and twisting with strange velocity like- 
 Hair uplifted from the head 
 
 Of some fierce Msenad . . . 
 
 The locks of the approaching storm. 
 
 Then the rain came, not in drops but in broad sheets 
 slanting one over the other ; and in a few minutes 
 the lanes were brooks, and the brooks were swollen 
 to rivers. The ducks on the pond were like boats in 
 
202 Country Pleasures. 
 
 distress, their feathers blown all the wrong way; and 
 up in the air we could see the pigeons fighting hard 
 to get home. As the darkness fell it was grand to 
 hear the vast music of the wind swelling and falling 
 in the wood — a roaring bass, as it seemed to me, 
 among the tree trunks — a shrieking treble up in the 
 higher branches. It was indeed that Wild West 
 Wind to which Shelley addressed one of his finest 
 and most impassioned odes. Conceived and chiefly 
 written, as he tells us, in a wood that skirts the 
 Arno, near Florence, and during a violent tempest, it 
 seems to embody in its measure — the majestic and 
 unbroken Terza Rima — something of that streaming 
 rush which characterises this wind more than any 
 other: — 
 
 O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
 Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
 Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
 Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
 Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou, 
 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
 The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
 Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
 Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 
 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
 With living hues and odours plain and hill : 
 Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
 Destroyer and preserver ; hear, oh hear ! 
 
September. 203 
 
 I have quoted only the first sonnet-stanza ; but the 
 
 last, beginning — 
 
 Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
 What if my leaves are falling like its own ! — 
 
 rises to the highest pitch, and in lyric impetuosity is 
 equal to anything that Shelley ever wrote. 
 
 The storm continued all night and filled our 
 dreams with disaster. We saw the tall elms and the 
 ivy-covered oak lifted by the roots, and all the shrubs 
 flying through the air like wisps of straw. In the 
 morning we could scarcely see the grass outside for 
 brown leaves — those in Vallombrosa could hardly 
 have been thicker — and there were dead leaves, too, 
 in the hall and in corners of the rooms, the fiendish 
 wind having driven them down the chimneys and 
 under the doors. In the garden many small branches, 
 carrying their fruit, had been broken from the apple- 
 trees, and the crabs from the Siberians were thick on 
 the ground. But the saddest sight to me was that 
 of the leaves sodden with water. Your ruddy leaf, 
 curled and dry, fluttering along in the sun, is not an 
 unpleasant object ; there is even about it a fantastic 
 cheerfulness as of lightsome old age ; but the same 
 leaf laid flat on the path by the pitiless rain, and 
 trampled upon by miry feet, is a lost and hopeless 
 thing which a man hardly cares to look at in those 
 
204 Country Pleasures. 
 
 mournful hours when existence itself threatens to 
 become an insupportable burden. 
 
 For the more cheerful side of autumnal life we 
 are indebted to the birds. Every day now they be- 
 come more familiar and more habitually frequent in 
 their visits near the house. Two or three light- 
 coloured throstles are often about, but the most 
 regular are a very jolly couple of blackbirds, fat and 
 well-to-do, as becomes them after so good a fruit 
 season. They have both got their new plumage. 
 The female is dark brown, but the male is black and 
 shining, as Bottom sings in A Midsummer Night's 
 
 Dream : — 
 
 The ousel cock so black of hue 
 
 With orange -tawny bill, 
 The throstle with his note so true, 
 The wren with little quill. 
 
 The robin, however, pleases me most. The other 
 morning he was picking up his breakfast of ' uncon- 
 sidered trifles ' at the farther side of the lawn ; and, 
 seeing me at the window, he came boldly across, 
 without circumlocution, and assumed his old perch 
 on the rhododendron bush beneath, as though he 
 would have said : ' I retain my rights, you see, in all 
 that crumb-pasturage which was mine last winter ; 
 and by-and-by I shall claim it again in full.' When 
 
September. 205 
 
 he turned up his head, and I saw his bright little eye 
 beaming upon me for a moment, I could not help 
 longing to break the barrier between us, so that I 
 might have speech with him, and ask him how he 
 had fared all through the leafy summer ; and if his 
 wife had been kind or not ; and how his family had 
 prospered ; and whether he was looking forward as 
 bravely as ever to the rigours of that winter which, 
 with its darkness and its frost, would soon fall upon 
 both of us together. 
 
 XXXVIL— A UTUMN ON THE WELSH HILLS. 
 
 Capel Curig : Sept. 23. 
 
 No year of ours would be complete without at 
 least a transient glimpse of the Welsh Hills. The 
 habit, so long continued, seems almost to have gained 
 the force of a duty, and so it happens that some time 
 or other, but usually late in the autumn, or even when 
 the first snows have fallen, we find ourselves once 
 more among the old haunts and wandering with as 
 much delight as ever in places familiar to us now for 
 a good deal more than half a life. Coleridge has 
 somewhere told us that the truest test which we can 
 apply to a work of the highest imagination is that, 
 as we read, we go back again and again even with 
 
2o6 Country Pleasures. 
 
 greater pleasure than we go forward. It is the' same 
 with natural landscape. If it be of the finest charac- 
 ter — of that sort, in fact, which appeals to the ima- 
 gination — each visit will only increase its beauty or 
 unfold some new charm. 
 
 As soon as you find yourself drawing near to 
 the ancient and ever-welcome city of Chester the 
 journey becomes a picture. A little farther on it is 
 even exhilarating, because it consists of a series of 
 disentanglements. As the train rolls along the coast- 
 line it seems each moment to reach a wider prospect 
 and a purer air ; you feel that, one after another, you 
 are getting rid of all mean and smoky environments ; 
 and when at length you have left behind that melan- 
 choly and sorely-outraged castle at Flint, and are even 
 well past the dubious precincts of Rhyl, your enjoy- 
 ment is without stint ; for on the one hand there are 
 the waves rolling over the wide sands of Colwyn ; 
 and on the other many a little dell or green circle 
 under the trees by the roadside where one might ex- 
 pect to see a gipsy encampment ; or, better still, there 
 are those narrow valleys, not yet backed by the 
 higher mountains, to which I always think the term 
 ' romantic ' is rightly applied — places which remind 
 you of old cuts by Albert Durer, in which the chief 
 features are a fiat plain, neither long nor wide, with a 
 
September. 207 
 
 few scattered houses or a castle upon it, and in the 
 background low hills and an overhanging crag. 
 
 The night was drawing on when we walked 
 through the streets of Carnarvon. I remember when 
 the little town was a dreamy and grass-grown place ; 
 but that was when the traveller came only by coach 
 from Bangor or by the infrequent boat alorigthe Straits 
 of Menai : now the railway fumes and fusses in its 
 very midst, and the bustle in the market is in strange 
 contrast with the grey and silent castle. By the time 
 we passed Llanbeblig it was quite dark, and we could 
 only just make out those curious battlements on the 
 old church tower. The road runs up and down, over 
 the open moor, through patches of thick wood, and 
 past the straggling and dimly-lighted villages. Away 
 to the right we could discern the familiar form of Yr 
 Eifl, the mountain whose triple peaks look down on 
 the strange valley of Vortigern ; and in front there 
 were the hills which buttress Snowdon. Although 
 seaward the sky was clear and starry, looking inland 
 we could see, stretching from peak to peak, those 
 vast reaches of dark cumuli which are so peculiar to 
 mountain regions and which give such character to 
 the landscape. At Waenfawr there is a station on 
 one of those narrow-gauge railways which are becom- 
 ing so common in Wales, and we waited for a train. 
 
208 Country Pleasures. 
 
 It was a curiously foreign sight — the little wooden 
 hut with its one pale lamp and its one attendant — 
 ticket-collector, porter, and station-master combined. 
 By-and-by we see the toy-engine coming out of 
 the dark and hear the high-pitched cymraeg of 
 women arriving from the market and of children who 
 have come to meet them. In a minute or two the 
 place is dark and lonely again ; and, having got into 
 one of the tiny cars, we rattle over dashing streams 
 and under the close black mountains, past Bettws- 
 Garmon and on to the terminus at the Snowdon 
 Ranger. Here finding the cosy little inn crammed 
 with sportsmen, we are compelled to push on to 
 Beddgelert, some five miles farther, which we reach 
 about ten o'clock. 
 
 Looking out the next morning we find Beddgelert 
 as beautiful as ever. The sky is grey and rainy, but 
 that takes nothing from the loveliness of the peaceful 
 hollow in which the village lies. The river is still 
 clear to look at and cheerful to listen to as in the 
 old days. How well we remember being awoke by 
 its sound on the first morning of our visit here long 
 ago ! And the trees —are any more graceful than 
 those which fringe the stream and fill up the little 
 space between it and the mountains ? In the shal- 
 lows of the river and under the pendent grass of the 
 
September. 209 
 
 bank we see our old friend the pied-wagtail disporting 
 himself ; and in the garden behind the hotel the robins 
 are both bold and jubilant. 
 
 When we start for the base of Snowdon the sky 
 is looking still more rainy ; but who would ask for 
 finer colour than that which lies on Moel-Hebog — 
 purple, grey, and silvery green ? Looking back we 
 see the narrow gate of Aberglaslyn, dark and wild ; 
 and beyond it a gleam of sunlight towards the sea at 
 Traeth-Mawr. After retracing our steps for about 
 two miles along the road traversed on the previous 
 night, we turn aside through the meadows towards the 
 farmofFfridd-Uchaf. By this time the rain has begun, 
 and we take shelter in the little farm. As usual, there 
 is a grave and yet a kindly welcome, and a seat for 
 us on the snug oak settle in the nook underneath the 
 broad chimney. An iron pot swinging over the fire 
 contains the frugal midday meal. The household 
 consists of a man and his wife, their two boys, and 
 three or four dogs, one of which is a fine foxhound. 
 What a lonely and self-contained life these people 
 lead ; a life, too, in which gloom and hardship must 
 largely prevail ! It is no wonder that their faces 
 should be so sad and impassive, and that their high 
 tones of voice, half querulous, half mournful, should 
 sound to a stranger more like the echo of speech than 
 
2io Country Pleasures. 
 
 speech itself. The roof of the principal room, or 
 kitchen, showed, as is common, the bare and smoke- 
 dried rafters; and it was curious to note how these 
 were used for holding, by shelf and nail and cord, all 
 the necessaries of the house. There was bacon, and 
 dried mutton, and salt beef ; balls of home-spun wool ; 
 the skin-bag for curdling milk ; the shears for sheep- 
 shearing ; sticks, hats, jugs, cooking utensils and 
 bundles of rush-pith for making the winter candles. 
 Finding that the rain was not likely to cease, we 
 took some refreshment with the good people and 
 started again upon our journey. Our object was to 
 cross over the highest peak of Snowdon ; and from 
 the farm we made straight up the mountain by one 
 of the spurs called Llechog. The streams were all 
 roaring in flood, and the ground marshy and barren ; 
 the only flowers surviving were the scabious and the 
 little tormentil ; but there was beauty of a wild kind 
 when the wet rocks gleamed in the pale sunlight 
 which sometimes wandered down through the rain. 
 As we climbed we saw beneath us Llyn Cwellyn and 
 Llyn-y-Gader by the Beddgelert road ; and higher still 
 the entrance to the Vale of Nantlle, and the two lakes 
 beyond ; but after that all the distant view was lost in 
 the mist, which now, at the height of fifteen hundred 
 feet, gathered closely round us, and made our journey 
 merely a passage from one contracted circle to another. 
 
September. 211 
 
 Although we ceased to have any wide prospect, it was 
 
 not long before we obtained one which was of the 
 
 rarest sublimity. The track lies close by the edge of 
 
 Cwm-y-Clogwyn, and it is hardly possible to conceive 
 
 precipices more awful than these are on a wild 
 
 and stormy day. Standing on the grassy edge you 
 
 see both below and above you the bare, black rocks 
 
 — hideously black— shining in the rain with a 
 
 treacherous gleam and only one or two degrees from 
 
 the sheer perpendicular. Here and there some jagged 
 
 points seem to invite you to self-martyrdom, and the 
 
 eye follows them with horror for some two or three 
 
 hundred feet and then all is lost in boiling mist, 
 
 the bottom of the Cwm, with its three or four tarns, 
 
 being quite invisible. Such a place is the very Edge 
 
 of Death, and realises for you the dreadful side of 
 
 mountain scenery. It is no wonder that in the 
 
 ancient time some supernatural Power was supposed 
 
 to haunt these wild crags and to influence the minds 
 
 of those who remained long amongst them ; nor even 
 
 yet is that influence wholly lost, for in a certain sense 
 
 they still convey the inspiration which is akin to 
 
 terror : — 
 
 They fabled not, thy sons, who told 
 
 Of the dread power, enshrined 
 Within thy cloudy mantle's fold 
 And on thy rushing wind I 
 P 2 
 
212 Country Pleasures. 
 
 It shadow'd o'er thy silent height, 
 
 It fill'd thy chainless air, 
 Deep thoughts of majesty and might 
 
 For ever breathing there. 
 
 Nor hath it fled 1 the awful spell 
 
 Yet holds unbroken sway, 
 As when on that wild rock it fell 
 
 Where Merddin Emrys lay ! 
 
 From this point there is some steep zigzag climb- 
 ing along Clawdd-Coch. Then we pass over the 
 fearful-looking ridge of Bwlch-y-Maen and see, at last, 
 hanging above us in the mist, the cairn of stones and 
 the frail huts which crown the last summit. 
 
October. 213 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 October's gold is dim — the forests rot, 
 
 The weary rain falls ceaseless — while the day 
 
 Is wrapped in damp. In mire of village way 
 
 The hedgerow leaves are stamped ; and, all forgot, 
 
 The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn. 
 
 Autumn, among her drooping marigolds 
 
 Keeps all her garnered sheaves, and empty folds, 
 
 And dripping orchards — plundered and forlorn. 
 
 David Gray, In the Shadows. 
 
 XXXVIII.— AUTUMN ON THE WELSH HILLS 
 (continued). 
 
 Moston, October 2. 
 
 It is now quite thirty years since, with a good 
 deal of youthful rashness, and discarding all guides 
 and paths, I climbed straight out of the middle of the 
 Pass of Llanberis and up the precipitous crags to the 
 top of Crib-y-Ddysgyl ; from which I saw, for the 
 first time, the neighbouring peak of Snowdon. It was 
 the only great mountain with which I had then made 
 familiar acquaintance. No doubt there is something 
 in the predispositions of first love ; but, certainly, 
 
214 Country Pleasures. 
 
 though I have seen many great eminences since, I 
 know of none which, if we take it in all its aspects, is 
 finer than Snowdon. Of course it is not mere height 
 above the sea-level which makes the grandeur of a 
 mountain ; this depends upon many things — the ex- 
 istence of more peaks than one, and the grouping of 
 them ; the abruptness or suddenness of outline ; the 
 contour of the hollows or cwms, and the presence or 
 absence of water ; and above all the depth and angle 
 of the precipices, for upon these will depend, more 
 than upon anything else, the production of the finest 
 aerial effects. 
 
 The actual summit of Snowdon is not more than 
 some six yards in breadth, and as you climb towards 
 it, over the narrow ridge mentioned in my last Notes, 
 you hardly know whether the awful horn which is 
 seen above you, curving through the mist, should be 
 reckoned as a thing appertaining to the solid earth or 
 to the shifting sky. As we mounted slowly up this 
 final reach we saw the broad-shouldered athlete of 
 our party skipping lightly down towards us like a 
 messenger from the clouds. To him a few hundred 
 feet or a few pounds weight more or less are nothing ; 
 and so, taking sundry bags and satchels with him, he 
 had gone forward to rouse the surly guardian of the 
 huts, and was now descending again to meet us. 
 
October. 215 
 
 When at length we stepped on to the little plateau of 
 the summit the rain and wind were both so fierce 
 that we were glad to rush under cover for a few 
 minutes ; nor was the bowl of hot tea which we 
 found waiting for us an unwelcome surprise. 
 
 When we came out again, though the rain was 
 still heavy, the air was clearer. The wind, being 
 from the west, flung the clouds against that side of 
 the mountain, but left the inner or eastern side com- 
 paratively free. There were no far-reaching views, 
 such as we have sometimes seen, over half the Princi- 
 pality and far out to sea ; we had not even that won- 
 derful glimpse into the green bottom of Llanberis ; 
 but there were all the grand precipices which make 
 the peculiarity of the mountain. And what precipices 
 they are ! Down into Cwm-y-Llan, is nineteen hun- 
 dred feet; while the fall into Cwm-glas Llynis nearly 
 sixteen hundred feet at an angle of about seventy 
 degrees. Taking what is called the Capel-Curig 
 descent we turn sharply to the right, leaving the 
 tamer Llanberis path on the left, and rattle along a 
 break-neck track, half torrent, half sliding shale, down 
 to the shore of Glas-Llyn. Standing by this tarn, 
 the waters of which are always singularly green, you 
 are two thousand feet above the sea ; and yet you 
 are sunk into a deep hollow from which there rise 
 
216 Country Pleasures. 
 
 the three great shoulders or peaks of Snowdon — Crib- 
 y-Ddysgyl, Crib-Goch, and Y-Wyddfa ; and also the 
 long ridge called Lliwedd. The only outlet is a 
 narrow one, and is due east, over Llyn Llydaw and 
 Cwm-Dyli into Nant Gwynant. At this point you 
 first feel the full sublimity of Snowdon. Looking 
 across the wild little tarn the eye, overpowered, slowly 
 finds its way up the vast cliff fifteen hundred feet 
 high, right to the summit of the mountain. I am not 
 alone in thinking that you may wander all over 
 Europe, and find few finer pieces of mountain gran- 
 deur than you have here. Before this great rock we 
 lingered spell-bound, even in the pouring rain ; for 
 surely never before was the grim and solid cliff— a 
 cliff which has its own peculiar story of death to tell 
 — more subtly overwoven with soft and ever-changing 
 mist. 
 
 After leaving Glas-Llyn we take the high ground 
 under Crib-Goch, and so avoid going down to the 
 margin of Llyn Llydaw. It is a wild walk over bog 
 and rock and stream — the stream ever swelling, for 
 the rain continues, and all round — • 
 
 The monstrous ledges slope, and spill 
 Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, 
 That, like a broken purpose, waste in air. 
 
 But at last we see below us the cheerless little inn at 
 
October. 217 
 
 Gorphysfa, and are once more on the firm high road, 
 seven hours after leaving it on the other side of the 
 mountain. 
 
 At Pen-y-Gwryd we turn into the famous, but 
 still primitive, hotel for a few minutes' chat at the 
 kitchen fire with good Mrs. Owen, the motherly 
 hostess. We would gladly have stayed here, but the 
 house, as usual, is full of Oxford men, and we must 
 push on five miles farther to Capel-Curig. The road 
 is wild and lonely. In the gloom, we see on one side 
 the long ridge of Glyder-Fach, and on the other 
 Llyniau-Mymbyr, two small and dreary lakes, now so 
 deeply in shadow that, as we hurry past, we can only 
 make out a narrow strip of water close by the nearer 
 bank. Passing through the silent village of Capel- 
 Curig, we find comfortable quarters, and something 
 more than a professional welcome, from old friends 
 at the Tan-y-Bwlch Hotel. 
 
 The next day brings a fortunate change in the 
 weather. Even before we rise we feel the sunshine 
 in the room ; and, coming into the open air, we see 
 the ' glorious morning ' 
 
 Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 
 Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 
 Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy. 
 
 The mountains, the meadows, the streams are all 
 
218 Country Pleasures. 
 
 here ; indeed, if we add the woods, which are not in 
 Shakspere's sonnet, we make up the whole landscape 
 as it presents itself at the door of the Tan-y-Bwlch 
 Hotel. And the landscape from this precise point is 
 one of the most perfect imaginable. If one wanted 
 to plan a gracious surprise, it could not be better done 
 than by bringing a stranger over the flat waste from 
 Pen-y-Gwryd, so that he should see the night fall on 
 the bare and desolate Glyder, and, reaching here 
 after dark, open his eyes in the morning on the alto- 
 gether lovely prospect which lies before us. No 
 transformation could be more complete. We leave 
 behind savage sterility and enter upon a narrow but 
 fertile vale ; we exchange a treeless wilderness for 
 the clustering wood ; the meadows are fair and green ; 
 the river sweeps along, now a smooth stream, now a 
 thundering torrent hemmed in by rocky walls, and 
 over all there is the craggy front and the smooth 
 sloping crest of Moel-Siabod. It is the scene which 
 Clarence Whaite, sitting in these very fields, painted 
 so finely some twenty years ago with Charles Kingsley 
 looking over his shoulder. 
 
 Here in delightful idleness we lingered all through 
 the long and quiet morning — in the garden watching 
 the bees, leaning over the wooden bridge which spans 
 the stream, or wandering up and down to find old 
 
October. 219 
 
 nooks and corners of beauty, old points of view ; and, 
 alas, old acquaintances ; but these were nearly all 
 sadly changed or gone for ever. Into one place — the 
 neighbouring inn at Tyn-y-coed — we had not the 
 heart to enter, for the old low-roofed hostel has given 
 place to a brand-new building, and we should not 
 have been able to find the little room where we used 
 to get the sweetest honey in Wales, laid on the table 
 fresh from the comb, and smelling of the heather on 
 the fells above ; and where, in the long autumn 
 nights, sitting by the peat fire, we were first initiated 
 into the mysteries of Welsh by lips which were sweet 
 enough to have made soft and liquid even a harsher 
 language than that of the Cymru. There was, at 
 any rate, in that ' learning ' no ' wearisome bitter- 
 ness.' 
 
 About noon we started slowly for Bettws-y-coed, 
 and, as we took our last look of the stream flowing 
 through the meadow, we thought of Wordsworth's 
 ' Yarrow Revisited,' and of two stanzas in that poem 
 which, if we substitute ' Llugwy ' for ' Yarrow,' will 
 reproduce with singular exactness the feeling of the 
 
 hour: — 
 
 For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 
 
 In foaming agitation ; 
 And slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 For quiet contemplation : 
 
220 Country Pleasures. 
 
 No public and no private care 
 
 The freeborn mind enthralling, 
 We made a day of happy hours, 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
 And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
 
 And down the meadow ranging, 
 Did meet us with unaltered face, 
 
 Though we were changed and changing ; 
 If, then, some natural shadows spread 
 
 Our inward prospect over, 
 The soul's deep valley was not slow 
 
 Its brightness to recover. 
 
 It would be difficult to find five miles of road 
 better adapted for a leisurely stroll on a blue and 
 sunny day than are those between Capel-Curig and 
 Bettws. We were ever turning round to watch the 
 varying shape of Moel-Siabod ; or lingering to pluck 
 the late campanula, and to gather the blackberries 
 which were thick and ripe in the straggling hedges. 
 And then there was the cataract at Pont-y-Gyfyng, 
 where the mountain-ash hung its red berries over the 
 torrent; and farther on, the great Fall of the Swallow, 
 swollen with the previous day's rain, and looking its 
 very best. After this, crossing the wall, we left the 
 high road and wandered along through the wood, 
 and by the Miner's Bridge, to Bettws. It was a fine 
 thing to end with. Under our feet was a thick carpet 
 made of mosses and green leaves, sorrel and crowfoot 
 
October. 2.2.x 
 
 and ivy ; on the rocks the little herb-robert was still 
 in flower ; in some places the colour of the bracken 
 burned like fke ; the sun brought out the scent of the 
 pines ; and . across the stream the steep unwooded 
 bank was covered with yellow gorse, which, to our 
 surprise, was still in full bloom. 
 
 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills ! — 
 
 one might well say on entering the village of Bettws. 
 The foolish and unnecessary intrusion of the railway 
 station and the erection of villa lodging-houses in 
 places from which the slightest sense of fitness would 
 have excluded them, have, indeed, robbed it of more 
 than half its beauty. A mile outside, however, in any 
 direction, there is still the old peace and seclusion ; 
 and, as we go down by the line in the evening, we see 
 that the vale of Llanrwst is yet as lovely as ever, and 
 that all the modern building has not been able to spoil 
 that unrivalled mediaeval picture which is presented by 
 the towers of Conway Castle. 
 
 XXXIX.— ECHOES OF THE SPRING. 
 
 October g. 
 
 The fine still weather which often distinguishes 
 the month of October, has not reached us yet. There 
 
222 Country Pleasures. 
 
 have been many wet and dreary days ; and sometimes 
 in the morning a cold mist which seemed to bring the 
 winter ominously near. We have had floods of rain 
 also, and frequent high winds. On the last day of 
 September the rainfall was so heavy and sudden, that 
 the pond overflowed its banks before we could open 
 the sluice. Going out after breakfast there was a new 
 scene displayed — a stream two yards wide rushing 
 down the garden where there should have been a dry 
 walk ; and in the dell quite a noisy waterfall. Two 
 days ago there came a violent wind at sunset. Being 
 in the lane after dark I found myself stumbling over 
 branches of trees which had been snapped off, and 
 wading ankle-deep in the drift of leaves. Over- 
 head there was a weird sky — steel-blue but nearly 
 covered with black and tumbling clouds, among 
 which the .moon seemed to wander distractedly, 
 now half-enshrouded, and the next moment totally 
 eclipsed. 
 
 The general temperature has been exceptionally 
 high, the prevailing wind being from the south ; but 
 notwithstanding we have had our first frost. This 
 came on the second of the month, the thermometer 
 falling to twenty-seven degrees. In the morning the 
 boys boasted that they had contrived to slide on 
 the walks; and, the air being sunny, we saw the 
 
October. 223 
 
 pigeons fluttering over the white frosted roof of the 
 barn. 
 
 The high winds have, as might be expected, made 
 great havoc among both leaves and fruit. The trees 
 on which the leaves still hang most thickly are the 
 beech and the oak, the hawthorn, and the elder. The 
 ash, though late to clothe itself, is already compara- 
 tively bare. Of the fruit nothing remains but the 
 Siberian crabs and the elderberries. The crabs fall 
 every night, and in the morning I see the blackbirds 
 feasting upon them ; the geese, too, whenever they can 
 get into the garden by stealth or force of wing, make 
 for the corner where they are chiefly to be found, and 
 gobble them up with much gusto. The fruit of the 
 elder is nearly, but not quite, ripe ; the berries, how- 
 ever, are black, and look very rich, hanging in thick 
 clusters on the purple stalks. Poor John Clare, whose 
 country sketches were always careful and accurate, in 
 his Shepherd's Calendar for October, speaks of the 
 appearance of the elder at a period just a little later 
 than the present : — 
 
 Wild shines each hedge in autumn's gay parade ; 
 And, where the eldern trees to autumn fade, 
 The glossy berry picturesquely cleaves 
 Its swarthy bunches 'mid the yellow leaves, 
 On which the tootling robin feeds at will, 
 And coy hedge-sparrow stains its little bill ; 
 
224 Country Pleasures. 
 
 The village dames, as they get ripe and fine, 
 Gather the bunches for their ' eldern wine ' ; 
 Which, bottled up, becomes a rousing charm, 
 To kindle winter's icy bosom warm ; 
 And, with its merry partner, nut-brown beer, 
 Makes up the peasant's Christmas-keeping cheer. 
 
 I never look at the hardy and much-enduring elder 
 without feeling thankful for all the pleasure which it 
 affords us through so large a space of the year. On 
 January the twenty-third its new leaves were first 
 uncurling ; at the end of April I saw the flower-bud ; 
 by June the twentieth the bushes were covered with 
 the creamy-white blossom which lingered for nearly 
 a month ; at the beginning of September the berries 
 were formed ; and now in October we have them 
 hanging among the leaves, which, in spite of all vicis- 
 situdes, are still fresh and green — greener, in fact, than 
 any other of the deciduous trees; 
 
 All through the month of September, and so far as 
 we have come in October, there has been going on a 
 curious reproduction in a faint degree of the pheno- 
 mena of spring. Long after the foxgloves were over, 
 and when the once gay spires were turned into gaunt 
 and broken stalks of empty seed-pods, two or three 
 plants broke into bloom. They were not so tall 
 as their predecessors, but they were quite as beautiful. 
 Now that the flowers are fewer in number we note 
 
October. 225 
 
 them more carefully. What an exquisite and fairy- 
 like thing is the foxglove bell, if we examine it 
 minutely ! The outer lip of the corolla is a light 
 pink ; inside, the colour becomes a deep rose. As you 
 look into it you see that the bottom is delicately 
 spotted with white and brown, and that just at the 
 entrance there are a number of short hairs, which 
 stand erect and glisten like silver ; these are slightly 
 dusted with the pollen which has been left upon 
 them by some departing bee. The four stamens fold 
 curiously together on each side of the style : the 
 anthers are yellow, and are dotted with brown, like a 
 bird's egg. But the most beautiful thing of all is to 
 see how the light comes through the transparent 
 tissue at the remote end of the bell, so that the 
 recess round the seed-vessel is tinged with the softest 
 green. 
 
 I have mentioned the foxgloves because they were 
 the most conspicuous revival ; but, if we look carefully 
 around, we shall see that all sorts of things are grow- 
 ing as if it were the beginning of the year and not the 
 end. The out-door beds of musk and the plots of 
 willow-herb have had a second blooming. The straw- 
 berries are many of them in flower again ; so are the 
 blue periwinkle and the wild chrysanthemum, not to 
 speak of buttercups and daisies and dandelions. The 
 
 Q 
 
226 Country Pleasures. 
 
 currant trees, the gooseberries, the climbing roses, and 
 the syringa are all showing bright points of new leaf- 
 bud. Even the apples, which have only just dropped 
 their fruit, are dimly swelling with fresh life. There 
 is one other vernal sign which must be noted. 
 Nothing is more characteristic of the spring than the 
 loud singing of birds immediately before the de- 
 parture of daylight. The same thing is repeated 
 now. Just when the twilight is deepest I hear the 
 birds break into a chorus of song which, although it 
 is faint and low when compared with what we re- 
 member of the past, is yet cheerful enough if we con- 
 trast it with the scene of decay by which we are at 
 present surrounded. 
 
 XL.— ASPECTS OF AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN AND 
 THE WOOD. 
 
 October 16. 
 
 In the spring of the year we estimate our wealth 
 by the number of our added possessions, in the 
 autumn by the infrequency of our losses : the delight 
 of the earlier season largely consists in the continually 
 fulfilled expectancy of what is new ; the pleasure of 
 the latter lies in a sober retention and enjoyment of 
 what is old. How closely do the periods of man's 
 
October. 227 
 
 life correspond to those of nature : or, in other words, 
 how exquisitely 
 
 The external World is fitted to the Mind ! 
 In my last Notes I mentioned some of those 
 flowers which help to brighten the time of decay by 
 their unexpected return : one should also record those 
 which have continued longest with us in consequence 
 of their hardihood. Among the last of these are the 
 campanula, a few flowers of which may still be seen 
 shaking in the breeze ; the marigolds — Shakspere's 
 ' Winking Mary-buds,' — pleasant to look at now 
 when the sunshine is so scarce ; the nasturtiums 
 trailing over the rock-work ; the spiked-veronica on 
 the perennial-bed ; and the white-jasmine flowers 
 which are sparsely scattered among the dark green 
 foliage on the wall. How accurate is Cowper ! Speak- 
 ing of the jasmine, he says — 
 
 The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, 
 The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf 
 Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more 
 The bright profusion of her scattered stars. 
 
 In the greenhouse the most conspicuous things re- 
 maining are the habrothamnus, with its heavy purple 
 clusters ; the pure-tinted plumbago ; the red-and- 
 white fuchsias ; and the many-coloured geraniums. 
 In the wood there are now both hips and haws on 
 
 Q2 
 
228 Country Pleasures. 
 
 the rose-bushes and the thorns. The first are the 
 most plentiful, and are very brilliant — a bright red 
 on the side which has caught the sun, yellow in the 
 shade ; the latter are darker in colour, and although 
 the sparrows can hardly need them yet for food, I 
 observe that they already haunt the trees where the 
 haws are to be found. 
 
 At no other season of the year do we feel so much 
 as now the presence or absence of a little sunshine. 
 I often notice how even a faint gleam will change 
 the whole sentiment of the landscape. And when 
 we get the sun, how charming the prospect still 
 remains ! From the window I look out in the morn- 
 ing over a little stretch of broken and undulating 
 ground. Many of the trees are thin and bare, but the 
 brown tint of them is by no means unpleasant ; and, 
 as others near are still clothed with leaves, there is a 
 grateful contrast between the clearly-cut articulations 
 of the one and the less definite masses of the other. 
 Nearest to the eye a yellow beech overhangs and 
 mixes its leaves with a dark holly ; and, owing to 
 the rising conformation of the land, the background 
 of the whole picture is green, and a green of the most 
 vivid character, for the autumn has had no effect 
 yet on the grass of the meadows. Returning to the 
 wood, I notice the curious colours of the leaves that 
 
October. 229 
 
 remain hanging loosely on the two or three dogwood 
 
 trees which we have growing under the oaks and 
 
 ashes. The long oval leaf is still green, but is oddly 
 
 streaked or ribbed with red. This peculiar colour 
 
 of the dogwood is alluded to in the following 
 
 passage : — 
 
 The Lime first fading; and the golden Birch, 
 With bark of silver hue ; the moss-grown Oak, 
 Tenacious of its leaves of russet brown ; 
 The ensanguined Dogwood; and a thousand tints 
 Which Flora, dressed in all her pride of bloom, 
 Could scarcely equal, decorate the groves. 
 
 Our good friend Felix, the bird-master, who takes 
 much pleasure in these things, was at great pains the 
 other day to bring with him, all the way from Surrey, 
 two hundred miles or more, some considerable branches 
 of dogwood, which were thickly covered with berries. 
 He brought them, as he said, not only for their own 
 beauty, but because they carried with them certain 
 associations, for was it not probable that our drama- 
 tist had the tree in his mind when he gave a name 
 to that fine fellow for a ' sixth and lastly,' Constable 
 Dogberry of the Watch ? The leaves on these 
 specimens were not so much ' ensanguined ', as those 
 on our own trees ; but the berries were of a most 
 beautiful colour and more nearly resembling coral than 
 anything else I have seen. In the North, so far as I 
 
230 Country Pleasures. 
 
 know, the tree does not bear its fruit ; but in the 
 warm lanes of Surrey it is at present loaded with its 
 pink capsules, and must give to the hedges a rich 
 and peculiar colour. 
 
 On the south-east side of the house here are some 
 fine trees — fine still, though they have been much 
 finer. Two large brother-elms, with knotted boles 
 that lean towards each other, and some six or eight 
 others — beech, chestnut, and lime — make a thick 
 grove in summer. They are almost leafless now; 
 but if one chooses to open the window at dawn one 
 may hear from their midst the sweetest and most 
 cheery sound which autumn has to give — the clear 
 whistle of the robin. I see him as he sits high up 
 in the trees a small speck — small, yet how full of 
 undaunted life. In the well-known ' Address to 
 Autumn,' by John Keats — one of those pieces of 
 which it may be truly said that they have added, for 
 Englishmen, a perceptible charm to Nature herself — 
 the song of the robin is included as among the salient 
 features of the season. The last stanza is : — 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they ? 
 
 Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, 
 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
 
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
 
 Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
 
 Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
 
October. 231 
 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourne ; 
 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
 The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 
 
 Besides the trees I have mentioned there is one other 
 — an ancient oak, long dead but standing erect and 
 strong, like a monumental column, in the middle of 
 the lawn. In the morning I can tell the time by its 
 shadow on the grass, and it often catches the last 
 rays of sunset. The upper part of the trunk has 
 been cut away, but it is still forty or fifty feet high, 
 and its girth is about eleven feet. The branches 
 have been lopped and project only two or three yards 
 from the bole. In itself it would be an ungraceful, 
 although a venerable, object ; but at the base there 
 springs a stem of ivy, some fourteen inches in circum- 
 ference ; and from this there runs a countless number 
 of intertwisted twigs and tendrils which cover the 
 whole trunk and festoon the shapeless boughs with 
 thick masses of green leaves. It is, of course, a 
 notable haunt of birds — a kind of Republic or Agape- 
 mone where all sorts meet for chatter and the inter- 
 change of attentions and courtesies. Just now the 
 ivy is covered with its clusters of yellow and green 
 flowers. Their appearance would not attract a care- 
 less observer ; but if we examine them minutely we 
 
232 Country Pleasures. 
 
 see that they have a rich and honied look, and that 
 
 Spenser's description is not inapt : — 
 
 An Arber greene dispred, 
 Framed of wanton Yvie, flouring fayre. 
 
 The smell of the flowers is like that of thyme ; 
 and I was not surprised one sunny morning to find 
 a whole cloud of bees buzzing around them.- 
 
 The weather during the week has gradually im- 
 proved, being for the most part fine, though with a 
 lower temperature ; and at night we have been able 
 to get pleasant walks across the open country under 
 the full brilliancy of the Hunters' Moon. 
 
 Xhl.—THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 October 24. 
 As Autumn proceeds, we watch anxiously for that 
 season of respite which in America is known as the 
 Indian Summer, and in our own country as the Little 
 Summer of St. Luke — a time of warmth and stillness 
 and soft beauty, in the midst of which we would fain 
 linger. It may be that this stolen period has reached 
 us and passed away since I last wrote. If so, it must 
 have been indeed a very little one. The present 
 weather, at any rate, could not pretend to have the 
 slightest affinity with anything known to us as 
 summer. Yesterday there was thunder, every day 
 
October. 233 
 
 the rain is frequent and cheerless, the twilight comes 
 early and is soon gone, and at that time there is often 
 a cold and windy look about the sky which inevitably 
 brings up thoughts of winter. 
 
 A week ago, however, things were very different. 
 The eighteenth of October is the festival of St. Luke, 
 and it is on that day, or near it, that the serene 
 weather usually arrives. Late on the night of the 
 seventeenth, I looked out of the window and saw 
 that the change had come. The clouds were all gone 
 from the sky, and the trees were still. The half- 
 moon was in the north-east, and her light was 
 singularly pure and brilliant. On the lawn you 
 could see the deep shadow of the house, with its 
 chimneys and gables, and even a straggling and pro- 
 jecting branch of the pear-tree on the wall, quite 
 sharp and distinct ; but beyond that the ground was 
 so dazzlingly white that I had to look more than once 
 or twice before I could convince myself that there 
 had not been a sudden fall of snow. To make sure 
 I went to another window, but even there the same 
 delusive appearance was very strong, for the moon- 
 light caught the top of an ivied wall, the bottom of 
 which was in shadow, and again I said, ' Surely it 
 must be snow.' The morning which followed was 
 very beautiful ; the sky clear blue, but covered with 
 
234 Country Pleasures. 
 
 those white curling clouds which, as we gaze up at 
 them, look so like far reaching flocks of innumerable 
 sheep. Although this sky is the picture of peace, 
 yet on watching it very closely one could see that 
 beneath the motionless clouds, whose shapes were so 
 curiously and infinitely repeated, there was moving 
 rapidly along a thin veil of white mist which seemed 
 to be alternately accumulated and dispelled. Bloom- 
 field, the peasant poet, has depicted such a sky with 
 considerable elegance of expression : — 
 
 For yet above these wafted clouds are seen 
 (In a remoter sky, still more serene) 
 Others, detach'd in ranges through the air, 
 Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair ; 
 Scatter'd immensely wide from east to west, 
 The beauteous 'semblance of a Flock at rest. , 
 
 During the night the fall of dew had been very 
 heavy, and it was worth while to stoop and examine 
 the grass. Can anything be more exquisite than the 
 hundred separate pearls, which at such a time may be 
 counted on each green blade ? As the sun brightened, 
 I could not help noticing how soft were the shadows 
 of the trees as they fell across the wet lawn. A 
 shadow on the dewy grass is not the same as that 
 which falls upon the dry. 
 
 This weather continued for a few days, the wind 
 being south, with slight divergence to east or west, 
 
October. 235 
 
 and the thermometer rising to sixty degrees in the 
 daytime, and falling only a little below fifty at night. 
 On the twentieth there was rain ; but it was like the 
 warm rain of summer. On the same day I found 
 a primrose in bloom, and the yellow-jasmine was 
 breaking into bud. About Christmas the jasmine 
 will be in flower. 
 
 In all corners of the garden now the spiders' webs, 
 covered with prey, are very conspicuous ; and when 
 the air is dry at night you cannot pass down the walks 
 without feeling that the mysterious gossamer is being 
 woven across your face. How small, and yet how 
 large in their power of production must the creatures 
 be by whom this strange network is evolved. I have 
 never been able to find them at their task ; but I 
 think I have caught them in the daytime hiding in 
 flower-cups and on the under-side of the leaves — tiny 
 spiders, not quite so big as a pin's head. That they 
 have power to float in the air, carrying the thread 
 with them, I have often proved when walking, for in- 
 stance, by the edge of the pond, where on one side at 
 least, the creature could have found no support. It 
 is not easy to discover the object of these frail cocoons, 
 for no flies are visible upon them. Their extent and 
 the uniformity of their occurrence also is very amazing. 
 I have frequently seen two or three hundred yards of 
 
236 Country Pleasures. 
 
 garden paling festooned with them in the morning. 
 The work has been done in a single night and each 
 little filmy thread is passed from point to point with 
 the regularity of the chains on a suspension bridge. 
 
 Another characteristic phenomenon just now is 
 that of the fungi. Every day there is a new and 
 prolific crop in the grass, around the roots of trees, 
 and especially on the old stumps which have been 
 left in the ground. Many of them are repulsive 
 both in shape and colour, being frequently a dull and 
 ugly brown — ' Brownest toadstones,' as Herrick calls 
 them — but sometimes they are rich in colour — amber 
 and pink — and often remind you, both in form and 
 tint, of the anemones and other creatures which line 
 the sides of the rock-pools by the sea-shore. 
 
 The mosses are also very brilliant at this time, 
 especially those which adorn the trunks of trees. I 
 notice that they usually appear on the side which 
 fronts the north or north-east. If a colourist wishes 
 to see the perfection of green, let him stand before 
 one of these trees and observe how the tint is 
 developed from the rough brown of the bark at the 
 two outer edges, slowly and with almost impercep- 
 tible gradations, until it culminates at the centre in a 
 pure and vivid emerald which no skill of hand or 
 cunningly mixed pigment could possibly reproduce. 
 
October. 237 
 
 The sparrows have all returned and are here in 
 astonishing numbers. They have been away, I sup- 
 pose, in the harvest fields, feeding sumptuously every 
 day. Now they will begin to clear the garden of its 
 pests. They usually gather together a little before 
 dusk ; and their favourite meeting-place is a broad- 
 topped oak which has more leaves upon it now than 
 any other of the neighbouring trees. From this tree 
 as a centre they are incessantly darting out, returning 
 quickly, and chasing each other from bough to bough. 
 The sound of their united twittering and whistling is 
 very peculiar. As it seems to me, their only object 
 is amusement, for I have not been able to discover 
 any method or serious purpose in their action at this 
 time. I was standing under this tree the other night 
 watching their movements, when the sound of a 
 distant gun sent them all abroad, and I saw that 
 there must have been more than two hundred of them 
 perched in this place alone. As the darkness comes 
 on they slowly and almost imperceptibly disperse. 
 I have tried to follow them but cannot ; and I often 
 ask myself, Where do all these birds go to in the 
 night ? I have looked for them after dark, but have 
 never been able to find more than two or three sitting 
 here and there on the hawthorns. 
 
238 Country Pleasures. 
 
 XLII.— THE GLEN. 
 
 October 30. 
 
 The face of the country here, though undulating 
 and far from monotonous when considered in detail, 
 would be broadly described as flat, the base of the 
 hills being five or six miles away. This comparatively 
 level surface, however, is frequently indented by pic- 
 turesque and winding ravines, which have been 
 gradually scooped out by the slow agency of winter 
 floods. What we call The Glen is one of the smaller 
 of these ravines. Its shape is irregular. There is a 
 main trunk along which the principal stream flows, 
 and there are besides two or three branching hollows, 
 each of which has its own water-course. One of these 
 takes its rise within our own garden-enclosure, and is 
 known to us as The Dell. The water from the pond 
 flows through it, and it is here that the boys make 
 mimic water-wheels. In spring the slopes of it are 
 blue with hyacinths, and there are some fine ferns 
 about the roots of the tall ash-trees which rise on 
 each side. , At the top of the Dell there is an old 
 wooden dove-cage mounted on a tree-stump. We 
 have put it there as a shelter or rendezvous for the 
 birds, if they choose to use it ; and as the bars are 
 wide apart they can pass in and out as they wish. 
 
October. 239 
 
 Just now it is covered with branches, which, in prun- 
 ing, have been cut from the rose-bushes and placed 
 here so that the birds might pluck the scarlet hips 
 which are still hanging upon them. Outside the fence 
 the Dell has been filled up and is crossed by a public 
 road, under which the water runs, continuing its 
 course down into the Glen. Standing in the road 
 you may look along the narrow ravine and see a 
 picture of considerable beauty. The ash-trees which 
 begin in our garden grow more thickly here. The 
 stems, having to climb towards the light, are long 
 and bare, and lean towards each other so as to cross 
 near the summit. In this way they make a vista 
 down which the eye travels with the same pleasure 
 that it would along an aisle of gothic arches. 
 
 The Glen is always a surprise to strangers. If 
 one should come to it in the depth of summer and 
 find himself, not on the outskirts, but in the very 
 midst, the exclamation which would be sure to rise 
 to his lips would be — ' How thick the foliage —this 
 might be thirty miles away from any town ! ' Truth 
 to tell, it is an oasis. The city is ever stealing nearer 
 and nearer upon it ; and is, in fact, rapidly making 
 a sterile wilderness of the surrounding fields. This 
 makes the place more precious — we know that it will 
 soon be gone, and when we first catch sight of its 
 
240 Country Pleasures. 
 
 leafy edge, as we return home in the evening, we say 
 — 'This is the happy valley in whose precincts we 
 shall find once more peace and repose.' 
 
 The Glen is not large. To walk round it follow- 
 ing its irregular margin would be a journey perhaps 
 of some three quarters of a mile. In doing this we 
 should start from our own gates ; and, descending a 
 steep lane, pass the picturesque cottages which have 
 been already mentioned in these Notes. Ascending 
 again, one comes upon an old house, in front of 
 which may still be seen the stone mounting-steps, 
 where the stirrup-cup. may often have been tossed off; 
 and which tell their own tale of riders long dead. Here, 
 standing under a gnarled and twisted elm, at the edge 
 of the declivity, we look down on the grey roofs of 
 the cottages, and into the Glen itself. At this point, 
 if we have permission, we may most easily descend 
 into it. In the cloudy afternoon of an October day 
 the place is very still and not unlovely, although the 
 summer is gone, and although even the return of 
 summer will not bring back the beauty which we 
 have known of old. When we reach the bottom and 
 wander along the grassy path by the brook-side, we 
 see how exquisite are the folding and over-lapping 
 lines of the green slopes as they fall back one behind 
 another. This is the great beauty of the Glen. The 
 
October. 241 
 
 ridges all round are set with trees which show them- 
 selves against the sky. There is the beech, the chest- 
 nut, the sycamore, the silver-birch, and one purple- 
 beech, which we have watched for nearly twenty 
 years, putting on, season after season, its glorious and 
 ever-changing apparel of green, of light brown, of 
 purple, and lastly of brilliant red. 
 
 By the path there are still in flower the daisy, the 
 dandelion, the shepherd's-purse, and the scabious or 
 devil's-bit ; and among the long grass overhanging 
 the brook there is one tuft of red-campion, a cheerful 
 thing for October. In the bottom of the Glen there 
 are two noble trees which rise above all the rest — 
 a lime and an ash. Both of them might be sketched 
 as characteristic of their species. The bole of the 
 lime is, as usual, straight and well-formed ; and 
 many a time have I watched for hours the gracefully 
 curving branches move up and down in the wind, 
 with that feathery and finger-like motion which is so 
 peculiar to them — 
 
 The large lime feathers low, 
 The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. 
 
 The ash grows against a bank ; and on one side its 
 roots, green and scaly, are half-exposed. A few 
 leaves still hang on the spreading and shapely boughs, 
 and a bramble climbs about the lower part of the 
 
242 Country Pleasures. 
 
 trunk. Just at the foot there are one or two roots of 
 the autumn-crocus remaining in flower : every year 
 they come up in the same place. Until quite recently 
 a pair of magpies built in this ash-tree on each suc- 
 ceeding spring. The leaves were generally so thick 
 that we seldom saw the nest until October ; but the 
 birds were seen every day. They were very regular 
 in their habits, and might be observed flying together 
 up and down the Glen at a certain hour every morning. 
 It is not often that these birds are to be found so 
 near a large town. Two other trees are noticeable, 
 a chestnut and a willow. The chestnut, being low 
 down, and protected from the wind, has retained its 
 leaves ; and as these are touched now with the 
 burning tints of autumn it presents a splendid sight. 
 They will all have fallen, however, in a day or two. 
 As I look at it I think of those fantastic lines by 
 William Allingham : — 
 
 Bright yellow, red, and orange, 
 The leaves come down in hosts ; 
 
 The trees are Indian princes, 
 But soon they'll turn to ghosts ; 
 
 The leathery pears and apples 
 Hang russet on the bough, 
 
 It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 
 'Twill soon be Winter now. 
 
 The willow has been curiously warped in its youth, 
 
 and grows right across the brook like a bridge, from 
 
October. 243 
 
 one side to the other, some of the branches turning 
 
 towards the sky and others downward towards the 
 
 water. It is such a willow as that on whose ' pendent 
 
 boughs ' the poor Ophelia hung her ' coronet weeds ' : — 
 
 A willow grows aslant a brook, 
 That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream. 
 
 The Glen is, as might be expected, a famous place 
 for birds, though they are, of course, becoming more 
 rare. The cuckoo is still a regular visitant ; the 
 wrens build in the bank near the willow mentioned 
 above ; the blackbird is common : but the most fre- 
 quent of all is the throstle. Indeed, my old friend, 
 Samuel Bamford, the stalwart author of the Passages 
 in the Life of a Radical, once told me, as we were 
 sitting together one summer's day on these very 
 slopes, that in his boyhood the place was always 
 known as ' Throstle Glen.' 
 
 The winter seems to be coming upon us early. 
 On the twenty-eighth there was hail ; and again last 
 night. This morning there was ice on the walks, the 
 heads of the dahlias were down, and the thermometer 
 showed that we had had six degrees of frost. The robin 
 felt the cold, and knew what it meant, I think ; for 
 he began to show a desire for closer acquaintance. 
 As I stood and whistled for him on the lawn he came 
 
 R 2 
 
244 Country Pleasures. 
 
 within two yards of me, lifting up his face in a pert 
 fashion, and showing his deep yellow breast — it is 
 hardly red yet— and then fluttering back into a neigh- 
 bouring thorn. 
 
November. 245 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
 
 The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
 
 The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 
 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 
 Robert Burns, The Cotter's Saturday Night. 
 
 XLIII.— THE FIRST WEEK OF WINTER : 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 
 
 November 6. 
 
 This week must be set down as the beginning of 
 our winter. We shall, no doubt, have intervals of 
 warmer weather ; but none the less we are constrained 
 to admit that the severe season has made good its 
 place and has developed already all its most charac- 
 teristic forms. Every night there has been frost, the 
 thermometer falling once as low as twenty-three de- 
 grees. On the first of the month the pond was en- 
 tirely covered with ice, and the rime was very thick 
 
246 Country Pleasures. 
 
 on the grass. On the morning of the second there 
 was a little sleety snow lying on the ground. On the 
 third the sun rose with that red and beamless aspect 
 which always suggests the very depth of winter ; and 
 on the fourth there came a heavy white fog, which 
 prevented us from seeing more than a yard or two 
 from the window. It is interesting to observe how 
 similar the weather is to that which we had at the 
 beginning of the year, when we were as far past 
 the Shortest-day as we are now on this side of it. 
 The exhilarating brightness, the depressing gloom, 
 the blind fog, and the sun-illumined mist are the 
 exact counterparts of what we were having in the 
 month of February. 
 
 As the cold weather comes upon us the red-letter 
 days seem to increase in the calendar. The week has 
 been quite a succession of festivals. First came 
 Halloween, the Vigil of All Saints ; or, in the earlier 
 tongue, of All Hallows. However lukewarm we older 
 people may become with regard to these holidays 
 the young folks, especially in country houses, are 
 not disposed to let them sink into desuetude ; and so 
 in the kitchen there was a larger fire than usual, 
 and in the middle of the floor a great pail of 
 water, filled with some of those apples which a little 
 while ago we had gathered from the trees. The 
 
November. 247 
 
 ducking and splashing are a source of great fun ; and, 
 if one chooses to moralise, one may see how success 
 in the slippery chase falls only to the youngster who 
 can bring to the pursuit both cunning and perse- 
 verance. 
 
 This diving for apples seems to be most common 
 in the North of England. Burns makes no mention 
 of it in his well-known poem ' Halloween.' With 
 him it is the burning of nuts and the pulling of 
 stocks or plants of kail, and other strange ceremonies 
 for purposes of divination : — 
 
 Amang the bonnie, winding banks, 
 
 Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, 
 Where Bruce ance rul'd the martial ranks, 
 
 An' shook his Carrick spear, 
 Some merry, friendly, countra folks 
 
 Together did convene, 
 To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 
 An' haud their Halloween 
 
 Fu' blythe that night. 
 
 The next day — the first of November — was All 
 Saints. This festival was formerly regarded as sig- 
 nalising the close of harvest. By this time all fruits 
 are supposed to be gathered in ; and, as we looked 
 over our own garden, we saw that nothing was left 
 but a few brilliant clusters on a Siberian crab. It 
 was a pleasant sight in the bright winter's morning to 
 see a large blackbird sitting on one of the branches, 
 
248 Country Pleasures. 
 
 making his breakfast on the now over-ripe fruit. 
 
 The beauty of this day and the clearness of the sky 
 
 reminded us of those sweet and consolatory stanzas 
 
 which open Keble's poem for All Saints : — 
 
 Why blow'st thou not, thou wintry wind, 
 
 Now every leaf is brown and sere, 
 And idly droops, to thee resigned, 
 The faded chaplet of the year ? 
 Yet wears the pure aerial sky 
 Her summer veil, half drawn on high, 
 Of silvery haze, and dark and still 
 The shadows sleep on every slanting hill. 
 
 How quiet shows the woodland scene ! 
 
 Each flower and tree, its duty done, 
 Reposing in decay serene, 
 
 Like weary men when age is won, 
 Such calm old age as conscience pure 
 And self-commanding hearts ensure, 
 Waiting their summons to the sky, 
 Content to live, but not afraid to die. 
 
 All Saints is followed by All Souls, the day upon 
 which it was formerly the custom to bake and eat 
 soul-cakes and to ring bells for the protection of the 
 dead from evil spirits. It is curious to note that 
 while the associations of this season in the mind of 
 Keble are all of them evidently of a benign and 
 cheerful character, another writer, of not very dis- 
 similar tendencies, Kenelm Digby, connects the time 
 with all that is wild and awful. In his Morus he 
 
November. 249 
 
 speaks of a mournful colouring being, at this season, 
 spread over nature, highly favourable to romantic 
 feelings, high thoughts, and generous deeds, and then 
 adds : — ' Historians have often remarked how fre- 
 quently this season has been distinguished by its 
 tempests. In the eighteenth year of Henry I., All 
 Hallowne Day was attended by a storm of equal 
 horror, " at which," we are told, " the people were 
 marvellously amazed." And on All Souls Day, the 
 year in which Richard I. was taken prisoner in 
 Germany, the North-West side of the element ap- 
 peared on fire a little before the break of day. It 
 was on All Hallowne night, about midnight, that 
 Cavendish was called up at Assher, to let in Sir John 
 Russel and a troop of horsemen, who were come with 
 comfortable tidings to Cardinal Wolsey of the king's 
 returning favour, when he tells us it rained all that 
 night most vehemently, as it did at any time the year 
 before. So that after Sir John had delivered his 
 message from the king, and given the ring, he con- 
 cluded, saying, " And, Sir, I have had the sorest 
 journey for so little a way, that ever I had to my 
 remembrance." ' 
 
 Three days after All Souls there comes a day of 
 another kind — the Festival of Gunpowder, shall we 
 call it, or the Feast of St. Guy? Bonfires were origin- 
 
250 Country Pleasures. 
 
 ally one of the accompaniments of Halloween ; and, 
 no doubt, the lighting of great fires at this time has 
 really more to do with the ancient holidays than with 
 the comparatively modern historical ' Plot.' In Lan- 
 cashire we seem to have been always famous for the 
 keeping of festivals, and the lighting of bonfires. Old 
 Michael Drayton, writing of this neighbourhood in 
 the Polyolbion, says : — 
 
 Was never seen such rule 
 In any place but here, at Boon-fire or at Yule ; 
 And every village smokes at wakes with lusty cheer, 
 Then ' Hey,' they cry, ' for Lun,' and ' Hey for Lancashire.' 
 
 For a week or two the boys have been very busy 
 gathering together materials for the annual fire ; and 
 by the fifth the woodhouse was filled with hedge- 
 clippings, old roots, fallen branches, and even dead 
 boughs which, with the help of the gardener, had 
 been lopped or sawn from the trees. The night was 
 clear and fine and there was no difficulty in lighting 
 the great pile which had been reared on a vacant plot 
 in the garden, far enough from the house to prevent 
 danger from the vagrant sparks. It was a moment 
 of excitement when the fire was seen to be creeping 
 up from the base, and we noticed that the vast masses 
 of smoke which rolled over our heads were silvered 
 by the moon, and made clouds as real as those which 
 
November. . 251 
 
 we see in the sky. When the flames had fairly taken 
 hold of the pile we made a circle and danced round 
 it just as the fire-worshippers may have done thou- 
 sands of years ago. My friend the Painter, who was 
 a visitor for the night, was transfixed with admiration. 
 He saw pictures. That charred trunk in the centre 
 of the burning pyramid, how like it was to — 
 
 A pale martyr in his shirt of fire ; 
 
 and the flames themselves, how wonderful they were 
 as they leapt quivering into the air, reaching towards 
 us as with an almost human motive, and maintaining 
 for an instant a life individual and distinct from the 
 mass whence they had sprung, and then vanishing 
 into nothingness like a broken endeavour. ' Men 
 scarcely know' — Shelley might well say — 'How 
 beautiful fire is.' It is indeed beautiful ; but it is the 
 beauty of the pard, and of that kind which consists 
 with swiftness and terror. 
 
 A little after midnight, when the logs had all 
 fallen in, and the great fire was-only a circle of bright 
 embers lying flat on the ground, and when all the 
 flaring of rockets, and the smoking, and the shouting, 
 and the cannonading were done with, I looked up 
 and saw what a still and beautiful night there was 
 overhead. A light wind from the north had brought 
 
252 Country Pleasures. 
 
 up into the otherwise clear sky a drift of snowy clouds 
 — I saw how white they were by contrast with the 
 black trees — and there, in the south-west, was the 
 moon sitting among them, soft yet brilliant, the very 
 image of placid beauty. It needed only a little 
 stretch of fancy to see in her face a touch of disdain 
 as she looked down upon the extinction of our tran- 
 sient show ! 
 
 XLIV.— A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 November 13. 
 
 November is maintaining all the characteristics 
 of a severe winter. On All Saints and All Souls the 
 season may be said to have been fairly ushered in, 
 the first snow falling On the night of the former day ; 
 and this week, on Martinmas Day, we are visited by 
 a snow-storm of no ordinary kind. 
 
 It was not without warning that this heavy fall 
 
 came upon us. For two or three days there had been 
 
 cold rain, mixed with sleet ; and at night sharp frost. 
 
 The wind, too, was bitter — 
 
 A wind out of the north, 
 A sharp wind and a snell — 
 
 as the old ballad has it. On the tenth the weather 
 was changeful and stormy. A high wind accom- 
 
November. 253 
 
 panied the rain, and in the afternoon there was a 
 rainbow in the north-east, which, on such a day, 
 seemed a portent rather than an augury of calm. 
 At night we had a sinister-looking moon glimmering 
 faintly through rifted clouds. 
 
 In the garden we were made to feel that desola- 
 tion had fallen upon all our pleasant places. The 
 rain-drops hung half-frozen on the hedges, and hardly 
 any foliage was left. Even the elder had at last 
 succumbed. The leaves became flaccid with the first 
 sharp frost ; but now, though still green, they were 
 nearly all lying on the ground, and the light-coloured 
 and straggling twigs, with only a stray leaf here and 
 there twirling in the wind, looked even more wretched 
 than those surrounding trees which had been earlier 
 unclothed. 
 
 As we wander down the alleys the bare trees show 
 us how many happy nests there were in the summer 
 — how many that we, with all our care, had never 
 found, in unexpected corners, no less than in places 
 so patent that the wonder is how we had missed 
 them. An empty bird's nest is not a pleasant thing 
 to look upon in the chill winter — and here is one not 
 empty, but more melancholy still, for it contains the 
 unhatched eggs of spring. Why forsaken, who can 
 tell ? At such a time that exquisite but mournful 
 
254 Country Pleasures. 
 
 sonnet of the great master is found to be the fittest 
 expression of one's feelings : — 
 
 That time of year thou mayst in me behold 
 
 When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
 
 Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
 In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 
 
 As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
 Which by-and-by black night doth take away, 
 
 Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
 In me thou seest the glowing of such fire 
 
 That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 
 As the death-bed whereon it must expire 
 
 Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. 
 This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, 
 To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 
 
 It was a relief when, on the eleventh, the snow 
 began. So early as three o'clock in the afternoon an 
 ominous darkness, as of night, fell on the landscape 
 and was not lifted again. The snow came fast and in 
 heavy flakes, and the gloom was strange and bewilder- 
 ing. At a neighbouring farm the fowls were unable to 
 find their usual roosting-place, and were discovered the 
 next morning out of doors, half-buried in the snow. At 
 one time there was thunder and with it a heavy wind, 
 but later the night became still, and the moon, though 
 unseen, covered all with a soft light. By this time the 
 snow was from three to four inches deep, and there 
 was a considerable drift in the lanes. The landscape 
 
November. 255 
 
 was transformed ; all was beautiful ; there were no 
 blots. In the garden we had the loveliest and most 
 fairy-like scene of all the year. The larger trees were 
 each of them marked by a strip of white along the 
 north side of the bole ; but the branches were entirely 
 covered. Every tree, however, retained its own 
 characteristics ; some — the evergreens especially — 
 being heavily laden, while others were only lightly 
 covered and showed the tracing of each twig and 
 spine distinct and clear. The vistas were especially 
 beautiful, and could only be likened to the corridors 
 in some great palace of frost. In the early morning, 
 the snow having ceased, and the clouds cleared away, 
 the moon broke forth with great brilliancy, and then 
 the landscape, as seen from the windows, was of a 
 delicate blue colour, rather than white. 
 
 For all this exhilaration of spirit and exaltation 
 of fancy we had to suffer the next morning. The 
 sun rose in a yellow haze and the sad change had 
 already come. On the flat lawn close by the house 
 the snow was still white and unbroken, as it will be 
 for some days ; but the undulating fields beyond were 
 already ridged with black, and were seen fading into 
 a dreary distance where the grey earth and the grey 
 sky, like Old Age and Death, meet together and are 
 made one in an uncomplaining sadness. 
 
256 Country Pleasures. 
 
 At breakfast our feathered pensioners, the robins 
 and the sparrows, were more numerous than usual ; 
 and, although the crumbs sank into the snow, they 
 were deft enough to pick them out. It is interesting 
 to observe what fantastic things the birds will do. A 
 day or two ago I saw a sparrow clinging by its claws 
 to the perpendicular wall of the barn, apparently in 
 order that it might conceal itself from another bird 
 which was sitting just above on the projecting eaves, 
 and who ultimately, by bending over, found where its 
 mate was hiding. The two then flew away together. 
 But still more singular was a sight in the garden on 
 the same morning. A small green linnet was sitting 
 on a ledge underneath the roof of a low building, 
 level with the eye, and either regaling himself or 
 amusing himself by catching in his mouth, as they 
 fell one by one, the drops of melted snow. 
 
 To-night the frost has returned with great sharp- 
 ness ; the sky, swept by the wind, is preternaturally 
 clear ; the stars beat as if they would leap from their 
 places; and the snow, which has been re-frozen, 
 glitters like diamonds on the roofs and on the ground. 
 
November. 257 
 
 XLV.—THE CLOUGH. 
 
 November ig. 
 
 The Clough is a kind of larger Glen — a kloof or 
 cleft in the ground, and lying below the general level 
 of the country. It is wilder than the Glen ; but it 
 has suffered much during the last few years, being 
 less carefully preserved. If we start from our own 
 garden and strike straight across the fields, the dis- 
 tance to the nearest edge ot the Clough would be a 
 little over half a mile. Speaking roughly, it runs 
 from north-east to west, and its length is about a mile 
 and a half. It is partly in our own parish, that of 
 Moston, and partly in the ancient township of Blackley. 
 
 In a Survey taken in 1322, the fifteenth year of 
 Edward II., it is said that—' The park of Blakelegh 
 is worth in pannage, eyrie of eagles, herons and 
 hawks, honey-bees, mineral earths, ashes, and other 
 issues, fifty-three shillings and fourpence. The vesture 
 of oaks, with the whole coverture, is worth 200 marks 
 (133/. 6s. 8d.) in the gross. It contains seven miles 
 in circumference, together with two deer-leaps of the 
 king's grant.' 
 
 One of these ' deer-leaps' was the Clough of which 
 we are speaking. The most accessible mode of entry 
 is from the high road which runs through Rochdale 
 
258 Country Pleasures. 
 
 into the county of York. About half a mile south of 
 the village of Blackley, you come upon a sharp 
 descent, down -which the country waggons, returning 
 home, always rumble with the break on their wheels. 
 It is a picturesque bit of road — picturesque, but diffi- 
 cult. In severe winters when the ground was slippery 
 I have seen it quite impassable ; once I remember the 
 snow had to be cleared away by gangs of men, and 
 was piled up on each side to the height of ten -or 
 twelve feet. Just at this point, where there is a 
 populous rookery on the left hand, a lane on the right 
 runs eastward into the Clough. It looks like a private 
 way, and is very tempting to the passer-by. On one 
 side there is a green hollow, on the other a steep 
 bank; and, as the trees, though not large, are thickly 
 grown, you get a winding avenue which in the summer- 
 time is pleasantly chequered with light and shade. 
 
 In going from our own house, however, we cross 
 the fields and enter by another way, which, leading 
 between high banks of sand, plunges at once into the 
 midst of the ravine. On this side of the Clough we 
 pass the ancient house which is known as Hough 
 Hall. It is now surrounded by modern dwellings, 
 but it still retains something of its' ancient appearance, 
 having pointed gables and a black-and-white timbered 
 front. In the reign of Henry VIII. it was the resi- 
 
November. 259 
 
 dence of George Halgh, Gentleman, whose widow 
 married Sir John Byron, of the adjoining parish of 
 Clayton. Sir John was an ancestor of the poet, and 
 seems to have anticipated the irregularities, if not 
 the genius, of his illustrious descendant. 
 
 Standing now in the Clough-Bottom, by the edge 
 of a little stream, one sees how wild and beautiful the 
 place has once been. The ground rises sharply on 
 every side, and the brook, winding and turning about, 
 makes many a little gorge and headland. All the 
 elements of the picturesque are present ; but the 
 scene has been rudely dealt with by man : and the 
 loose nature of the soil on the steep banks has 
 caused most of the finest trees to fall. 
 
 Our recollections of the Clough go back to our 
 earliest years. In boyhood it was the home of almost 
 all our romance. Here the eternal friendships of 
 adolescence were made ; and here, too, those later 
 and still more tender attachments had their begin- 
 ning. It was in the Clough, also, that we first 
 learned to feel that reverence and love for all the 
 changing aspects of nature, whether great or small, 
 which have since been able to lead us on from 'joy 
 to joy,' and which have helped to form in us that — 
 
 Cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. 
 
 S 2 
 
260 Country Pleasures. 
 
 We came here for our sunsets and sunrisings — 
 nowhere could they be better seen— and not unfre- 
 quently, for the sake of snatching a fearful pleasure, 
 we have ventured into the haunted recesses of the 
 Clough in the depth of midnight. In spring the 
 banks were then covered with the anemone, the 
 hyacinth, and the stellaria : in summer, when the 
 ground was thick with ferns, the honeysuckle went 
 gadding about among the wild roses ; in the autumn 
 we gathered blackberries — the nuts were gone even 
 in my time — and in winter, when the old-fashioned 
 weather was on, and the brook could be heard tink- 
 ling under the ice, the snow pictures were finer here 
 than anywhere else. Before we had ever seen a 
 mountain we simulated Alpine terrors among the 
 sandy scaurs, making believe in dizzy precipices 
 over which we were accustomed to hang suspended 
 from some projecting branch ; and, as for cataracts, 
 we made them ourselves by damming up the stream, 
 where it was narrowest, with stones and the roots of 
 trees. 
 
 Westward from this point the Clough widens into 
 a green glade ; and if we were to follow the path 
 which meanders along the turf, we should come to 
 a farmhouse standing at the end of the avenue of 
 trees already mentioned. Samuel Bamford, writing 
 
November. 261 
 
 more than thirty years ago, describes the glade, and 
 makes it the scene of a wild story, intended to illus- 
 trate the superstitious belief, common in Lancashire, 
 that whoever is able to gather the seed of the St. 
 John's Fern, at midnight on the eve of St. John's Day, 
 with certain cabalistic ceremonies, will have power 
 to command the affections of an unwilling damsel. 
 ' About half-way up this kloof is an open cleared 
 space of green and short sward ; it is probably two 
 hundred yards in length, by sixty in width ; and 
 passing along it from Blackley, a group of fine oaks 
 appears on a slight eminence, a little to the left. 
 This part of the grove was, at the time we are con- 
 cerned with, much more crowded with underwood 
 than at present. The bushes were then close and 
 strong ; fine sprouts of " yerth groon " hazel and ash 
 were common as nuts; whilst a thick bush of bramble, 
 wild rose, and holly, gave the spot the appearance of 
 a place inclosed and set apart for mysterious conceal- 
 ment. Intermingled with these almost impervious 
 barriers were tufts of tall green fern, curling and 
 bending gracefully ; and a little separate from them, 
 and nearer the old oaks, might be observed a few 
 fern clumps of a singular appearance ; of a paler 
 green than the others, — with a flatter and a broader 
 leaf, — sticking up, rigid and expanded, like something 
 
262 Country Pleasures. 
 
 stark with mute terror. These were " Saint John's 
 Fearn." ' 
 
 Turning eastward, the Clough narrows, and the 
 path becomes difficult, being sometimes obstructed by 
 fallen trees, and sometimes breaking off altogether 
 in consequence of a slip in the land. It is best, 
 therefore, to keep by the brookside crossing and 
 re-crossing from time to time. In a little while a 
 lofty and picturesque knoll rises in front of you, and 
 seems to bar farther progress. Here, indeed, what 
 is usually known as The Clough comes to an end ; 
 but by a little scrambling you may get into a contri- 
 butory dingle which runs on still farther for about 
 half a mile, and finally loses itself in the level fields. 
 In this dingle there are yet some of the rarer wild 
 flowers to be found ; and here, in the long summer- 
 evenings, far away from intruders and all the noise of 
 the town, you may often come across one of those 
 Lancashire working botanists — quiet and unobtrusive 
 creatures — who, like the plants they seek, are, it is 
 to be feared, becoming every year increasingly un- 
 common. 
 
 Returning from the dingle we climb the knoll ; 
 and here, on the summit, and curiously near the pre- 
 cipitous edge, is the lonely farmhouse which gives 
 the place its name — Boggart Hole Clough, the 
 
November. 263 
 
 Boggart Clough in fact, 'hole' and 'clough' being 
 one of those duplications so common in all languages. 
 The legend attached to this house will be found under 
 the title of ' The Bar-Gaist' in the first volume of 
 Roby's Traditions of Lancashire. Although appear- 
 ing with Roby's own work it was really written by 
 Crofton Croker, the well-known author of The Fairy 
 Legends. The salient points of the story are con- 
 cisely put in Tennyson's ' Walking to the Mail ' : — 
 His house, for so they say, 
 Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook 
 The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, 
 And rummaged like a rat : no servant stay'd : 
 The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, 
 And all his household stuff; and with his boy 
 Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, 
 Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, 'What! 
 You're flitting! ' ' Yes, we're flitting,' says the ghost, 
 (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) 
 ' Oh, well,' says he, 'you flitting with us too — 
 Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again.' 
 
 The farmer who was the victim of the pranks of 
 this Robin Goodfellow, this ' drudging goblin ' and 
 ' lubber fiend' as Milton puts it, has been long gone ; 
 and his successors are gone too, for the house is now 
 untenanted save by the rats and the birds, and is fast 
 falling into decay. Its antiquity is proved by the 
 nature of the building, for the walls, in some parts 
 at least, are of what was called ' rubble and daub ' — 
 
264 Country Pleasures. 
 
 loose stones covered with plaster and intermingled 
 with beams of wood. In the grey November even- 
 ing, with the mist beginning to fill the Clough and 
 already lying along the fields, it looks, as a haunted 
 house should, both weird and uncanny. The fences 
 are thrown down ; the trim garden has become a 
 wilderness ; all signs of life have disappeared, the 
 windows are blocked with wood, the doors are made 
 fast with nails, the hearth is cold and the fire will 
 never be kindled upon it again. The Bar-Gaist was 
 a homely sprite ; and, as this is a home no longer, he 
 is gone too. By climbing we manage to look into 
 one of the deserted and empty chambers. The walls 
 are ragged, the narrow stairs are broken, the roof lets 
 in the sky, and we feel that even the presence of a 
 goblin would make the place more cheerful than it 
 now is. 
 
 Leaving the Clough, and crossing a few fields, we 
 come to Booth Hall, an old mansion which bears the 
 date of 1640. Humphrey Booth, the builder of the 
 house, founded the Trinity Church in Salford ; and 
 left sundry legacies 'to the poor for ever.' That 
 quaint chronicler, Hollingworth, says of him that, 
 ' Being in great weakness, he earnestly desired that 
 he might live to see the chapel finished, which he 
 did ; but immediately after the solemn dedication of 
 
November. 265 
 
 it by the Bishop of Chester he more apparently 
 weakened ; then he earnestly begged that he might 
 partake of the Lord's Supper there, and then he 
 would not wish to live longer. It pleased God to 
 revive him in such a measure as that he was able to 
 go to the chapel constantly till he was partaker of 
 the Supper (which could not be done of some months 
 after the consecration) in the chapel, and was never 
 able to go forth after, nor scarce to get home. He 
 was a man just in his trading, generous in entertain- 
 ment of any gentlemen of quality that came to the 
 town, though mere strangers to him ; bountiful to the 
 Church and poor ; and faithful to his friend.' 
 
 The lights are already glimmering in the windows 
 of Booth Hall when we turn homeward. Our nearest 
 way is through a branch of Boggart-Hole locally 
 known as Oliver's Clough. This is really the finest 
 part of the whole ravine, and has suffered least. The 
 trees are many of them noble in their proportions ; 
 and, as the path is carried along the high ground, 
 you look through the tree trunks to the brook which 
 runs at a great depth below. When we reach the 
 open glade the twilight has already fallen, and we 
 can hear the birds fluttering low among the trees. 
 At the entrance to the Clough we meet a group of 
 children who are making for home. They huddle 
 
266 Country Pleasures. 
 
 together, and hurry past us with scared faces. Pro- 
 bably they are still believers in the existence of the 
 Boggart. 
 
 XLVL— NOVEMBER FOG. 
 
 November 27. 
 
 About the middle of the month, and after the 
 snow had departed, there came some days of cheerful 
 weather. It seemed as though November were about 
 to pass by without its usual concomitant of fog. 
 There were at this time several bright mornings, on 
 which we comforted ourselves by observing how 
 much of autumnal beauty was left us even in the 
 midst of this wintry month. 'The country,' we 
 said, ' is always beautiful ; look how tender, even 
 now, is the colour of the grass, and how delicately it 
 changes in the lights and shadows along the undulat- 
 ing ground, and on the broken acclivity of the dell ; 
 and the trees, though almost entirely leafless, do they 
 not give, with a blue or even a soft grey sky above 
 them, such an infinite repetition and variety of form, 
 and such a picture of free development on the lines of 
 rigid order as is not to be seen even in summer ? ' 
 And each morning there was the waning moon 
 in the south-west, a thin crescent, pale, and only 
 
November. 267, 
 
 distinguishable from the surrounding clouds by its 
 greater definiteness of form. Is there any other 
 ponderable and embodied thing which presents so 
 ethereal an aspect as this ? 
 
 On the nineteenth, however, after hoar frost in the 
 morning, the day became warm ; and then began the 
 plague of mist and fog which has hardly left us since. 
 Few things are more monotonous than a fog, and 
 yet even that has its changes. Day after day we 
 have had all sorts, both as to density and colour. 
 The hues have been as various, in fact, as those 
 of the rats in The Pied Piper of Hamelin — brown fogs, 
 and black fogs,- grey fogs and tawny fogs. For many 
 days we have seen no sun, nor even had any hint of 
 the sky ; the lights have not been put out at noon ; 
 in the evening the most familiar paths have seemed 
 strange and dubious ; and at midnight men have 
 lost their bearings and have wandered about the 
 country for hours. 
 
 Nothing produces so many unearthly effects as a 
 thick fog. As you walk among the trees they seem 
 to move past you ; if you stand still and look up, the 
 higher branches are far away and the top is lost in a 
 strange distance ; but the most curious thing of all is 
 to see a lantern moved about in a grove — then long 
 shafts of light and shadow dart out and are suddenly 
 
268 Country Pleasures. 
 
 withdrawn, and move over each other in a way that is 
 utterly bewildering. If, as has been recently the case, 
 a slight frost accompanies the fog during the night, we 
 see in the morning one of the most wretched prospects 
 of the year. Everything is dank and miserable ; on 
 the pond there is a thin coat of ice, broken and ragged 
 at the edges, and the water, where it is seen, has neither 
 brightness nor transparency ; the birds hover about 
 as if their wings were pasted ; on all the hedges the 
 fog is seen to have been congealed in black drops ; 
 and along the fences it lies in a dusky deposit which 
 shocks you because it is so unlike the usual white and 
 powdery rime. - 
 
 Our English poets may be trusted as to the 
 character and associations of fog. They know the 
 appearance, alas, but too well ! When we are to 
 ' sup full with horrors ' we begin with a fog. In 
 that elvish chorus with which our direst tragedy 
 opens the hags are heard singing — 
 
 Fair is foul, and foul is fair : 
 
 Hover through the fog and filthy air; 
 
 and when the Thane's wife, in the most terrible 
 speech ever put into the mouth of a woman, calls 
 upon the ' thick night ' to hide itself, we know that 
 she is thinking of a fog when she says — 
 
November. 260, 
 
 Pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, 
 That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, 
 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
 To cry ' Hold, hold ! ' 
 
 Milton, in Comus, speaks of ' black usurping mists' 
 
 that dam up the influence of moon and stars ; and in 
 
 the same poem he calls the fog ' bleak and unkindly.' 
 
 Shelley, as one might expect, seems to have felt 
 
 keenly the pressure of fog. In his ' Autumn : A 
 
 Dirge,' he calls on the winter months to follow the 
 
 dead year — 
 
 Come, months, come away ; 
 Put on white, black, and grey, 
 Let your light sisters play — 
 Ye, follow the bier 
 Of the dead cold year, 
 And make her grave green with tear on tear. 
 
 The ' white, black, and grey,' I take it, are the fogs 
 of winter. In ' A Vision of the Sea,' the same poet 
 depicts — 
 
 A lead-coloured fog gathered up from the deep, 
 Whose breath was quick pestilence ; 
 
 and again, in ' The Sensitive Plant,' we find the 
 following description of what we have recently suf- 
 fered — 
 
 Hour by hour, when the air was still, 
 The vapours arose which have strength to kill : 
 At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt, 
 At night they were darkness no star could melt. 
 
270 Country Pleasures. 
 
 John Clare gives us a homelier, but not less faithful 
 picture ; indeed, I do not know any poet who has 
 more truthfully rendered the dark and misty days of 
 November : — 
 
 The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon ; 
 And, if the sun looks through, 'tis with a face 
 Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon, 
 When done the journey of her nightly race, 
 Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place. 
 For days the shepherds in the fields may be, 
 Nor mark a patch of sky — blindfold they trace 
 The plains, that seem without a bush or tree, 
 
 Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see. 
 
 The owlet leaves her hiding place at noon, 
 
 And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light ; 
 The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon, 
 And small birds chirp and startle with affright ; 
 Much doth it scare the superstitious wight, 
 Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay ; 
 While cow-boys think the day a dream of night, 
 And oft grow fearful on their lonely way, 
 
 Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day. 
 
 To-day, a heavy wind rising in the north, the fog 
 was seen rolling up its tents and stealing rapidly 
 away across the fields like an evil thing affrighted by 
 the honest daylight. Once more the sky was visible; 
 once more, too, it was possible to pass with pleasure 
 along the garden-walks. There the circle of life 
 never ceases to move round, and I saw that, even 
 
November. 271 
 
 during the dark and cold days, many a new leaf had 
 been springing from the earth. Under the evergreen 
 bushes there are thousands of young foxglove plants 
 which at first sight you would take for some new 
 moss ; the brown twigs of the syringa have leaf- 
 buds on them ; the box and the fir are wonderfully 
 fresh and green ; and there is one small purple beech 
 which still furnishes a point of strong colour. 
 
 The last flowers in the garden were the marigolds 
 and the stocks ; that was at the beginning of the 
 month, and there are none left now. In the green- 
 house the geraniums and fuchsias still linger, and the 
 new flower is the chrysanthemum. In the vinery the 
 grapes are all gathered and the leaves have fallen. 
 When these last had been swept up and wheeled into 
 a corner I was amazed at their quantity. It is no 
 wonder that the vine should stand for us, as the 
 emblem of fruitful abundance by reason of its luxu- 
 riant leafage no less than of its grape clusters. 
 
272 Country Pleasures. 
 
 DECEMBER AND JANUARY. 
 
 As the wild air stirs and sways 
 
 The tree-swung cradle of a child, 
 So the breath of these rude days 
 
 Rocks the year : be calm and mild, 
 Trembling hours ; she will arise 
 
 With new love within her eyes. 
 
 January grey is here, 
 
 Like a sexton by her grave ; 
 February bears the bier, 
 
 March with grief doth howl and rave, 
 And April weeps — but, O ye hours ! 
 Follow with May's fairest flowers. 
 
 P. B. Shelley, A Dirge for the Year. 
 
 XLVIL— THE MOSS. 
 
 Moston : December 4. 
 
 These Notes have been taken, as the reader will 
 have seen, chiefly within the fences of my own garden, 
 where, indeed, I find variety enough and the pleasure 
 of constant change. I have also, in order to give some 
 idea of the neighbouring country, gone a little farther 
 afield and sketched the Glen and the Clough. Another 
 characteristic feature of the place is the Moss. In 
 ancient times the parish was probably divided 
 
December. 273 
 
 between open moss-land and thick woods of oak ; 
 from the former it took its name. In the first year of 
 the fourteenth century it is spoken of as a 'hamell,' 
 or hamlet of the manor of Manchester, and is on 
 some account exempted from the payment of certain 
 tribute to Thomas de Grelle, the lord of the manor. 
 The proper designation of that which we speak of 
 familiarly as ' The Moss ' is the ' Whytemosse.' It 
 is so called in a Survey taken in 1322. 
 
 To reach the Moss we go due north by sundry 
 devious lanes and field-paths. After we leave our 
 own homestead there are but few trees ; probably 
 most of them were cut down in the early part of 
 the present century. We get no rich landscape, 
 therefore; no deep pasture or umbrageous wood; and 
 no wealthy and well-ordered farms. Yet the country 
 is picturesque because it is broken. Even in its bare- 
 ness we find, as upon the mountain-side, that quality 
 which braces at once both mind and body. The 
 land is, in fact, like the hardy stock, now passing 
 away, but which for many centuries has lived upon 
 it — a rude, stern, sagacious race ; reserved, yet 
 full of mother -wit and overcharged with rough 
 humour. 
 
 We turn first by what we know as the Lily Lane. 
 On one side is a pond where I remember to have 
 
274 Country Pleasures. 
 
 seen the lilies growing, and where, when a boy, I 
 have many a time plunged into the water to capture 
 them. Within the last few days snipe have been 
 shot near this pond. Looking back we see that we 
 are upon high ground, for a great part of the city is 
 visible some three or four miles away. Standing here 
 we look south-west, and on a clear summer's evening 
 we have proof of what a glorious thing a great city 
 may become when the sun is sinking behind it. In 
 the early morning, before the smoke has risen, the 
 hills are visible all round from Holcolme to Kinder- 
 Scout and Odermann ; nor is the scene less attractive 
 to me if I steal out here after dark. Then I look 
 abroad over what is apparently a vast and trackless 
 waste, at the farther edge of which strange lights 
 glimmer and are reflected in the sky. 
 
 As we leave the lane and pass into the fields, we 
 catch a sight of Lightbowne Hall. It has been much 
 modernised ; but some of the old mullions remain, 
 and there is still untouched a fine room panelled in 
 oak from floor to ceiling. A local tradition relates 
 that when the young Pretender was making his re- 
 treat from Derby, one of his officers, being at Light- 
 bowne, was surprised. He attemptedto secrete himself 
 in the angle of a large chimney which formerly stood 
 by one of the gables. He was discovered, however, 
 
December. 275 
 
 by the Hanoverians and shot dead in his hiding- 
 place. 
 
 The path now winds through a few fields, usually 
 sown with grain, and comes out into an old road, by 
 which, if we were to follow it, we might reach the 
 moorland hills. 
 
 The Moss is now in front of us, and we are stand- 
 ing at Shackerley Green. Shackerley is a corruption 
 of Shacklock, that being the name of an ancient family 
 whose mansion was on the Green in the reign of 
 Henry VIII. At a very short distance are the halls 
 of Great and Little Nuthurst. At Nuthurst lived the 
 Chaddertons, the Chethams, and the Sandfords. One 
 of the Sandfords was Bishop of Lincoln in 1595. 
 The Green is the place where Moston used to disport 
 itself. Here in winter the great bonfires were made, 
 and in summer the Rushbearings were held. I have 
 often seen the tall Rush-cart, as it was called, swag- 
 gering along the rough-paven road preceded by its 
 band of Morrice-dancers. Bamford gives in his 
 Early Days the simple song which was usually sung 
 
 on these occasions : — 
 
 My new shoon they are so good, 
 I could dance Morris if I would ; 
 And if hat and sark be drest, 
 I will dance Morris with the best. 
 
 The Rush-cart festival is generally connected in Lan- 
 
 T 2 • 
 
276 Country Pleasures. 
 
 cashire with the Dedication of the Parish Church ; 
 and had its origin, no doubt, in the practice of strew- 
 ing the floor of the sacred edifice with new rushes for 
 the winter ; but in other counties the ceremony seems 
 to have accompanied the Harvest Home, the cart 
 being crowned with sheaves of corn instead of with 
 rushes. Allowing for this difference, Herrick's descrip- 
 tion of the Hock-cart would answer for our ceremony 
 of Rushbearing : — 
 
 Crown'd with the eares of come, now come, 
 
 And, to the pipe, sing harvest home. 
 
 Come forth, my lord, and see the cart 
 
 Drest up with all the country art. 
 
 See, here a maukin, there a sheet, 
 
 As spotless pure as it is sweet ; 
 
 The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, 
 
 Clad all in linen white as lilies. 
 
 The harvest swaines and wenches bound 
 
 For joy, to see the hock-cart crown'd. 
 
 Considering how near we are to a great town the 
 country hereabouts is curiously primitive and secluded. 
 The scattered farms are mostly small. Each of them 
 will be found to have about four acres of land attached 
 to it, an ancient law forbidding a house to be erected 
 on a smaller plot of ground unless it was intended 
 for the cote or cottage of a forester, a herdsman, or a 
 miner. The buildings also very closely resemble 
 each other, including in nearly every case, a farmstead 
 
December. 277 
 
 and a loom-house? The meaning of this is that in 
 winter, when rural occupations were not pressing, 
 the long nights were occupied in the spinning and 
 weaving of wool. 
 
 The loneliness and isolation of the district, result- 
 ing from its being far removed from any frequented 
 highroad, have made it quite a stronghold of ancient 
 customs and superstitions. Every lane and dingle 
 and brookside had its own particular ghost or boggart. 
 Phantom huntsmen were seen in the fields at twilight ; 
 and anyone who would rise early enough might find 
 the fairy-rings on the grass. I knew an old man of 
 over eighty who durst not go alone after dark over a 
 certain bridge, because he believed that underneath 
 its arch a whole company of water-sprites lurked 
 together. In the neighbouring Clough a strange bog- 
 gart known as Nut-Nan flitted with a shrill scream 
 among the hazel bushes ; and every little pond and 
 marl-pit was haunted by a spirit vaguely called ' Pit 
 mother,' which hid itself in the sedges and drew into 
 the water little children as they passed by. The 
 following prayer is still extant in the locality, and 
 until quite recently it was actually used every night 
 by an old crone before she retired to rest. The 
 dialect of the prayer is that which is common in the 
 district — 
 
278 Country Pleasures. 
 
 Fro' o' mak o' witches an' wizarts an' weasel-skins, 
 An' o' mak o' feaw black things 'ut creepen up deytches 
 Wi' great lung tails — may the Lord deliver us ! 
 
 A hundred years ago a woman living in a cottage 
 on the edge of the Moss being angry with her son, 
 who was idle and asleep at his loom, struck him so 
 violent a blow in her anger that he never woke, but 
 slipped from his seat dead on to the floor of the loom- 
 house. Seeing what she had done, the poor mother 
 went out and drowned herself in an adjoining pond. 
 Her ghost, of course, became the terror of the hamlet. 
 If the lights burned blue, ' Old Bess ' was breathing 
 on them ; if the rain streamed on the leaded windows, 
 she was bringing water from the pond ; and if the 
 doors rattled, poor Bess wanted shelter. At length a 
 parson was brought to lay the perturbed spirit : and 
 he did it using a formula which indicated that the 
 spell should last for so long as a certain holly by the 
 edge of the pond should remain green. Two years 
 ago the old holly had entirely withered, and people 
 are now to be found who believe that Bess is abroad 
 once more. 
 
 Besides these terrible spirits there are the harmless 
 fairies, or 'little men' as they are familiarly called. 
 Of these there is a pleasant story current, and 
 implicitly believed. A man, who was ploughing at 
 
December. 279, 
 
 nightfall, thought he saw something strange at the 
 end of one of his furrows. He stopped his horses, and 
 beheld three little men, dressed in green and wearing 
 cock's feathers in their hats, dancing on the loam. 
 Upon this he hid himself, and then the green men 
 brought out a small bake-spittle—a. wooden shovel for 
 turning cakes in the oven — and laying it on the ground 
 went away. When the ploughman approached he 
 found it was broken ; whereupon he mended it with 
 some nails he had in his pocket, and then went on 
 with his ploughing. When he came to the end of 
 another furrow he found the spittle had gone, and 
 in its place was a tiny vessel no bigger than a lady's 
 thimble. Although so small it was shaped and 
 coloured exactly like the brown earthenware jug out 
 of which the ploughman usually drank his ale, and 
 the foam was curling over the edge as if it had been 
 freshly drawn from some fairy barrel. He took it up 
 and drank ; and lo ! it lasted as long as if it had 
 been a good gallon or more. He had tasted the 
 fairy-brewing, and ever afterwards no man could equal 
 him in ploughing, and all his life he prospered. 
 
 That part of the Moss which we have now reached 
 is still unreclaimed, and we walk by the edge of deep 
 trenches, and past big stacks of black peat. The wind 
 is like that which blows from off the sea ; and, as the 
 
280 Country Pleasures. 
 
 night is coming on, the distance might easily be mis- 
 taken for a waste of waters. The frequent cry of the 
 lapwing and a light moving up and down, as in a boat, 
 help the illusion. Now, in the winter, and at dusk, it 
 is a wild and lonely scene, and we hasten towards the 
 more frequented road. In the spring, however, no 
 place is more cheerful, for then one can hear more 
 larks singing and soaring at one time than can be 
 heard almost anywhere else ; and in summer, when 
 the hay harvest is just over, we are accustomed to get 
 much pleasant festivity of the rural sort at an old farm 
 which lies near to where a stream flows off the Moss 
 and down into that haunted Clough, of which I have 
 written before. 
 
 XLVIII.— WINTER IN THE LAKE-COUNTRY. 
 
 December 10. 
 
 In the beginning of March I gave some notes of a 
 short sojourn which we were able to make in a country 
 house among the mountains of Westmoreland. It was 
 then the season of very early spring ; and, being accus- 
 tomed to the Lake-Country only in the autumn, it was 
 a great pleasure to see it for once in its vernal dress ; 
 nor has it been less interesting to visit the same scene 
 once more and to seek acquaintance with another 
 unfamiliar aspect — that of mid-winter. 
 
December. 281 
 
 I need not again describe the old house in which 
 we found ourselves after a day's travel; but when we 
 had looked at our comfortable chambers, in which, 
 by somebody's kindly thoughtfulness, there were 
 cheerful fires burning, and had come down to 
 dinner — an old-fashioned dinner in an old-fashioned 
 room — we could not but consider ourselves wonder- 
 fully fortunate in having again found quarters in such 
 a delightful mansion. It was not only that the room 
 itself looked like a home — warm, and on every hand 
 suggestive of comfort, softly lighted by a lamp and 
 by candles which glimmered in their quaint silver 
 sticks and threw a flickering light on the ancient 
 pictures which grace the walls — but there was the 
 feeling of where this room was ; and of what we 
 knew to be outside those closed shutters — a scene 
 which is among the loveliest in England, a great 
 mountain, a deep and still lake, the woods, the fells, 
 the garden with its banks of laurel, the sheepfold 
 and the farmstead, and all this under a brilliant 
 moon, and far removed from any town — nay, even 
 miles away from the neighbourhood of either hamlet 
 or village. 
 
 As we sat round the fire, far on into the night, we 
 talked of how by one conveyance or another, and by 
 the help of our own good legs, we had at length 
 
282 Country Pleasures. 
 
 brought ourselves to where we were. In the morning, 
 at Moston, there was only a slight frost, but it was of 
 that black and dry kind which usually lasts, and we 
 were encouraged to start upon our journey. Once 
 outside the veil of smoke which surrounds our great 
 city, we began to see what a glorious day we were to 
 have. We talk of winter being cheerless; why, the 
 sun was more dazzlingly bright than we remembered 
 to have seen it all through the summer. The sky by 
 this time had put on a stainless blue ; and as the 
 train darted through the copses and past the little 
 orchard plots, we could see how beautifully the tree- 
 stems were covered with pure green moss. At More- 
 cambe we came in sight of the sea. The tide was 
 rippling across the bay, and flocks of sheep were 
 cropping the turf on the shore. We looked again 
 and again at the colour of the sky and of the water, 
 and after much careful comparison and discussion we 
 came to the conclusion that, sitting out of the wind, 
 not feeling the cold therefore, and judging by the eye 
 alone, it would be impossible to say that the prospect 
 before us was not that of summer. Turning inland, 
 however, I should add that winter — the beauty of 
 winter — was visible. The nearer hills along the 
 romantic valley of the Kent had their belts of green 
 holly and their russet patches of fallen bracken ; but 
 
December. 283 
 
 the higher and more distant mountains tcour great 
 delight were seen to be wearing their grey capes of 
 snow — grey, not white, be it observed. This was 
 what we had come to see, and therefore we were 
 already satisfied. At Grange-in-Cartmel we found 
 the people skating on the shallow flats by the shore ; 
 and although it was but a little past noon, the sun 
 was already getting low and the look of the west 
 across the Bay was singularly like that of evening. 
 At Newby Bridge — surely one of the sweetest places 
 in the land, and endeared to us by many pleasant 
 recollections —we all concurred in the opinion that 
 the tints of the landscape were those that were known 
 to us as autumnal. The brown leaves were still hang- 
 ing thickly on the beeches, the hills were red with 
 ferns, and that river-like strip of water, which is the 
 beginning of Windermere, could never have been 
 brighter or more blue. 
 
 At what is called Lake-side we took the steamer, 
 and began our voyage of ten or eleven miles. As we 
 pace the clean little deck we say to each other, ' How 
 unlike this is to all our usual ideas of winter ! ' The 
 sunlight was so strong that where the rays fell on the 
 Lake there was a line too brilliant to be looked at ; 
 and on each side of the boat the spray from the 
 paddle-wheels made continuous rainbows. After we 
 
284 Country Pleasures. 
 
 pass Bowness and come into the higher and most 
 northern reach of the Lake, a fierce wind sweeps 
 down from the hills and the cold becomes intense. 
 Everybody takes refuge now in the cabin except our- 
 selves and a hardy-looking Westmoreland girl, who 
 carries in her hand a bunch of flowers which rival 
 in colour the healthy posy of her own face. As we 
 come near to Waterhead, the waves are big, though 
 blue ; and the crests of them are caught by the gust 
 and blown over the boat. In the west we see the ' 
 Coniston Old Man, a clear and knife-like ridge ; in 
 front we make out Bowfell and the familiar forms of 
 the Langdale Pikes ; and a little to the right there 
 are the long steps of High Street and the round 
 summit of Fairfield. All these loftier hills are 
 whitened at the top, Fairfield in this respect being 
 especially beautiful, the snow fading softly away at 
 the edge of the basin under the peak and mingling 
 gradually with the red and green on the lower part of 
 the mountain. Loughrigg and Wansfell are quite 
 free from snow, and the latter is remarkably verdant. 
 As we passed through Ambleside we noticed that 
 the place retained its cheerful appearance though 
 there was none of the usual autumnal bustle. After 
 looking at the ' Salutation Inn ' for the sake of old times 
 we pushed rapidly forward. In the fading light 
 
December. 285 
 
 Rydal Mere looked beautiful as ever. Some of the 
 bays were already frozen over, and along the margin 
 we noticed many tall flowered reeds, which waved 
 gracefully in the wind, and reminded us of the well- 
 known lines about the Osmunda : — 
 
 Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 
 On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side 
 Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, 
 Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. 
 
 When we reached Grasmere it was a little after 
 
 three o'clock, and the sun had already fallen behind 
 
 the hills. " The crimson flush of sunset still lingered 
 
 on the snow-clad summits, but the bases of the 
 
 mountains were in deep shadow. As we walked 
 
 merrily along the hard and frozen roads, and heard 
 
 the sharp sound of our footsteps echoing among the 
 
 hills, we naturally recalled, that inimitable sketch of 
 
 Winter in the Lake-Country which occurs in the 
 
 ' Prelude ' : — 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 Was set, and visible for many a mile 
 The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, 
 I heeded not their summons : happy time 
 It was indeed for all of us — for me 
 It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
 The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about, 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 That cares not for his home. . . . 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew 
 
286 Country Pleasures. 
 
 And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 
 Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 The twilight is deepening as we climb the ascent 
 
 of Dunmail Raise, and at five o'clock we see the 
 
 moon rise over the shoulder of Helvellyn and silver 
 
 the farther bank of Thirlmere. And so we come at 
 
 last into that quiet and delightful refuge which has 
 
 already been introduced to the reader, and where we 
 
 slept : — 
 
 Lulled by sound 
 Of far-off torrents charming the still night ; 
 And to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts 
 Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 
 
 XLIX.— WINTER IN THE LAKE-COUNTRY 
 (continued). 
 
 December 17. 
 
 In the poems of Wordsworth there are not, besides 
 the one already quoted, many conspicuous pictures 
 of Winter. The dedication 6f the Duddon Sonnets 
 to his brother furnishes one which has become 
 
December. 287 
 
 classical, and which is also characteristic of the Lake- 
 Country. These are the two first stanzas : — 
 
 The Minstrels played their Christmas tune 
 To-night beneath my cottage-eaves ; 
 While, smitten by a lofty moon, 
 The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
 Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 
 That overpowered their natural gree/i. 
 
 Through hill and valley every breeze 
 
 Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 
 
 Keen was the air, but could not freeze 
 
 Nor check the music of the strings ; 
 
 So stout and hardy were the band 
 
 That scraped the chords with strenuous hand ! 
 
 During our stay at Thirlmere I often thought of 
 these lines, for we had the ' lofty moon ' each night, 
 and the 'encircling laurels' looking as white as if they, 
 like the hills behind them, had been covered with 
 snow. In the same poem there is the following : — 
 
 How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 
 Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, 
 To hear — and sink again to sleep I 
 Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 
 By blazing fire, the still suspense 
 Of self-complacent innocence. 
 
 ' Snow-muffled winds ' has often seemed to me a 
 singular expression ; but knowing how careful an 
 observer of nature Wordsworth was, and how much 
 he had of that sympathetic insight which is almost 
 
Country Pleasures. 
 
 unerring, I felt sure that he had good reason for using 
 the phrase. I was therefore not surprised to hear, as 
 I walked after sunset on the terrace in front of the 
 house, a strange and unusual sound made by the wind 
 as it came down to me across the snow-covered breast 
 of Helvellyn. It was indeed just what the poet says 
 — ' muffled,' an ' eerie sough,' a subdued sob, the 
 undertone of a covered string. 
 
 If, however, we have not in Wordsworth's poetry 
 so frequent a presentation of Winter as we might 
 expect, there is one passage by him in prose which 
 makes an ample recompense. It appears in that 
 Description of the Country of the Lakes in the North 
 of England which, though published so early as 1810, 
 is superior to anything which has been written on the 
 same subject. As it was this particular passage — 
 known and pondered upon for many years — which 
 sent us to the Lake-Country at this unusual season, 
 and as it is at once excellent in expression and deli- 
 cately true, the reader will pardon a somewhat copious 
 extract : — ' Those who have studied the appearances 
 of nature, feel that the superiority, in point of visual 
 interest, of mountainous over other countries — is more 
 strikingly displayed in winter than in summer. This, 
 as must be obvious, is partly owing to the forms of 
 the mountains, which, of course, are not affected by 
 
December. 289 
 
 the seasons; but also, in no small degree, to the greater 
 variety that exists in their winter than their summer 
 colouring. This variety is such, and so harmoniously 
 preserved, that it leaves little cause of regret, when the 
 splendour of autumn is passed away. The oak- 
 coppices upon the sides of the mountains retain rus- 
 set leaves, the birch stands conspicuous with its silver 
 stem and puce-coloured twigs ; the hollies, with green 
 leaves and scarlet berries, have come forth to view from 
 among the deciduous trees, whose summer foliage had 
 concealed them ; the ivy is now plentifully apparent 
 upon the stems and boughs of the trees, and among the 
 woody rocks. In place of the uniform summer-green 
 of the herbage and fern, many rich colours play into 
 each other over the surface of the mountains ; turf (the 
 tints of which are interchangeably tawny-green, olive, 
 and brown), beds of withered fern, and grey rocks being 
 harmoniously blended together. The mosses and 
 lichens are never so fresh and flourishing as in winter, 
 if it be not a season of frost ; and their minute 
 beauties prodigally adorn the foreground. Wherever 
 we turn, we find these productions of nature, to which 
 winter is rather favourable than unkindly, scattered 
 over the walls, banks of earth, rocks, and stones, and 
 upon the trunks of trees with the intermixture of 
 several species of small fern, now green and fresh ; 
 
290 Country Pleasures. 
 
 and, to the observing passenger, their forms and 
 colours are a source of inexhaustible admiration. 
 Add to this the hoar-frost and snow, with all the 
 varieties they create and which volumes would not be 
 sufficient to describe.' Now all this is just what we 
 have been witnessing ; not a single detail is exagger- 
 ated; it is simply a faithful picture of what the Lake 
 Country is on those days of winter which are no' 
 deformed by mist or rain. 
 
 Besides the unexpected splendour and harmom 
 of colour which one finds, there are other thing! 
 which should be noted, as making it worth while t( 
 brave the cold of the mountains at this time. Tht 
 air is clearer and more exhilarating than in thi 
 autumn ; it is possible to travel much farther withou 
 fatigue ; the frequent and troublesome tracts o 
 marshy land on the fell-tops are now frozen hard 
 and may be crossed without apprehension ; the view 
 are more detailed, as well as more extensive ; and 
 although it is true the days are short, yet by break 
 fasting early and dining late you may have all th 
 daylight in the open air, and find the time Ion 
 enough for a walk which will sufficiently exhaus 
 your power of endurance. And if, as in our case, i 
 be the time of the full moon, you may, in the valley 
 at least, take long excursions after dark. 
 
December. 29.1 
 
 As Thirlmere runs pretty nearly from south to 
 north, it follows that either bank catches respectively 
 the rising or the setting lights. Helvellyn on the 
 eastern side is illuminated in the evening ; Armboth 
 Fell, which is on the west, is silvered by the rising 
 moon, and reddened by the sun in the morning. 
 This latter aspect was very striking. At nine o'clock, 
 the sun being invisible to us, we saw the precipitous 
 Fell become gradually ensanguined ; the ground, 
 the rocks, the fir-plantations and the faded ferns were 
 all subdued, rather, I should say, were all heightened 
 to one brilliant tone. After clearing the frost-tracery 
 from the windows, we could see all this from within ; 
 and when we came outside we could discern also 
 that fresh snow had fallen on the hill-tops during the 
 night, that the sky was clearing itself of cloud, and 
 that towards Keswick especially it was already of a 
 light and eager blue. We decided, therefore, to start 
 at once for the hills. It was a cherished wish that 
 we should, if possible, penetrate, even in this wintry 
 time, into one of those lesser valleys, more remote 
 still, and more primitive than that in which we al- 
 ready were. We wished to see what kind of solitary 
 life was led by the people in these places during the 
 months of winter ; and we chose Watendlath as best 
 suited to our purpose. 
 
 U2 
 
292 Country Pleasures. 
 
 We start from Armboth Hall, and note, as part of 
 our winter-picture, that a climbing rose is still bloom- 
 ing freely on the trellised wall of the house. The 
 Fell is close behind ; and, just at this point, it is 
 broken by a ravine along which there is a practicable 
 path. You pass first through a little wood. The* 
 stream, though half-frozen, is still chattering among 
 the big boulders. There is no lack of beautiful colour, 
 for there are many tall green firs, and the hollies are 
 both numerous and large. Even the leafless trees 
 are attractive, for their bark is either white and clean 
 or covered with tender moss ; and at the bottom, 
 near the water, there is a mountain-ash still bravely 
 adorned with scarlet berries. We have no need to 
 hurry, and so we linger long in the wood, looking 
 often backward to the blue lake which is seen now 
 through the tree-stems. 
 
 When we emerge from the wood we keep to the 
 south bank of the stream. It is stiff climbing now, 
 and we often pause to look round at the prospect. 
 We find it a perfect paradise of what the painters 
 call low tones — tones softened, subdued, melting into 
 each other, and always in unbroken harmony. The 
 bracken is dead, but the hard-fern is yet unfaded and 
 all the mosses and lichens are green and grey on the 
 rocks ; the rocks themselves being also green and 
 
December. 293 
 
 grey, but in endless variety of shade. Near the top 
 we notice the fine stag's-horn moss and the juniper 
 with its blue berries. Away in the north is Blen- 
 cathra, one of the most striking mountain-masses in 
 the district — a range of sharp buttresses covered 
 about half-way down 'with deep and unbroken snow, 
 the lower portion being tinged with a warm brown. 
 The higher we ascend the more keen is the frost. 
 - The streams are all sealed up and silent now ; but 
 under the clear ice — so clear that although it is many 
 inches thick it looks like water — we can see the 
 little leaves and the blades of grass quite fresh and 
 green. 
 
 On the top of the Fell the snow begins to thicken, 
 and there are great frozen banks of it in the hollows 
 and under the peat-cuttings. The path disappears ; 
 but we make for a cairn of stones in the centre of the 
 waste, and then cast about for Watendlath. To the 
 south are the desolate hills which rise above Easdale ; 
 north is a strip of Basenthwaite Lake and the peak 
 of Skiddaw ; and in the west the grand ranges of 
 Borrowdale; but there is no sign of a human dwelling 
 such as we expected to make out when we reached 
 the summit. At length we discover a path rising up 
 a steep hill far away in front of us, and we conclude 
 that, although Watendlath is invisible, this track 
 
294 Country Pleasures. 
 
 must indicate its neighbourhood. Taking it for a 
 mark, we strike towards it across the pathless moor- 
 land. In a little while we meet a shepherd, and he 
 tells us that we are going in the right direction ; 
 Watendlath, still unseen, is under the brow of the 
 steep Fell which we are now crossing, and the path 
 we see is that which rises from it and leads over into 
 Rosthwaite. If we hold straight on and go down by 
 a ' fir planting,' as he calls it, we shall drop into the 
 hamlet we are in search of. This shepherd is a fine 
 fellow, tall and lithe, and characteristic of the country ; 
 clear and healthy both in mind and body — a man 
 without disguises. He is going with his dog to 
 Wythburn to bring back two strayed sheep of which 
 he has heard. It is a long way, truly; and it will be 
 deep night before he regains his home ; but he sees 
 no sign of storm and there will be plenty of moon- 
 light, and he knows all the way. As we watch this 
 good shepherd disappear across the mountain, bent 
 upon his long journey thither and back, is it unnatural 
 that we should fall to thinking of that Good Shep- 
 herd — the great seeker of the lost, whose words have 
 comforted and will comfort humanity in every age ? 
 ' How little changed,' we said, ' are the universal 
 sources of imagery ; and how enduring the few simple 
 facts which lie at the root of man's spiritual nature ! ' 
 
December. 295 
 
 The descent into Watendlath is very steep and 
 slippery, and more than once our feet are taken from 
 under us. What a wild and lonely place it is — hidden 
 away in its own narrow gorge between the larger 
 vales of Thirlmere and Borrowdale ! There it is — four 
 solitary farms, and no more ; two clumps of gaunt 
 firs ; a score or two of pollard willows, and a small 
 frozen tarn. On no side is there access or departure 
 except by stiff climbing. 
 
 In one of the farms we find an unaffected welcome 
 and honest fare— bread and butter, oaten cake, milk 
 and cheese. Our hostess, we discover, is the wife of 
 the shepherd whom we met on the Fell. A visitor 
 in winter is a rare thing, and she is glad to talk with 
 us freely as we sit round the comfortable fire. They 
 have seven hundred sheep on their farm ; the sheep 
 are let with the land and when their lease expires 
 they must deliver up the same number to the land- 
 lord. If there is improvement or deterioration in the 
 stock there will be compensation paid or demanded 
 accordingly. Their sheep feed on the Watendlath 
 side of the Fell, and go up to where the water falls. 
 Other flocks are on the Armboth side. ' How,' we 
 ask, ' can they know their own sheep ? ' ' They are 
 all marked,' she says', ' each farm has its own mark, 
 and these are registered in what is called a Shepherd's 
 
296 Country Pleasures. 
 
 book.' Their mark is, first, a peculiar cut on the ear 
 called ' spoon-shank,' and next the ' smit,' of red colour 
 on the wool, one daub being put upon a wether and 
 two on the ' gimmer' sheep, or ewes. While we are 
 talking a lame old man totters into the house. He 
 will have been in Watendlath sixty years come next 
 Lady-day. He is the politician and reading-man of 
 the little community. He has two sons in America. 
 Many people send him newspapers, and he reads all 
 day and can see without 'glasses.' The shepherd's 
 wife evidently regards his great learning partly with 
 admiration, partly with amusement. She knows 
 nothing of politics — she leaves all that to John Green. 
 We might have spent hours in the pleasant farm- 
 kitchen, but we knew how soon the night would fall, 
 and must needs be gone. When we are half-way up 
 the Fell-side on our return, it is a little after two 
 o'clock, and already the light of evening is in the air. 
 It seems as if all the hamlet is out sliding on the 
 blue tarn. We can hear the cocks crowing, and the 
 voices of women and children, and even the plough- 
 boy's shoon grinding on the ice. The shepherd's wife, 
 though a staid matron, is sliding too ; we know her 
 by her red kerchief and can hear her shrill scream 
 and the laughter of the children when she falls full 
 length on the slide. It is an idyllic picture, and we 
 
December. 297 
 
 are sorry to leave it ; but on the open Fell, when we 
 
 are once more away from all human neighbourhood, 
 
 we get the grandest spectacle of all our journey. The 
 
 sun is setting now, and the crimson light is streaming 
 
 into Borrowdale, and, as it seems, from many points 
 
 of the sky at the same time. On some hills the 
 
 snow is flushed with rose ; on others it is a cold and 
 
 spectral blue ; while in the east the colour is that of 
 
 brilliant silver, white but glistening; and below, in 
 
 the deep valleys where the snow is not lying, and 
 
 where the dark has already fallen, the tone is brown, 
 
 purple, even black. No words can convey the large 
 
 and awful beauty of such a scene. The feeling only 
 
 can be given ; and even that so inadequately in any 
 
 language of mine that I fall back instinctively on 
 
 those memorable lines in the First Book of The 
 
 Excursion, which certainly express, better than any 
 
 other words have yet been able to do, the relation 
 
 which Nature bears to the soul in the hour of supreme 
 
 contact : — 
 
 Sound needed none, 
 Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle : . . 
 
 Thought was not : in enjoyment it expired. 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ; 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power 
 That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 
 
298 Country Pleasures. 
 
 L.—AN OLD-FASHIONED WINTER. 
 
 December 24. 
 
 In the middle of November I recorded a storm of 
 snow — the first heavy fall of the present winter. 
 After that we had fog and intermittent frost — sharp 
 frost at night and thaw in the day, often accompanied 
 by rain. To those, however, who were carefully 
 watching the weather-signs it was clear that Winter 
 in his most savage mood was gradually approaching 
 and drawing his lines so closely around us that we 
 should soon find ourselves in a state of siege. 
 
 On the first day of December there was no frost, 
 and the sun rose brightly in a crimson sky; but, 
 almost immediately, a violent wind sprang up in the 
 north-west and dashed a whole hemisphere of clouds 
 into his face. A few gleams of light followed, but 
 the sun was beaten ; and since then we have had frost 
 every day. Gradually the pond began to be covered 
 with ice ; but the geese were still able with wing and 
 foot to break it in a morning. On the night of the 
 third, when there was clear moonlight, I watched the 
 ducks paddling about their wooden house while the 
 ice could be seen forming slowly round them. The 
 next morning two large Muscovy ducks were able to 
 walk across; but the ice bent under their heavy tread, 
 
December. 299 
 
 and made a sound which was singularly like the 
 whistling of a bird. On the sixth, one of my boys, 
 over-anxious to begin skating, ventured a little way 
 from the edge, but it was not safe, and he was 
 peremptorily withdrawn. It was not until the tenth 
 that our pond, which is large, had got beyond sus- 
 picion. The thermometer was then marking, during 
 the night, about fifteen degrees of frost ; and the 
 long-coveted opportunity had come at last. Straps 
 were buckled on, and the characteristic sport of winter 
 began in good earnest :— 
 
 All shod with steel, 
 We hissed along the polished ice in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
 The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
 
 Or as the earlier poet puts it, swept — 
 
 On sounding skates, a thousand different ways, 
 In circling poise, swift as the winds, along. 
 
 This skating, night after night, was a pleasant 
 thing even for those elders who were but spectators, 
 or who at best could only follow the flying couples in 
 a laggard and halting fashion. At the edge of the 
 pond is the Winter-house, where we had a great fire, 
 and into which we could retreat for warmth or re- 
 freshment. Besides this we had a fire in a cresset on 
 the bank, and candles placed at intervals, so that, as 
 
300 Country Pleasures. 
 
 the skaters swirled about, cutting their mysterious 
 figures — their ' double eights,' and ' threes,' and ' sixes,' 
 the ' outside edge,' and the ' Dutch roll,' — all sorts of 
 grotesque shadows were projected across the ice. 
 Then, later on, the moon would rise, putting out the 
 twinkling candles and making a dull line of light 
 along the pond. 
 
 A still lower degree of temperature was reached 
 in the early morning of the fourteenth, when there 
 were twenty-two degrees of frost. On that day there 
 was also a dense white mist, which increased the cold, 
 and made a walk in the open air very like a bath in 
 freezing water. The icicles on the windows were two 
 feet long, and the trees were so thickly coated with 
 rime that adjacent buildings were, I observed, just as 
 much hidden as they are by the leaves in early sum- 
 mer. This was, naturally enough, the prelude to a 
 heavy fall of snow which began on the fifteenth. The 
 immediate effect was a scene of unique beauty in the 
 wood. All the tree-trunks were covered with a thin 
 veil of frozen mist, which made them grey in colour, 
 and which in a curious manner revealed — or one might 
 say intensified — all the texture and tracery of the 
 bark,- bringing out each accidental contortion of 
 growth as well as the symmetrical rings, for instance, 
 which surround the place where the branch starts 
 
December. 301 
 
 from the bole. And then, on the top of this, and 
 resting on every irregularity or projection, came the 
 new-fallen snow, a perfect white, harmonising won- 
 derfully with the grey. This effect, which was quite 
 distinct from thai of ordinary rime, and which I 
 have never seen either painted or described, was 
 most conspicuous on the smooth and fluted limbs of 
 the beeches. 
 
 Since the fifteenth the snow has continued falling 
 from time to time, and in the country has not melted 
 at all. It is now from seven to twelve inches deep 
 in the garden ; and, having been frozen again and 
 again, it crunches under foot with a shrill treble 
 sound. The boys have been in great force ; to them 
 the sight of snow is an intoxicant, and they are 
 always dashing out and into it for reasons known 
 only to themselves. Of course we have had great 
 snowballs and snow-men and snow-forts. 
 
 To see the snow at its best, however, one must 
 leave the garden and travel as far as The Moss ; and 
 the best time to see it is in the early afternoon. It 
 is not without difficulty that we make our way along 
 the narrow lanes, for in some places they are almost 
 blocked with drift. Here on a farm-yard pond, from 
 which the snow has been swept, are some score of 
 rustics skating. Although their movements are not 
 
302 Country Pleasures. 
 
 what would be called graceful, their style shows a 
 dash and a vigour which would be wanting in a more 
 polished performance. How strange and wild the vast 
 waste of snow looks as we move along always in a 
 bounding circle of mist ! There is certainly some- 
 thing fascinating even in its monotony, and in its 
 apparent endlessness, as the fog falls back and one 
 reach after another comes into sight. The marl-pits 
 are only distinguishable now by the few tufts of 
 rushes which show here and there above the surface 
 of the snow-covered ice. Though the sky is enve- 
 loped in thick cloud, we know that the sun is setting. 
 In the north-east the scattered farms and the clumps 
 of trees are grey with a tinge of blue ; but in the 
 south-west they are grey with a- tinge of yellow, and 
 that is all that we shall see of the sunset. At our feet, 
 and immediately around us, everything is intensely 
 black and intensely white ; so much so that we are 
 startled, and turn with relief to the softer distance. 
 It will soon be dark now, and the boys propose that 
 we should scramble home by the Clough. Here 
 the snow is twelve inches deep on the level ; in the 
 hollows it is much deeper ; and, as we cannot always 
 see where the hollows are, we are often more than 
 knee-deep. It is fine exercise, however, and a 
 pleasant pastime, even though, once or twice, we 
 
December. 303 
 
 come down ingloriously at full length, and get the 
 cold and powdery snow up our sleeve or behind the 
 shirt-collar. Coming at last across the fields near 
 home, we find that the lights already glimmering in 
 the windows are not unneedful as a guide to lead us 
 in the right direction. 
 
 In July, I was writing of 'Tropical Summer'; 
 surely this may be called an Arctic Winter. We 
 were then creeping under the trees for shade, with a 
 thermometer marking 113 degrees at half-past five in 
 the evening ; now we are freezing indoors ; milk is 
 congealed into a hard mass; water served at table has 
 lumps of ice in it ; and eggs when stripped of their 
 shells are found to be so frozen that they can be 
 rolled about like stones. The lowest temperature, so 
 far, was reached last night, when the thermometer fell 
 to 5 above zero, that being 27 degrees of frost. The 
 day has also been almost entirely dark — dark even at 
 noon — and the sensation of cold was much intensified 
 by fog. We do not remember to have ever seen a 
 morning which realised for us so vividly that dreary 
 and death-like gloom which we associate with those 
 regions where the reign of Winter is never broken. 
 As we walked along the dark and frozen alleys of the 
 garden we found ourselves, under the influence of 
 certain old associations, crooning over that fine song 
 
304 Country Pleasures. 
 
 of poor Tannahill's— ' The Braes of Gleniffer.' The 
 minstrels of Scotland, even if we include Burns, have 
 rarely done anything better : — 
 
 Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, 
 
 The auld castle's turrets are covered wi' snaw; 
 How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover, 
 
 Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw : 
 The wild flowers o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie, 
 
 The mavis sung sweet frae the green birken tree ; 
 But far to the camp they ha'e marched my dear Johnnie, 
 
 And now it is winter wi' nature and me. 
 
 Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheerie, 
 
 Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw ; 
 Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, 
 
 And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. 
 The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie ; 
 
 They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, 
 And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie ; 
 
 'Tis winter wi' them and 'tis winter wi' me. 
 
 Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, 
 
 And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae, 
 While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, 
 
 That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. 
 'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', 
 
 'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e, 
 For, oh, gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan, 
 
 The dark days o' winter were simmer to me ! 
 
 And yet, even in these dark days of winter, there 
 is beauty to be found if only we look for it. When I 
 shook the snow off our yellow-jasmine I found the buds 
 growing underneath ; and my friend the Painter has 
 
December. 305 
 
 just brought in, for me to look at, two sketches made 
 in a garden close by, and during this inclement 
 weather. One is a brown spray of willow on which 
 are the swelling purple buds which mean foliage next 
 spring ; the other is a delicate sprig from a rose-tree, 
 and shows, still hanging, two bright scarlet hips. 
 The first is a prophecy, the second is a reminiscence ; 
 and both are lovely bits of colour discovered amid 
 the sterility of winter. 
 
 The poor birds are having an evil time of it ; but 
 we are doing all we can to help them. We have 
 established ce'rtain feeding-places by the windows of 
 the house, and in remote parts of the garden, to 
 which they come regularly in great numbers. Around 
 one of these crumb-pots there are hundreds of little 
 footmarks in the snow : they are chiefly those of 
 sparrows and robins; but- the larger birds come also. 
 Rooks and larks and blackbirds have been frequently 
 seen eating with the smaller creatures. True to his 
 character, the robin has ventured indoors : we have 
 found him even in a bedroom. 
 
 There have been other mouths, however, to fill 
 besides those of the birds. Here, in Moston, as else- 
 where, we have found many cold hearths and empty 
 cupboards. The children have claimed our first atten- 
 tion, and their wants have been ministered to by the 
 
306 Country Pleasures. 
 
 same little hands which have helped me to feed the 
 starving birds. The other day, as two small boys, 
 hungry and frozen, were being thawed and fed before 
 the kitchen fire, they were overheard saying to each 
 other as they looked wistfully at the great blaze 
 which was just then roaring up the chimney — ' If we 
 had only a fire like that ! ' 
 
 ' And what sort of fire, then, is it that you have ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, we have none at all. We did scrape some 
 
 coals together and made one this morning, but it 
 
 went out at ten o'clock, and mother had no more 
 
 coal and no more money.' 
 
 And all this was but the literal truth, and only a 
 slight indication of much that was behind it, and of 
 what was going on during this fearful weather in scores 
 of poor cottage-homes. Many, however, were ready 
 to help ; and thoughtful men have thankfully acknow- 
 ledged that one of the compensations of the time has 
 consisted in the fact that an old-fashioned winter has 
 brought forth a plentiful manifestation of old-fashioned 
 charity. 
 
 LI.— CHRIST MA S-E VB. 
 
 Moston : December 30. 
 
 Although Christmas-Eve was probably the darkest 
 and coldest day that had been known for twenty 
 
December. 307 
 
 years, we were not to be debarred from our usual 
 festivity indoors. Indeed, the frost and gloom 
 without gave, as one might expect, an added zest 
 to cheeriness within. Of all the nights in the year 
 this, which ushers in the great Festival of the Nativity, 
 is the dearest to us, and the fullest of sweet remem- 
 brances. Not only do the associations of centuries 
 cluster around it, but every year of one's own life, 
 from childhood onward, has added to it some new 
 grace of memory. In summing up its attractions 
 we perceive that religion, literature, romance, the 
 domestic life, and the charm of the country, all 
 contribute their share. 
 
 Toiling homeward along the frozen lane I see 
 that, though the mist still clings to the earth, the 
 upper sky is becoming visible — black, however, not 
 blue, and showing faintly a few isolated stars. The 
 trees are white; the fields are white, the snow is deep ; 
 and, when the opened door which had sent forth a 
 broad band of ruddy light closes behind us, we admit 
 that in external circumstance at least our Christmas- 
 Eve is all that could be desired. 
 
 The first thing to be thought of in a country-house 
 is the seasonable decoration. And the prime requi- 
 site is that it must be plentiful : to make it sparse is to 
 
 do worse than nothing. We want boughs, and great 
 
 x 2 
 
308 Country Pleasures. 
 
 ones too, not scattered sprigs and leaves. It is 
 scarcely possible to pile on too much, and in the hall, 
 at any rate, one should hardly be able to see one's 
 way for greenery. We get most of our material in 
 our own garden, making it an opportunity for pruning 
 and trimming the evergreens. The mistletoe and 
 laurel we are obliged to buy. As it is our fancy not 
 to begin this work until after nightfall on Christmas- 
 Eve itself, there is plenty to be done. The labour, 
 however, is part of the evening's enjoyment, and 
 there are many ready to help. It is a picture very 
 pleasant to me when I see the huge heap of ever- 
 greens in the middle of the floor and the fire-light 
 playing among the glossy leaves. Then the ladders 
 are brought in, and the young folks soon cover the 
 walls with wreaths and festoons of green, the boys 
 handing up the branches to the girls, who know best 
 how to dispose them most gracefully. 
 
 As I sit by and watch I recall to myself, or repeat 
 for the recreation of the decorators, some of the many 
 passages in our old writers in which this English 
 custom is alluded to : — 
 
 Lo! now is come our joyful'st Feast! 
 
 Let every Man be jolly; 
 Each Roome with Yvie leaves is drest, 
 
 And every Post with Holly. 
 
December. 309 
 
 That comes from a carol by George Wither. This 
 is from a Christmas Song published in 1695 : — 
 
 With holly and ivy 
 
 So green and so gay, 
 We deck up our houses 
 
 As fresh as the day, 
 With bays and rosemary, 
 
 And laurel compleat, 
 And every one now 
 
 Is a king in conceit. 
 
 In Herrick's Christmas ' Caroll sung to the King 
 in the presence at Whitehall,' the ' Musical Part ' of 
 which was composed by that Mr. Henry Lawes who 
 was Milton's friend, we have the following : — 
 
 The darling of the world is come, 
 And fit it is we finde a room 
 To welcome Him. The nobler part 
 Of all the house here is the heart, 
 
 Which we will give Him, and bequeath 
 This hollie and this ivie wreath, 
 To do Him honour, who's our King, 
 And Lord of all this revelling. 
 
 Old Thomas Tusser is in a different vein : as usual, 
 he is homely and eminently practical : — 
 
 Get Iuye and hull, woman deck up thyne house : 
 And take this same brawne, for to seeth and to souse. 
 Prouide us good chere, for thou know'st the old guise : 
 Olde customes, that good be, let no man dispise. 
 
310 Country Pleasures. 
 
 At Christmas be mery, and thanke God of all ; 
 
 And feast thy pore neighbours, the great with the small. 
 
 Yea, al the yere long, haue an eie to the poore : 
 
 And God shall sende luck, to kepe open thy doore. 
 
 When the decoration is finished the logs are put 
 upon the fire, and another little ceremony begins. 
 The Christmas tree is brought in and hung with 
 glittering trifles ; and then a certain ancient, having 
 donned a suitable robe, and wearing for the nonce a 
 flowing beard, comes with a loud knocking to the 
 door. The lights are turned down, and he is led in. 
 His hat and shoon are of the colour of his beard. He 
 is fondly supposed to have made a long journey 
 through the snow ; and when he takes his seat in an 
 accustomed chair he lays his hands on the heads of 
 the little ones and gives them the blessing of Father 
 Christmas. When this ' disguisyng and mummyng,' 
 which an old author says ' is used in Christemas tyme 
 in the Northe partes' is over, the more hilarious 
 spirits betake them to their beds, and we settle down 
 to a condition of quiet and peaceful enjoyment, no 
 small part of which consists in turning over the pages 
 of sundry well-worn volumes which on this night are 
 always taken from their shelves and laid upon the 
 table. They are old, old friends. We know them 
 almost by heart, and our fingers turn involuntarily to 
 the Christmas passages which we like best. We open 
 
December. 311 
 
 first the Lesser Passion of Albert Diirer that we may 
 see once more his quaint picture of the Nativity, and 
 then we turn to La Mort D' Arthur and read :■ — 
 
 ' Then Berlin went to the Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, and counselled him to send for all the lords of 
 the realm, and all the gentlemen of arms, that they 
 should come to London before Christmas, upon pain 
 of cursing, and for this cause, that as Our Lord was 
 born on that night, that He would of His great mercy 
 show some miracle, as He was come to be King of all 
 mankind, who should be rightwise King of this realm. 
 So the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, sent for 
 all the lords and gentlemen of arms that they should 
 come by Christmas-Eve to London. And many 
 of them made them clean of their lives that their 
 prayer might be the more acceptable to God.' 
 
 Our Shakspere opens at ' Hamlet,' and gives us by 
 
 the mouth of Marcellus the well-known and charming 
 
 speech : — 
 
 Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
 The bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
 And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
 The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, 
 No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, 
 So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 
 
 With Horatio we answer : — 
 
 So have I heard, and do in part believe it. 
 
312 Country Pleasures. 
 
 From Milton's ' Ode ' we choose to read the two follow- 
 ing stanzas : — 
 
 But peaceful was the night, 
 Wherein the Prince of Light 
 His reign of peace upon the earth began. 
 The winds with wonder whist, 
 Smoothly the waters kissed, 
 Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, 
 Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
 While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 
 
 The shepherds on the lawn, 
 Or ere the point of dawn, 
 Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 
 Full little thought they then, 
 That the mighty Pan 
 Was kindly come to live with them below : 
 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 
 Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 
 
 Then I turn to good George Herbert and run 
 
 over that Christmas Carol which begins — 
 
 The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be ? 
 My God, no hymme for thee ? 
 
 and to that other which was sung by a kindred spirit 
 — Henry Vaughan : — 
 
 Awake, glad heart ! get up and sing ! 
 It is the Birth-day of thy King 
 Awake I awake ! 
 
 After these I pass to two modern books, Wash- 
 ington Irving and In Memoriam. From the first 
 
December. 313 
 
 I cull the following, which stands at the head of the 
 ever-delightful series of essays on the subject of 
 Christmas : — 
 
 ' But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? No- 
 thing but the hair of his good, grey, old head and 
 beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot 
 have more of him.' 
 
 And from the second these three stanzas which 
 suit the circumstances of the present night, and which 
 are among the sweetest in the language : — 
 
 The time draws near the birth of Christ : 
 The moon is hid ; the night is still ; 
 The Christmas bells from hill to hill 
 
 Answer each other in the mist. 
 
 Four voices of four hamlets round, 
 
 From far and near, on mead and moor, 
 Swell out and fail, as if a door 
 
 Were shut between me and the sound : 
 
 Each voice four changes in the wind, 
 That now dilate, and now decrease, 
 Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, 
 
 Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 
 
 By this time the hour of midnight strikes. It is 
 Christmas morning ; and after we have sung together 
 John Byrom's time-honoured hymn, to its own old 
 tune, I find myself alone — alone with the memory of 
 the dead. It is the evil spirit which dares not stir 
 abroad to-night ; the good surely may ; and when I 
 
314 Country Pleasures. 
 
 draw back the curtain from the window they seem to 
 pass before me in a long line across the snow. There, 
 I see, in that strange procession, some of the sweetest 
 faces I have ever known — sweet still, and solemn, but 
 not sad. When I go back to the fire, now sinking 
 into dimness, I revert once more to the pages of the 
 Silurist, and his words are on my lips : — 
 
 They are all gone into the world of light ! - 
 
 And I alone sit ling'ring here ! 
 Their very memory is fair and bright, 
 
 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
 Some hours later the carol-singers were under the 
 window. Their voices rang out clearly in the keen 
 morning air ; and, through a little aperture which I 
 made in the frost-tracery, I could just make out their 
 quaint faces glimmering large and red in the light of 
 an old lantern which one of the party held aloft in 
 his hand. 
 
 LII.— CONCLUSION : THE OLD YEAR ENDED, 
 AND THE NEW YEAR BEGUN. 
 
 January 8, 1879. 
 
 The morning of Christmas-Day was the brightest 
 we had seen since the beginning of the frost. The 
 memorable fog of the previous day had entirely dis- 
 appeared, and although the cold was still severe — in 
 
January. 315 
 
 the night it had been more intense than ever, the 
 thermometer marking as low as four degrees above 
 zero — yet the sky was so blue, and the thin air so full 
 of clear sunlight, that as we passed through the gar- 
 den and down the lane on our way to that Morning 
 Service which is the most joyous of all the year, my 
 delight found a half-articulate expression in the vague 
 burden of an old carol which I used to hear sung in 
 the streets when I was a boy — 
 
 All the bells in heaven shall ring, 
 
 In heaven shall ring, in heaven shall ring ; 
 
 All the bells in heaven shall ring, 
 
 On Christmas-day in the morning. 
 
 After church was over, there was time enough, 
 
 before dinner, to make an accustomed round of visits 
 
 among our neighbours — rich and poor alike — and to 
 
 wish them, as we had done for who knows how many 
 
 years before, Merry Christmas and a Good New 
 
 Year. These old customs may become mere Use 
 
 and Wont — 
 
 Old sisters of a day gone by, 
 Grey nurses, loving nothing new ; 
 
 but why should they ? They are the consecrated 
 
 symbols of a healthy and an honest feeling, and each 
 
 may determine for himself whether they shall sink 
 
 into hollow forms or remain still the picturesque 
 
 expressions of a genuine emotion. 
 
316 Country Pleasures. 
 
 A Christmas-Day without its long and somewhat 
 ceremonious dinner would be a poor thing indeed ; 
 but we need not linger over it here. I will only 
 pause to note that for me it remains in the memory 
 chiefly as part of that exquisite winter-picture which, 
 at the time, was seen through the windows ; and 
 that for table-decoration we managed to get from the 
 greenhouse, notwithstanding the cold, a bright little 
 geranium, a white camellia, and a large pot of fresh 
 green ferns. If the children were asked their opinion 
 they would probably say that the most memorable 
 thing was the huge pudding ; and that for them the 
 moment of triumph was when, the curtains having 
 been drawn close so as to shut out what little light 
 remained, the said pudding was brought in, shoulder- 
 high, wreathed with blue flames, and crowned with a 
 sprig of holly — a pudding in apotheosis. 
 
 When dinner had been fully discussed, and all 
 observances duly disposed of, we adjourned to the 
 garden and had a long bout of skating. The pond 
 had been entirely covered with snow ; but by the use 
 of spade and brush a meandering path had been cut, 
 along which the skaters could pass. Standing at the 
 edge, the black ice looked like a narrow river running 
 between white banks. After dark, candles were 
 lighted and stuck in the snow. As they burnt down 
 
January. 317 
 
 they melted a little hollow for themselves, at the 
 bottom of which the light could still be seen, making 
 a green glimmer very like that of a glow-worm. Late 
 at night a wind rose in the east and brought with it a 
 drift of fine snow, which swept over everything and 
 into everything, filling the eyes and ears, and clinging 
 to the beard in frozen clots. 
 
 This wind proved to be the beginning of a thaw ; 
 and on the next day the water dropping from the 
 trees, and the snow sometimes falling in lumps, made 
 a sound like the pattering of many feet. The twenty- 
 ninth was clear and warm ; but in the afternoon, 
 while it was yet daylight, there was a curious inter- 
 polation of frost, sudden and short, for it lasted only 
 about an hour. The period of its continuance was 
 marked by the brilliancy of the new moon. A friend 
 tells me that during this time his bees were killed by 
 scores. The sun tempted them out, and then the 
 quick frost caught them before they could get back 
 to the hives. On the thirtieth the grass on the lawn, 
 which the snow had hidden for weeks, became visible 
 once more ; and on the last day of the year, the ther- 
 mometer not having gone below 42 degrees even in 
 the night, and a heavy wind helping the sun, the 
 snow entirely disappeared, except in those hollows 
 and corners which are always in shadow. 
 
3 I 8 Country Pleasures. 
 
 The eve of the New Year, like that of Christmas, 
 has with us its own observances. For this night the 
 largest log is kept. It is also lighted with last year's 
 brand and with a piece of mistletoe saved from last 
 year's bough. Herrick includes this amongst his 
 Ceremonies for Christmas : — 
 
 Come, bring with a noise, 
 
 My merrie, merrie boyes, 
 The Christmas log to the firing ; 
 
 While my good dame, she 
 
 Bids ye all be free, 
 And drink to your hearts' desiring. 
 
 With the last yeere's brand 
 
 Light the new block, and 
 For good successe in his spending, 
 
 On your psaltries play, 
 
 That sweet luck may 
 Come while the log is a teending. 
 
 When the log is well burning, the Wassail is com- 
 pounded with much ingenious care, and brought in 
 with a song. The company, seated in a circle round 
 the fire, touch their glasses, and say — ' Hael, hael, 
 wassail.' Then one of their number rises, and, half 
 reading, half " chanting, runs over, as he has done, 
 every year since In Memoriam was published, that 
 noble valediction which expresses so compendiously, 
 and yet with such completeness, the drift of modern 
 thought. 
 
January. 319 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
 The year is dying in the night ; 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 
 
 Ring in the valiant man and free — 
 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
 Ring out the darkness of the land ; 
 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 After this, as it wants but a few minutes to twelve, 
 the scene changes to the open air; and the group 
 gathers closely together on a little rising ground under 
 a line of beeches, and awaits in silence the stroke of 
 the hour. The night is warm and the wind west. 
 The half-moon is setting and the clouds drift against 
 her as she sinks. The tree-tops are wildly tossed 
 about. But for this, there would be neither sound nor 
 motion. How long the last minute seems ! At length 
 the silence is broken by the firing of a gun, and then 
 comes the big bell far away in the city, and the joyous 
 peal ringing at once from many steeples. We have 
 entered on another year; and, as many old friends 
 join their hands once more in a fervent grasp, each 
 knows that the others are thinking — What will it 
 bring ? Life or death ; loss or gain ? 
 
 The first day of the New Year brought back the 
 frost, which has continued until now. The morning 
 was clear ; the pond had a thin coating of ice ; and 
 
3 20 Country Pleasures. 
 
 the lanes were hardening again as we started for a 
 long walk across The Moss to a certain village where, 
 according to established custom on this day, we were 
 to dine at an old country inn. It is pleasant walking 
 among the farms and cottages, surrounded as they 
 ■all seem to be by laughing children and cackling 
 poultry. The people are mostly out of doors and in 
 holiday guise. Though the morning is yet early a few 
 are already in a state of mellow civility, the result of 
 much drinking of healths. Here is an old acquaintance 
 — John the Mower. Although past threescore, few 
 men in all the country-side could handle a scythe 
 better than he can, even now. His face is of that 
 kind which, notwithstanding grey hairs, will remain 
 child-like to the end — small in feature, fresh in colour, 
 and open in expression. As he stands at the door 
 his head is bare, and his clean white shirt is rolled 
 back from his breast as if the day had been one of 
 summer. His eyes twinkle as he comes up to me, 
 and the smile on his face indicates an inward ques- 
 tioning as to his condition ; but he puts out his rough 
 hand at a venture, and says in his own quaint way 
 — ' Aye well ; aye, to be sure — if we could be ever as 
 we are now — full of good meat and drink — meat and 
 drink.' 
 
 While dinner is preparing at the inn we spend an 
 
January. 321 
 
 hour in and about the Village Church. It is a very 
 ancient structure standing on a considerable eminence. 
 From it a wide view may be got over the moorland 
 country which lies north and east. The date of its 
 erection is unknown ; but an arch between the nave 
 and the tower is evidently Norman. There are many 
 curious brasses on the floor of the chancel, and an oak 
 screen of the time of Henry VIII. ; but perhaps the 
 most interesting thing is a coloured window which is 
 said to represent the bowmen who went from the 
 village to the Battle of Flodden Field, under the 
 command of a certain Sir Richard Assheton, grand- 
 son of Sir Rafe, who was Knight Marshal of England 
 in the reign of Edward IV. Of this band there are 
 seventeen, all kneeling, with their chaplain in front, 
 and across each man's shoulders are slung his bow 
 and the sheaf of arrows. The tower of the church is 
 both singular and picturesque. It is built of stone 
 like the church ; but it is surmounted by a four- 
 gabled structure of wood, in which are hung the bells. 
 Into this chamber we climbed, making our way up 
 the dark and worn stone stairs. Through the chinks 
 in the timber we could discern the village at the foot 
 of the hill, and the hostelry where we were to dine — 
 as quaint a place as may anywhere be seen, with its 
 grey and leaning gables, its black-and-white timbered 
 
322 Country Pleasures. 
 
 front, and its huge buttresses projecting on to the 
 pavement. In the Old Boar's Head there was a large 
 consumption of roast-beef and mince-pie by old and 
 young alike ; and in the evening a sharp walk home, 
 taking the Clough in our way. 
 
 The next day the frost became severe again ; and 
 on the morning of the third we found that there had 
 been a fresh fall of snow. When I went to feed the 
 birds I saw by their foot-marks that, impatient for 
 my coming, they had already been to the crumb-pot 
 looking for breakfast. As the snow was quite new 
 I could make out the different kinds of birds by the 
 size and the depth of the imprint. The robin's foot 
 seems the lightest of all. The trees were once more 
 arrayed in their white dress — the hollies covered on 
 the top, but black underneath ; the rhododendrons 
 bent down with a shapeless load : the deciduous trees 
 powdered all over, and the firs most beautiful of all. 
 On the fourth, we had the finest sunset of all the 
 winter. At four o'clock the frozen trees were trans- 
 formed to a brilliant pink, and rose-coloured clouds 
 were drifting across the sky. 
 
 Yesterday the wind changed to the east ; but the 
 frost continues. To-night the moon is at full, the 
 sky clear, the cold intense, the shadows black and 
 sharp on the snow, and the wind so violent that it 
 
January. 323 
 
 makes a great roaring in the trees. The skating is at 
 its best again, for the wind keeps the ice smooth and 
 bright. One of my boys has just been in to say that 
 he has skated three miles without stopping by making 
 the circuit of the pond some fifty times ; and another 
 tells me that by holding a kind of sail in his hands 
 he has been driven along the ice as a boat would be 
 on the water. Earlier in the evening I had myself a 
 splendid run in the sledge, two good skaters pulling 
 in front and another pushing behind. Nothing more 
 exhilarating can be conceived than this sledge-riding. 
 To paraphrase Wordsworth — -we give our bodies to 
 the wind ; the shadowy banks on either side spin 
 round and sweep past us ; and even when we have 
 stopped, they still wheel on as if — 
 
 The earth had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 
 All this, however, is the bright side of winter. It 
 is too good to last, and we must not expect to escape 
 the dreary and dolorous days which have surely yet 
 to come. But, when these are over, we know what 
 awaits us. In my first Notes, which were written on 
 the seventeenth of January in last year, I drew atten- 
 tion to the bright colour of the new leaves on the 
 young foxglove plants. This year, on the sloping bed 
 
 Y2 
 
324 Country Pleasures. 
 
 beneath the leafless thorns, I have already seen the 
 same thing; and so the round of the changeful seasons 
 and my simple record of them are both completed 
 together ; and I bid the patient reader farewell with 
 my best New Year's greeting and this last word for 
 his comfort : — 
 
 If Winter comes can Spring be far behind. 
 
INDEX OF QUOTATIONS, MISCELLANEOUS NOTES, 
 
 AND 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
AN INDEX OF QUOTATIONS. 
 
 ■*. William Wordsworth, ' To my Sister,' Works, vol. v. p. 17. 
 
 5. Lord Bacon, Essay, 'Of Gardens.' 
 
 6. John Ruskin, Oxford Lectures. 
 
 7. Percy Bysshe Shelley, ' Summer and Winter.' 
 
 12. Dante, The Inferno, Canto ix. Trans. J. W. Thomas. 
 
 12. ,, „ ,, „ 
 
 12. S. T. Coleridge, ' The Ancient Mariner,' Part i. 
 
 12. Alfred Tennyson, Idylls of the King, ' Guinevere.' 
 
 12. ,, ,, ' The Passing of Arthur.' 
 
 14. William Cowper, The Task, Book v. L. 11. 
 
 17. Alfred Tennyson, Poems, ' St. Agnes.' 
 
 18. Sir Philip Sidney, ' Astrophel and Stella,' xxxi. 
 
 18. William Wordsworth, ' Intimations of Immortality,' Works, vol. v. 
 
 P- 337- 
 18. Percy Bysshe Shelley, ' To a Skylark.' 
 
 20. Alfred Tennyson, Poems, ' CEnone.' 
 
 21. Sebastian Evans, Poems, 1865, ' Crocus-Gathering,' p. 196. 
 21. John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book iv. L. 700. 
 
 30. Sir Walter Scott, 'The Bridal of Triermain,' Canto i. Sts. xii. 
 
 and xiii. 
 
 31. Alfred Tennyson, Idylls of the King, ' Vivien.' 
 
 34. Robert Herrick, ' Ceremony upon Candlemas Eve. ' 
 
 35. Old Ballad: Rcliques of Ancient English Poetry, 'Sir Patrick 
 
 Spence.' 
 35. S. T. Coleridge, ' Dejection : An Ode.' 
 
 38. William Wordsworth, ' I wandered lonely,' Works, vol. ii. p. 93. 
 
 39. Dorothy Wordsworth, Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. p. 182. 
 
328 An Index of Quotations. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 3g. William Wordsworth, Memoirs, vol. i. p. 188. 
 
 40. Michael Drayton, ' The Ninth Eclogue.' 
 
 41. Robert Herrick, ' To Daffadils.' 
 
 41. William Shakspere, The Winter's Tale, Act iv. Sc. iii. 
 41. ,, ,, Act iv. Sc. iv. 
 
 43. James Thomson, The Seasons, ' Spring.' 
 
 44. Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam, lxxxii. 
 46. ,, The Princess. 
 
 4g. Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, ' The Milleres Tale.' 
 
 50.- Charles Lamb, Correspondence, p. 30. 
 
 51. Robert Herrick, 'To Dianeme : A Ceremonie in Glocester.' 
 
 53. Charles Lamb, Essays of Elia, 'All Fools' Day.' 
 
 54. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. ii. ' To the Small Celandine.' 
 54. ,, Memoirs, vol. i. p. 189. 
 
 56. Thomas Tusser, Five Hundred Pointes, ' A Description of the 
 Properties of Windes.' 
 
 61. Geoffrey Chaucer, ' The Prologe of Nine Goode Wymmen.' 
 
 62. William Shakspere, Lucrece, L. 393. 
 
 62. ,, Love's Labour's Lost, Act v. Sc. ii. 
 
 63. John Milton, ' L'AUegro,' L. 75. 
 63. ,. ' Comus,' L. 120. 
 
 63. Robert Herrick, ' To Daisies, not to shut so soone.' 
 
 64. Robert Burns, ' To a Mountain Daisy.' 
 64. P. B. Shelley, ' The Question.' 
 
 64. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. ii. ' To the Daisy, 1805.' 
 
 68. Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre, Chap. xxx. 
 
 6g. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. i. 'Foresight.' 
 
 70. Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam, lxxxii. 
 
 73. William Shakspere, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act i. Sc. i. 
 
 75. Robert Herrick, ' Corinna's going a Maying.' 
 
 76. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. v. ' Intimations of Immor- 
 
 tality.' 
 
 80. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. i. 'The Sparrow's Nest.' 
 
 81. J. R. Lowell, ' To the Dandelion.' 
 
 84. John Milton, ' Song on May Morning.' 
 
 84. „ ' Lycidas.' 
 
 84. William Morris, The Earthly Paradise, ' May.' 
 
An Index of Quotations. 329 
 
 PAGE 
 
 86. Frederick Tennyson, Days and Hours, ' Mayday.' 
 
 87. Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam, lxxxii. 
 
 8g. Christopher Marlowe, 'The Passionate Shepherd.' 
 8g. Robert Southey, ' The Holly Tree. ' 
 g2. Robert Stephen Hawker, ' A Legend of the Hive.' 
 95. Henry Vaughan, Sacred Poems, ' Departed Friends.' 
 98. Alfred Tennyson, Poems, ' The Talking Oak.' 
 102. Henry Vaughan, Sacred Poems, ' Thed3ird. ' 
 104. Alfred Tennyson, Poems, ' The Blackbird.' 
 107. Robert Herrick, ' Ceremonies for Candlemasse Eve.' 
 109. P. B. Shelley, 'To a Skylark.' 
 
 no. Alfred Tennyson, Maud, etc., 'To the Rev. F. D. Maurice.' 
 no. Thomas Gray, ' Elegy written in a Country Churchyard.' 
 
 115. George Herbert, The Temple, ' Sunday.' 
 
 116. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. ii. ' To the Cuckoo.' 
 116. John Logan, Poems, ' Ode to the Cuckoo.' 
 
 ng. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. i. 'The Longest Day.' 
 
 120. Barnaby Googe, ' The Popish Kingdome.' 
 
 122. William Cowper, The Task, ' The Sofa,' L. 307. 
 
 125. Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam, lxxxviii. 
 
 126. Robert Burns, 'To a Mouse.' 
 
 129. Goethe, Faust, ' Prologue,' Shelley's Trans. 
 
 132. Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam, liv. 
 
 134. Isaac Watts, ' There is a land of pure delight.' 
 
 135. Matthew Arnold, 'Thyrsis: A Monody. ' 
 
 136. John Clare, The Shepherd's Calendar, 'July.' 
 
 137. Alfred Tennyson, The Princess, iv. 
 
 140. H. W. Longfellow, ' Rain in Summer.' 
 
 141. Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam, lxxxviii. 
 
 145. Miss Manning, The Household of Sir Thomas More, pp. 33-35. 
 
 148. Alfred Tennyson, Maud, etc. ' To the Rev. F. D. Maurice.' 
 
 149. Justice Coleridge, Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. ii. p. 301. 
 155. William Wordsworth, Works, ' My heart leaps up,' vol. i. 
 155. Matthew Arnold, ' Cadmus and Harmonia.' 
 
 158. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. v. 'On the Firth of Clyde.' 
 161. Sir Walter Scott, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. iii. 
 ' Cadyow Castle.' 
 
33° An Index of Quotations. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 165. A. C. Swinburne. Poems and Ballads, Second Series, ' Cyril 
 
 Tourneur.' 
 167. John Logan, ' The Braes of Yarrow.' 
 167. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. iii. ' Sonnets dedicated to 
 
 Liberty,' xii. 
 i6g. Alfred Tennyson, Maud, etc., xxiii. 4. 
 
 171. ^Eschylus, Prometheus, 8g. 
 
 172. John Milton, Paradise Lost, iv. 165. 
 172. Lord Byron, The Giaour. 
 
 172. John Keble, The Christian Year, ' Second Sunday after Trinity. ' 
 177. Bishop Percy, Rcliques, ' The Battle of Otterbourne.' 
 
 181. George Eliot, ' A College Breakfast Party.' 
 
 182. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. v. p. 150. 
 185. Sir Walter Scott, The Lord of the Isles, iv. 13. 
 187. John Keats, ' To Ailsa Rock.' 
 
 191. Robert Burns, ' To Mary in Heaven.' 
 
 191. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. ii. ' The Pass of Kirkstone.' 
 
 192. Sir Walter Scott, The Lord of the Isles, v. 1. 
 
 197. William Morris, The Earthly Paradise, ' September.' 
 
 198. Matthew Arnold, ' Switzerland.' 
 
 199. Homer, Iliad, Book viii. Tennyson's Trans. Enoch Ardt 11, etc. 
 
 p. 177. 
 
 201. P. B. Shelley, ' Ode to the West Wind.' 
 
 202. ,, „ 
 
 203. ,, ,, 
 
 204. William Shakspere, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act iii. Sc. i. 
 
 L. 128. 
 211. Felicia Hemans, Works, vol. iv. ' Eryri Wen.' 
 
 216. Alfred Tennyson, The Princess, vi. 
 
 217. William Shakspere, Sonnets, xxxiii. 
 
 219. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. v. ' Yarrow Revisited.' 
 
 221. Matthew Arnold, ' Thyrsis.' 
 
 223. John Clare, The Shepherd's Calendar, 'October.' 
 
 227. William Wordsworth, ' Preface to The Excursion.' 
 
 227. William Cowper, The Task, ' The Winter Walk at Noon,' L. 173. 
 
 22g. John Aikin, ' The Lime first fading.' 
 
 230. John Keats, ' To Autumn.' 
 
An Index of Quotations. 331 
 
 PAGE 
 
 232. Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Qucene, ii. v. xxix. 
 
 234. Robert Bloomfield, The Farmer's Boy, ' Winter.' 
 
 241. Alfred Tennyson, 'The Gardener's Daughter.' 
 
 242. William Allingham, ' Robin Redbreast.' 
 
 243. William Shakspere, Hamlet, Act iv. Sc. vii. 167. 
 
 247. Robert Burns, ' Halloween.' 
 
 248. John Keble, 'All Saints' Day.' 
 
 249. Kenelm Henry Digby, The Broad Stone of Honour, ' Morus.' 
 
 250. Michael Drayton, Polyolbion, ' The Seven-and-twentieth Song. ' 
 
 251. Alexander Smith, A Life Drama, Sc. ii. 
 
 252. Sir Walter Scott, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, ' The Young 
 
 Tamlane.' 
 
 254. William Shakspere, Sonnets, lxxiii. 
 
 259. William Wordsworth, Works, vol. ii. ' Lines at Tintern.' 
 
 261. Samuel Bamford, Passages in the Life of a Radical, vol. i. 
 
 263. Alfred Tennyson, ' Walking to the Mail.' 
 
 264. Hollingworth, Chronicle of Manchester. 
 
 268. William Shakspere, Macbeth, Act i. Sc. i. 
 
 269. „ „ Act i. Sc. v. 
 26g. P. B. Shelley, ' Autumn : A Dirge.' 
 
 269. ,, ' A Vision of the Sea.' 
 
 26g. „ ' The Sensitive Plant,' Pt. iii. 
 
 270. John Clare, The Shepherd's Calendar, ' November.' 
 
 275. Samuel Bamford, Early Days, p. 153. 
 
 276. Robert Herrick, ' The Hock Cart, or Harvest Home.' 
 
 285. William Wordsworth, ' Poems on the Naming of Places,' iv. 
 
 285. „ The Prelude, Book i. 
 
 286. ,, The Excursion, Book iv. 
 
 287. ,, The River Duddon, Prefatory Lines. 
 
 287. „ „ „ 
 
 288. ,, Description of the Country of the Lakes. 
 297. ,, The Excursion, Book i. 
 
 2gg. ,, The Prelude, Book i. 
 
 2gg. James Thomson, The Seasons, ' Winter.' 
 
 304. Robert Tannahill, ' The Braes o' Gleniffer.' 
 
 308. George Wither, ' Christmas Carroll.' 
 
 3og. Old Song, 1695. 
 
33 2 -An Index of Quotations. 
 
 309. Robert Herrick, Noble Numbers, ' A Christmas Caroll.' 
 
 309. Thomas Tusser, Five Hundred Poin tcs, 'Christmas.' 
 
 311. Sir Thomas Malory, La Mort d' Arthur, C. in. 
 
 311. William Shakspere, Hamlet, Act i. Sc. i. 
 
 312. John Milton, ' On the Nativity.' 
 
 312. George Herbert, The Church, ' Christmas.' 
 
 312. Henry Vaughan, Silex Scintillans, ' Christ's Nativity.' 
 
 313. Washington Irving, Quotation from ' Hue and Cry after 
 
 Christmas.' 
 
 313. Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam, xxviii. 
 
 314. Henry Vaughan, Silex Scintillans, ' Departed Friends.' 
 
 315. Old Carol, Traditional. 
 
 315. Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam, xxix. 
 
 318. Robert Herrick, ' Ceremonies for Christmasse.' 
 
 319. Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam, cv. 
 
 323. William Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book i. 
 
 324. P. B. Shelley, ' Ode to the West Wind.' 
 
MISCELLANEOUS NOTES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 3. Yellow Jasmine, jfasminum nudiflorum. 
 
 15. Hart's-tongue, Scolopendrium vulgarc. This splendid fern will 
 grow with great luxuriance set in a little rock-work on the 
 floor of the greenhouse, and in the shade afforded by the 
 shelves or stages on which the ordinary plants are placed. 
 
 37. Daffodils, Narcissus Pseudo-narcissus. It is worth while to grow 
 both the old, wild, single flower, and also the double variety. 
 The single flower is much finer in form, but the double one 
 is richer in colour, and blooms earlier. 
 
 67. Whinberry : the common Whortleberry, Vaccinium Myrtillus. 
 In this neighbourhood it is always called ' Whinberry ' or 
 ' Wimberry.' Among the working-people the fruit is much 
 used for puddings, and in autumn the children go out upon 
 the moors in troops to gather it. A Lancashire lad takes 
 an especial pleasure in seeing his mouth purple-stained with 
 the juice of this fruit. 
 
 69. Lady's-mantle, Alchemilla vulgaris. There are few lovelier things 
 than a leaf of Alchemilla with a drop of dew or rain lying like 
 a diamond in the hollow of its cup. 
 
 6g. Wood-sorrel, Oxalis Acctosella. The Irish Shamrock. 
 
 74. Solofhon's-Seal, Polygonatum multiftorum. The bees are fond of 
 this flower, and take great pains to force themselves into its 
 narrow corolla. 
 
 74. Star-of-Bethlehem, Omithogalum umbellatum. 
 
 77. Blue-bell, Hyacinthus non-scriptus. The English Blue-bell, not 
 the Scotch Blue-bell, Campanula heterophylla. 
 
334 Miscellaneous Notes. 
 
 yy. Wind-flower, Wood-anemone, Anemone nemorosa. 
 
 77. Campion, Rose Lychnis, Lychnis sylvestris. This wild flower 
 
 will grow well in the garden under the shade of trees. 
 77. Satin-flower, Stellaria Holostea. 
 77. Lady-smock, Cardamine pratensis. 
 80. Dandelion, Lcontodon Taraxacum. I believe it would be worth 
 
 while to grow this flower in beds for the sake of its colour ; 
 
 Lowell's line is quite true : — 
 
 ' To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime.' 
 
 87. Oak and Ash. The old adage is variously given. The following 
 is the version current in Lancashire : — 
 
 ' If oak be green before the ash, 
 We shall only have a splash ; 
 But if the ash before the oak, 
 We shall surely have a soak.' 
 
 g6. Hedge-warbler, Accentor modularis, called also the Hedge- 
 sparrow and in Lancashire the Dunnock. 
 
 100. Meadow-pipit, Anthus prateusis, commonly called Tit-lark; and 
 in Lancashire, also, Peet-lark. 
 
 104. Clematis, the Clematis Jackmanni. 
 
 113. Forget-me-nots, Myosotis arvensis and Myosotis palustris. 
 
 113. Herb Robert, Geranium Robertianum. 
 
 113. Woodruff, Asperula odorata. 
 
 113. The three Stellarias. The Satin-flower, Stellaria holostea; the 
 Stitchwort, Stellaria graminea ; and Chickweed, Stellaria 
 media. 
 
 113. Eyebright, Euphrasia officinalis. 
 
 113. Bird's-foot, Ornithopus perpusillus. 
 
 113. Mountain Pansy, Viola lutea. 
 
 115. The Swift, Cypselus apus. 
 
 124. Orange Lily, Lilium bulbiferum. 
 
 124. Yellow Iris, Iris Pseud-Acorus. 
 
 124. Campanula, Campanula persicifolia. 
 
 125. Plumbago, Plumbago Capensis. Deserves to be much more 
 
 common than it is. Blooms with great profusion. No 
 other flower has exactly the same pure, lilac tint. 
 
Miscellaneous Notes. 335 
 
 PAGE 
 
 138. Yellow wagtail, Motacilla Jlava. 
 
 149. Horsetail, Equisetum sylvaticum. 
 
 150. Chrysanthemum, Chrysanthemum, leucanthemum, Great Ox-eye 
 
 daisy. 
 150. Loosestrife, Lysimachia nemorum. 
 150. Yellow Vetchling, Lathy rus pratensis. 
 150. Lesser Willow-herb, Epilobium montanum. This common wild 
 
 flower, like many others, is worth cultivation in the garden 
 
 for the sake of its graceful shape. 
 
 150. Great Willow-herb, Epilobium hirsutum. 
 
 151. Monkshood, Aconitum Napellus. 
 151. Spiked Veronica, Veronica spicata. 
 
 151. Meadow-sweet, Spir&a ulmaria. Should be encouraged in the 
 
 garden on account of its delicious scent. 
 151. Evening Primrose, CEnothera biennis. 
 
 155. Campanula, the Harebell, Campanula heterophylla. 
 
 156. Yarrow, Ac illea millefolium. 
 
 156. Convolvulus, the Bindweed, Convolvulus scpium, 
 
 156. Pied-wagtail, Motacilla Garrcllii. 
 
 ijq. Bog-myrtle, Gale, also Sweet Gale, Myrica Gale. 
 
 ijg. Cotton-grass, Erhphorum vaginatum. 
 
 195. Snap-dragon, Antirrhinum majus, 
 
 210. Scabious, Scabiosa succisa. 
 
 210. Tormentil, Tormaitilla officinalis. 
 
 220. Crowfoot, Ranunculus hirsutus. 
 
 225. Periwinkle, Vinca major. 
 
 226. Syringa, Philadelphia coronarius. 
 
 227. White Jasmine, Jasminum officinale. 
 
 227. Habrothamnus, Habrothamnus fascicularis. 
 229. Dogwood, Cornus sanguinea. 
 
 241. Shepherd's purse, Capsella Bursa-pastoris. 
 
 242. Autumn-crocus, Crocus nudijlorus. 
 2Q2. Hard-fern, Blechnum boreale. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 ABERGLASLYN, 209 
 ^Eschylus, quoted, 171 
 
 After-grass, 199 
 
 Aikin (John), quoted, 229 
 
 Ailsa, 187 
 
 All Fools' Day, 52, 53 
 
 All Hallows' Eve, 246 
 
 Allingham (W.), quoted, 242 
 
 All Saints' Day, 247 
 
 All Souls' Day, 248 
 
 Am Binnein, 159, 179, 180, 188 
 
 Ambleside, 284 
 
 Anemone, 169, 260 
 
 Aneurin, quoted, 50 
 
 Anthony (St.) Turnip, 146 
 
 Apple, blossom of, 71 ; resem- 
 blance of scent to faint hya- 
 cinth, 82 ; in spring, 151 ; 
 trees in the garden, 177 ; 
 ' Keswick,' 197 ; broken 
 branches of trees, 203 ; diving 
 for, 246 
 
 Apple-pie, 150 
 
 April, 48-71 
 
 April daisy, 62 
 
 April Fool, Charles Lamb on, 53 
 
 Arctic winter, 303 
 
 Ardrossan, 157 
 
 Armboth, 291, 292, 295 
 
 Arno's ' wild West wind,' 202 
 
 Arnold (Matthew), quoted, r35, 
 155. 198, 221 
 
 Arran, 153-159 ; visit of Scotch 
 painters to, 179 ; reminiscences 
 of, 184 
 
 Arthur's Christmas, 3ri 
 Artists at North Meols, 45 
 Ash, 86, 87, 121, 136, r37, 138, 
 
 I5r, 200, 223, 229, 238, 239, 
 
 241, 261, 332 
 Ashen branch, 147 
 Assheton (Sir Richard), 321 
 Asters, rg6 
 Atmosphere, effects of the, on 
 
 scenery, i8r 
 August, 153, 182 
 Autumn, signs of, 135 ; draws on 
 
 apace, 151 ; beginning of, 194 ; 
 
 on the Welsh hills, 205 ; aspects 
 
 in the garden and wood, 226 
 Azalea, 7r 
 
 BACON (Lord), on a garden, 
 5 ; on lunar influence, 18 
 Balder, 120 
 Balm, 177 
 Bamford (S.), quoted, 243, 261, 
 
 275 
 Bangor, 207 
 ' Bar-Gaist,' 263 
 Basenthwaite Lake, 2g3 
 Bays, 34. 309 
 Beauty of winter, 282 
 Beddgelert, 208, 210 
 Bedding - plants and fragrant 
 
 flowers contrasted, 151 
 Beech, 71, 75, 76, 121, 124, 135, 
 
 15T, 200, 228, 230, 241, 301 
 
338 
 
 Index. 
 
 Bees, 88, go, 142, 177, 232, 257, 
 
 317 
 
 Begonias, 15 
 
 Bells, Church Stretton, 114; 
 ringing of, as protection 
 against evil spirits, 248 ; at 
 Christmas, 315 
 
 Ben-Ghaoith, 185 
 
 Ben-Ghnuis, 187 
 
 Ben-Ghoil, 185 
 
 Ben-Lomond, 187 
 
 Ben-More, 187 
 
 ' Bess,' a ' boggart,' 278 
 
 Bettws-Garmon, 208 
 
 Bettws-y-coed, 2ig 
 
 Bible, quoted, 51 
 
 Bindweed, 146 
 
 Birch, 82, 108, 121, 135, 162, 
 178, 183, 241 
 
 Birds, their boldness in winter, 
 8 ; not a hard winter for, 15 ; 
 hardihood of, 51 ; on the moor- 
 land, 67 ; their departure, 95 ; 
 their nests deficient in size, g7 ; 
 in song, ng; their silence, 
 137 ; gossip about, I3g ; in 
 autumn, 204 ; singing con- 
 trasted with scene of decay, 226; 
 Agapemoneof, 231 ; at Moston, 
 243 ; feeding the, 305, 322 
 
 Bird's-foot, 113, 150, 155, 332 
 
 Birken, 304 
 
 Blackberry, 177, 260 
 
 Blackbird, 74, 7g, 82, 102, 103, 
 127, 198, 204, 223, 243, 305 
 
 Blackley, the tonwship of, 257 
 
 Blake (W.), quoted, 72 
 
 Blencathra, 2g3 
 
 Bloomfield, quoted, 234 
 
 Bluebell, 77, 331 
 
 Boggart Hole Clough, 262 
 
 Boggarts, 277 
 
 Bog-myrtle, 179 
 
 Bonfires, 120, 24g 
 
 Booth (Humphrey), 264 
 
 Booth Hall, 264 
 
 Borrowdale, 162, 293, 295, 297 
 Boscobel Oak, 98 
 Botanist, Lancashire, 262 
 Bowfell, 284 
 Box, 88 
 
 Boy memories, 87 
 Boyhood in the Clough, 59 
 Bracken, 179, 221, 2g2 
 Braes of Gleniffer, 304 
 Braggat, 49 
 Bramble, 69, 155, 261 
 Brawn, 309 
 Brodick, isg, 185 
 Bronte (C), quoted, 68 
 Brook-lime, 146 
 Browning (Robert), quoted, 48 
 Burdock, 146 
 
 Burial-place, Wordsworth's de- 
 scription of, 182 
 Burns, quoted, 126, 245 
 Bute, Island of, 164, 182 
 Buttercup, 146, 225 
 Butterflies, 169 
 Bwlch-y-Maen, 212 
 Byron (Lord), quoted, 172 
 Byron (Sir J.), 25g 
 
 CAER CARADOC, 115 
 Caistael-Abhael, I5g 
 Camellia, g, 35, 316 
 Camomile, 146 
 Campanula, 124, 155, 181, 227, 
 
 332, 333 
 Campion, 77, 87, 241 
 Candytuft, g3 
 Cantire, 173, 187, ig3 
 Capel Curig, 205, 215 
 Caractacus, 115 
 Caradoc, 115 
 Caradoc range, 112 
 Carnarvon, 207 
 Carol-singers, 314 
 Cavendish and Wolsey, 24g 
 Celandine, 31, 6g, 77 
 Celandine, lesser, 32, 53 
 
Index. 
 
 339 
 
 Chapel-en-le-Frith, 68 
 
 Chaucer, quoted, 49, 61, 73 ; and 
 the daisy, 62 ; and the haw- 
 thorn, 84 
 
 Cherry, 35, 71, 74, 82, 139 
 
 Cherries, blackbirds waiting for, 
 
 i°3 
 Chester, 206 
 Chestnut, 71, 121, 200, 230, 241, 
 
 242 
 Chetham family, 275 
 Child in sickness and the snow- 
 drop, 17 
 Children, their enjoyment of 
 . snowy weather, 7 
 ' Children of the Lord's Supper,' 
 
 ng 
 Christmas decorations, 33, 34, 
 
 307 ; minstrels, 287 ; Eve, 306 ; 
 
 carol, 309; tree, 310; Day, 
 
 314 ; ceremonies, 318 
 Chrysanthemum, 150, 156, 225, 
 
 271, 333 
 
 Church Stretton, 111 
 
 Cioch-na-h'oighe, 159, 165, 181 
 
 Cior-Mhor, 166 
 
 Clare (John), quoted, 136, 223, 270 
 
 Clawdd-Coch, 212 
 
 Clematis, 104, 332 
 
 Clement (John), 147 
 
 Cloudy weather and tree colour- 
 ing, 104 
 
 Clough (A. H.), quoted, 183 
 
 Clough at Moston, 257 
 
 Clovelly, 173 
 
 Clover, 149 
 
 Coast, spring-time on the, 43 
 
 Cockle-gatherer at Meols, 46 
 
 Coleridge, quoted, 12, 35, 205 
 
 Coleridge (Justice), quoted, 149 
 
 Coltsfoot, 149 
 
 Colwyn, 206 
 
 Coniston Old Man, 2S4 
 
 Convolvulus, 156, 195, 333 
 
 Conway Castle, luxuriant ferns at, 
 15 ; the towers of, 221 
 
 Z 
 
 Cookery recipes of the eighteenth 
 
 century, 27 
 Corn-flower, 108 
 Cornwall camellias in March, 35, 
 
 36 
 Corrie, 153, 159, 185 
 Costume, Breton-like, at Meols, 
 
 47 
 Cottage gardens of the old soTt, 46 
 Cottages, old-fashioned, 21, 45 
 Cotton gowns, 74 
 Cotton-grass, 179, 333 
 Cowper, quoted, 1, 14, 122, 227 
 Cowslips, 32 
 Cresses, 146 
 Crib-Goch, 216 
 Crib-y-Ddysgyl, 213, 216 
 Crocus, 4, 20-24, 3 2 i 44i I 5 I > 
 
 242. 333 
 Croker (Crofton), the real author 
 
 of ' The Bar-Gaist,' 263 
 Crowfoot, 146, 220, 333 
 Cuckoo, 115, 116, 243 
 Cumbrae, 182 
 
 Currant, 35, 71, go, 139, 226 
 Currant-jelly recipe, quaint, 28 
 Cwm-Dyli, 216 
 Cwm-glas-Llyn, 215 
 Cwm-y-Clogwyn, 211 
 Cwm-y-Llan, 215 
 Cyclamen, 9 
 
 DAFFODILS, 36, 44, 74, 151, 
 33i 
 Daisy, 32, 46, 47, 54, 59-65, 84, 
 
 85> 93. J 5 6 . 2Z 5, 241 
 Dandelion, 80, 85, 142, 145, 155, 
 
 169, 225, 241, 332 
 Dante, quoted, 12 
 ' Day, the longest,' ng 
 Death, the Edge of, 211 
 December, 272-314 
 Decorations, Christmas, 33, 34, 
 
 307 
 ' Deer-leaps,' 257 
 Dell at Moston, 238 
 
34° 
 
 Index. 
 
 Derbyshire, 66 
 
 Deutzia, g 
 
 Devil's bit, 241 
 
 Devil's punch-bowl, 180 
 
 Digby (Kenelm), quoted, 32, 249 
 
 Diving for apples, 246 
 
 Docks, 150 
 
 ' Dogberry, Constable, of the 
 Watch,' 229 
 
 Dog-daisy, 5g 
 
 Dog harrying lambs, 178 
 
 Dogwood, 229, 333 
 
 Dove-cage, 238 
 
 Dove, the wild, 177 ; Ruskin's de- 
 scription of the, 5 ; nest-build- 
 ing, 16 
 
 Drayton quoted, 40, 250 
 
 Ducklings and hen, 143 
 
 Ducks, 201 ; Muscovy, 298 
 
 Duddon Sonnets, 286 
 
 Dugald, the shepherd, 176 
 
 Dunmail Raise, 27, 286 
 
 Diirer (Albert), 206, 311 
 
 EAGLES in Blakeleigh Park, 
 257 
 Easdale, 293 
 
 Echoes of the spring, 221 
 Edale, 66 
 Egg-hot, 50 
 
 Elder, 4, 87, 121, 151, 200, 223 
 Elderberries, 223 
 Eliot (G.), quoted, 181 
 Elm, 52, 121, 201, 230, 240 
 Emerson (R. W.), quoted, 153 
 Erasmus, 145 
 
 Evans (Sebastian), quoted, 21 
 Evergreens, taking down, 33, 34 
 Eye-bright, 113, 155, 332 
 
 FAIRFIELD, 284 
 Fairies, or ' little men,' 278 
 Fairy-rings, 277 
 ' Fallen Rocks,' 189 
 Fall of snow, 6 
 
 GAR 
 
 Farms at Moston, 276 
 
 February, 10-24 
 
 Feeding the birds and the poor, 
 
 305-6 
 Felix, the bird-master, 229 
 Ferns, 15, 292, 333 
 Ffridd-Uchaf, 2og 
 Finches, large Congregation of, 
 
 137 
 
 Fir, 292 
 
 Fire, midsummer, 120 ; its beauty, 
 251 ; in winter, 306 
 
 Fisher folk, quaint, 173 ; their 
 theological patriarch, 173 
 
 Fishing boats, 173 
 
 Flint, the castle at, 206 
 
 ' Flitted,' 95 
 
 Flodden Field, 321 
 
 Flowers, influence of the summer 
 heat on, 124 ; by the sea, 156 
 
 Fog, Coleridge's description of a 
 white, 12 ; a blind, 246 ; scarcity 
 of, 266 ; varieties of, 267 
 
 Foliage, varieties of colour, 121 
 
 Folk lore, 261, 263, 277 
 
 Forget-me-not, 113, 156, 332 
 
 Foxglove, 4, 104, 113, 118, 124, 
 128-133, 141, 155, 224, 323 
 
 Frog, 95 
 
 Frost, in February, n ; reminis- 
 cences of frost-fair, n ; atypical 
 frosty morning, 13 ; ' sharp ' 
 and ' killing ' in May, 73 ; and 
 the hawthorn, 84 
 
 Fuchsia, 162, 227, 271 
 
 Fulham meadows, 145 
 
 Fullarton family, 160 
 
 Funeral emblem, rosemary as a, 
 
 147 
 Fungi, 236 
 
 GARDEN, corners and alleys 
 of our, 5 ; the foxglove, 
 128-133 ; the book for the, 
 134 ; the old-fashioned, 145- 
 152 ; aspect of in autumn, 226 
 
Index. 
 
 341 
 
 Geese, 223, 2g8 
 
 Gentians, 151 
 
 Geraniums, 71, 131, 162, 227, 
 
 271, 316 
 Girvan, 187 
 Glas-Llyn, 215 
 Glasswort as a pickle, 146 
 Glen at Moston, 238 
 Glen-Chalmadale, 191 
 Glen Cloy, 160 
 GlenifTer, Braes of, 304 
 Glen-Rosa, 160, 165 
 Glen-Sannox, 165, 182 
 Glowworm, 317 
 Glyder-Fach , 217 
 Gnats, dance of, 19 ; wailful 
 
 mourn of, 230 
 Goatfell, 158, 159, r7g, 184 
 Goethe, quoted, I2g 
 1 Golden chain,' a local name for 
 
 laburnums, 87 
 Googe (Barnaby), quoted, 120 
 Gooseander, 30 
 Gooseberry, ig, 35, 71, 87, 139, 
 
 226 
 Goose-grass, a 'blood purifier,' 
 
 146 
 Gorphysfa, 217 
 Gorse, 2g, 130, 221 
 Grange-in-Cartmel, 283 
 Grapes, 197, 271 
 Grasmere, 30, 285 
 Grasses, 150 
 
 Gray (David), quoted, 213 
 Gray (Thos.), his discovery of the 
 
 Lake-Country, 27; quoted, no 
 Green (lohn), the shepherd, and 
 
 his wife, 2g6 
 Grelle (Thomas de), 273 
 Guebres, 128 
 Guelder-rose, 87 
 Gulls, 156 
 Gunpowder festival, 249 
 
 H 
 
 ABROTHAMNUS, 227, 
 333 
 
 Halgh (George), 259 
 
 ' Halloween,' 247 
 
 Hamilton ejectments, igo 
 
 Hamilton family, 160 
 
 Hard-fern, 2g2, 333 
 
 Harebell, 155, 333 
 
 Hart's-tongue, 15, 108, 331 
 
 Harvest home, 276 
 
 Hawker (R. S.), quoted, 92 
 
 Hawks, 257 
 
 Hawthorn, 15, 84, 90, 98, 121, 
 
 I3 1 - r 3 6 
 
 Hay, moorland, 177 
 
 Hayfield, 66 ; in the, 123 ; de- 
 lightful associations in connec- 
 tion with harvest, 125 
 
 Hazel, 177, 178, 183, 261 
 
 Heather, 179 
 
 Hedge-cricket, 231 
 
 Hedge-warbler, boldness of, g6 ; 
 nest of, g6, 332 
 
 Helvellyn, 26, 2g, 286, 2gi 
 
 Hemans (F.), quoted, 211 
 
 Hen and ducklings, 143 
 
 Henry I., storm on All Hallows' 
 day in the eighteenth year of, 
 
 249 
 
 Herbert (George), quoted, 115 
 
 Herb-robert, 113, 156, 221, 332 
 
 Herb-twopence, cure for a hun- 
 dred ills, 146 
 
 Hereford violets, 42 
 
 Heron, 30, 257 
 
 Herrick, quoted, 34, 41, 51, 75, 
 107, 236, 276, 309, 318 
 
 Hesketh, Dame Mary, 47 
 
 High Street, 284 
 
 Hills, view of the distant, 65 
 
 ' Hive, legend of the,' 91, 92 
 
 Hock-cart, 276 
 
 Holcolme, 274 
 
 Hollingworth, quoted, 264 
 
 Holly, 34, 46, 88, 89, 113, 149, 
 228, 261, 292, 308, 3og 
 
 Holy-Island, 164, 182 
 
 Homer, quoted, igg 
 
342 
 
 Index. 
 
 HON 
 
 Honeysuckle, 115, 260 
 
 Honey, the sweetest in Wales, 2ig 
 
 Horse-chestnut, 52 
 
 Horsetail, 149, 333 
 
 Hough Hall, 258 
 
 Hunt (Leigh), quoted, 72 
 
 Hyacinth, 15, 82, 179, 238, 260 
 
 Hydrangea, 162 
 
 TDLENESS, rural, in May, 
 73 ; as a virtue, 154 
 
 Imagination, truest test to apply 
 to the, 205 
 
 Indian summer, 232 
 
 Instinct, its failures, 57 
 
 Ireland perceptible from Goat- 
 fell, 187 
 
 Iris, 108, 124, 149, 332 
 
 Irving (Washington), quoted, 313 
 
 Ivy, 34, 88, ro3, 121, 231, 309 
 
 JACOBITE rebellion, the 
 Young Pretender's officer 
 shot at Lightbowne, 274 
 January, 1-9, 319-324 
 Jasmine, yellow, 3, 4, 17, 235, 
 
 304, 331 ; white, 227, 333 
 Jessamine, 151, 195 
 John (St.), 120 ; celebration of 
 
 the eve of, 120 
 John's (St.) Fern, 121, 261 
 John the Mower, 320 
 Jones (E. Burne), 42 
 July, 123-152 
 June, gg-122 
 Juniper, 2g3 
 
 KEATS (John), quoted, 187, 
 230 
 Keble (John), quoted, 172, 248 
 Kent valley, 282 
 Keswick, 27, 30, 2gi 
 Kinder Scout, 66, 274 
 Kingsley (Charles), 218 
 Kyles, 187 
 
 LABURNUM, 5, 87, go, 98, 
 121, 201 
 ' Lady of the Daffodils,' 42 
 Lady of the old school described, 
 
 23 
 Lady's mantle, 6g, 82, 151, 331. 
 Lady-smock, 62, 77, 146, 332 
 Lake-Country in spring, 25 ; in . 
 
 winter, 280 
 Lammastide, 177 
 Lamb (Charles), 23 ; quoted, 50, 
 
 53 
 
 Lamb harried by dog, 178 
 
 Lamlash, 159 
 
 Lancashire, joviality at Whitsun- 
 tide in, 106 ; working botanists 
 of, 262 
 
 Landscape, influence of memory 
 on the beauties of the, 206 
 
 Langdale Pikes, 284 
 
 Lapwing, 280 
 
 Lark, 45, 138, 280, 305 
 
 Laurel, 281, 287, 308, 3og 
 
 Lawes (Henry), 3og 
 
 Laying a spirit, 278 
 
 ' Legend of the Hive,' gi, g2 
 
 Lesser Celandine, 32, 53 
 
 Lichens, 2g2 
 
 Life and its waste, 132 
 
 Lightbowne Hall, 274 
 
 ' Light Spout ' waterfall, 113 
 
 Lilac, colour of leaf, r2i 
 
 Lily, 81, 108, 124, 151, 332 
 
 Lily Lane, 273 
 
 Lime, 82, 113, 121, 200, 229, 
 230, 241 
 
 Limestone cave, 177 
 
 Ling-bird, 100 
 
 Linnaeus, his admiration of the 
 gorse, 130 
 
 Linnet, 256 
 
 ' Little men,' 278 
 
 Little Summer of St. Luke, 232 
 
 Llanbeblig, 207 
 
 Llanberis, 213 
 
 Llanrwst, 221 
 
Index. 
 
 343 
 
 Llechog, 210 
 
 Lliwedd, 216 1 
 
 Llyn Cwellyn, 210 
 
 Llyniau-Mymbyr, 217 
 
 Llyn Llydaw, 216 
 
 Llyn-y-Gader, 210 
 
 Loch Fyne, 164, 173 
 
 Loch Lomond, 164 
 
 Loch Ranza, 173, 188, 192, 193 
 
 Logan, quoted, 116, 167 
 
 Loneliness of the moorland, 67 
 
 1 Longest day, the,' ug 
 
 Longfellow, quoted, ug, 140 
 
 Long Mynd, 112 
 
 Loosestrife, 150, 333 
 
 Loughrigg, 284 
 
 Lowell (J. R.), quoted, 81, gg 
 
 Luke (St.) Little Summer of, 232 
 
 MAGPIES, 242 
 Maiden's breast, I5g 
 Molory 1, Sir Thomas), quoted, 311 
 Manning (Miss), quoted, 145 
 March, 25-47 • ' ast day °f> bitter 
 
 and biting, 4g 
 Marigold, 124, 271 
 Marlowe, quoted, 8g 
 Marl-pits in winter, 302 
 Marten, 115 
 Martinmas Day, 352 
 Mason (George) at North Meols, 
 
 45 
 
 Mauchrie Bay, 173 
 
 Mavis, 304 
 
 May, 72-g8 ; the flower of, 61 ; 
 frost on the 1st of, 73 ; going 
 a-Maying, 75 
 
 Maypole, 120 
 
 Meadow-lark, 100 
 
 Meadow-pipit, 100, 332 
 
 Meadow-sweet, 151, 156, 333 
 
 Menai, 207 
 
 Meols, North, 44 ; artistic quali- 
 ties of, 45 ; the old hall at, 47 
 
 Mezereon, 24 
 
 Middleton, 322 
 
 MUL 
 
 Mid-lent festival, 49 
 
 Midsummer in Sweden, 119 
 
 Mignonette, 56, 196 
 
 Milk-thistle, 145 
 
 Milton, quoted, 21, 63, 84, 151, 
 172, 263, 26g, 312 
 
 Miner's Bridge, 220 
 
 Minstrels, Christmas, 287 
 
 Mint, 177 
 
 Misletoe, 34, 308 
 
 Moel Hebog, 2og 
 
 Moel-Siabod, 218-220 
 
 Monkshood, 151, igs, 333 
 
 Moon, fading away of, 8 ; vision 
 of new, with old in her arms, 
 34. 35 ; autumnal look of, I3g ; 
 in autumn, igg ; the hunter's, 
 232 ; in November, 266 ; in 
 winter, 287 
 
 Moorland hay, 177 
 
 Moorland, on the, 65 
 
 Moor-tit, 100 
 
 More (Sir T.), 145 
 
 Morecambe, 282 
 
 Morrice-dancers, 275 
 
 Morris (W.), quoted, 25, 84, 197 
 
 Mort d'Arthur, 311 
 
 Moss, 67, 149, 272, 2g2 
 
 Moss-cheeper, 100 
 
 Moston, cottage at, with Latin 
 inscription, 22 ; its great oaks, 
 g8 ; writing from, 183 ; the 
 glen and dell of, 23g ; Clough, 
 257 ; its moss, 272 ; Christmas 
 festivities at, 307 
 
 Mother who kills her son, 278 
 
 Mothering Sunday, 50 
 
 Motherwort, 120 
 
 Mountain, on the, 175 ; fatal 
 accident on the, 180 ; scenery, 
 realisation of the dreadful as- 
 pect of, 211 ; in winter, 288. 
 
 Mountain-ash, 87, 121, 162, 180, 
 183, 184, 201, 292 
 
 Mouse, field, 126 
 
 Mull, 173 
 
344 
 
 Index. 
 
 Myrtle, 177, 179 
 Musk, 71, 124, 225 
 
 NANT Gwynant, 216 
 Nantlle, 210 
 
 Narcissus, g3 
 
 Nasturtiums, 162, igg, 227 
 
 Nature, its gravity, 133 ; its con- 
 tinuity, 154 
 
 Newby Bridge, 283 
 
 Newman (J. H.), quoted, 123 
 
 Nest forsaken, 253 
 
 New BrunswickHighland colony, 
 190 
 
 New year begun, 3ig 
 
 Nightingales, 120 
 
 November, 245-271 ; fog, 266 
 
 Nuthurst, 275 
 
 Nut-Nan, 277 
 
 OAK, 86, 98, 108, 121, 200, 
 229, 231. 237. 257. 332 
 Ocean smiles, 172 
 October, 213-244 
 Odermann, 274 
 'Old Bess, '.278 
 Old man's pepper, 146 
 Oliver's Clough, 265 
 Orchis, purple, 146 
 Osmunda, 285 
 Ossian, 166 
 Ousel-cock, 204 
 
 PANSY, 113, 332 
 Parsley, 46 
 Parson and the rain, 94 
 Passion flower, 125 
 Peaches, ig7 
 Peacock, 6, 82 
 Pea-hen, 144 
 Pear-trees, 35, 52, 65, 73, 141, 
 
 197. 233 
 Pentecost, 106 
 
 Pen-y-Gwryd, 217 
 
 Peony, 108, 151 
 
 Periwinkle, 225, 333 
 
 Pfingsten-tag, 106 
 
 Phantom huntsmen, 277 
 
 Pied wagtail, 156, 2og, 333 
 
 Pigeons, 73, 142, 202, 223 
 
 Pimpernel, 146 
 
 Pines, 221 
 
 Pink, 118 
 
 Pitmother, 277 
 
 Plumbago, 125, 227, 332 
 
 Politician of the Lake District, 296 
 
 Polyanthus, 15, 46 
 
 Pont-y-Gyfyng, 220 
 
 Poppy, a promoter of sleep, 146 
 
 Porlock, 131 
 
 Pottage improved by herbs, 146 
 
 Primrose, 6, g, 36, 44, 46, 75, 
 
 131, 151, 179, 333 
 Professor on the love of trees, 105 
 Providence and the birds, 102 
 
 Q 
 
 UEEN of the meadow, 151 
 
 RAIN, 94, I2g, 140 
 Rainbow, 170 
 
 Ranunculus, 15, 74, 150 
 
 Raspberry, 98 
 
 Redbreast (see Robin Redbreast) 
 
 Returning winter, 4 
 
 Rhododendron, 8g, 90, 204 
 
 Rhyl, 206 
 
 Richard I. taken prisoner, 249 
 
 Rime, 301 
 
 Robin Goodfellow, 263 
 
 Robin Redbreast, 8, 13, 82 ; 
 singing in the thunder, 85 ; my 
 favourite, 204 ; the whistle of 
 the, 230 ; courts my acquaint- 
 ance, 243 ; very numerous, 256; 
 hard time for, 305 
 
 Roby (John), 263 
 
 Rochdale, 257 
 
 Rookery, 258 
 
Index. 
 
 345 
 
 Rooks, 44, 305 
 
 Roses, 3, 13, 6g, 71 ; 113, 115, 
 125, 151, 156, 162, 177, 226, 
 228, 239, 260, 292, 305 
 
 Rosemary, 34, 147, 309 
 
 Rossetti (Gabriel), 42 
 
 Rosthwaite, 294 
 
 Rowan, 183 
 
 Rushbearing, 275 
 
 Ruskin (John), quoted, 5, 131 
 
 Russel (Sir John), 249 
 
 Rydal Mere, 285 
 
 RydaL Mount, 148 
 
 Rydal, the home of Wordsworth, 
 31; Mere, 32, 2S5 ; Mount, 148 
 
 SADDLEWORTH, 65 
 Sage, 46 
 Saint Anthony Turnip, 146 
 Saint Michael, 182 
 Salep, 146 
 Salford, 264 
 Sandford family, 275 
 Sannox, 164, i8g, igo 
 Satin-flower, 77, 332 
 Saxifrages, 181 
 Scabious, 210, 241, 333 
 Scammony, 146 
 Scilla-amcena, 15 
 Scotch, not given togardening, 162 
 Scott (Sir W.), quoted, 30, 161, 
 
 185, 192, 252 
 Sea, by the, 167 
 September, 183-212 
 Shackerley Green, 275 
 Shakspere, quoted, 41, 48, 62, 75, 
 
 204, 217, 227, 243, 254, 268, 
 
 26g, 311 
 Shakspere's Dogberry, 229 
 Shamrock, 6g, 331 
 Shelley, quoted, 7, 64, log, 201- 
 
 203, 251, 26g, 272, 324 
 Shepherd's book, 2g5 
 Shepherd of the Lake District, 294 
 Shepherd's purse, 47, 241, 333 
 
 SPR 
 
 Shields (Frederick J.), 42 
 
 Shire-oaks, 6g 
 
 Shrovetide, 32 
 
 Siabod, Moel, 218 
 
 Siberian crab, 75, 198, 223, 247 
 
 Sidney (Sir P.), quoted, 18 
 
 Simanellus cake, 4g 
 
 Simblin cake, 49 
 
 Simnel cake, 49 
 
 Skating, 283, 2gg, 301, 316, 323 
 
 Skiddaw, 293 
 
 Skylark, 109 
 
 Sliding, 296 
 
 Smith (Alexander), quoted, 251 
 
 Smoking Oronooko, 50 
 
 Snapdragon, 195, 333 
 
 Snipe, 274 
 
 Snow, fall of, 6 ; an apology for 
 a snow-man, 7 ; a child's regret 
 at the collapse of, 17 ; in April, 
 52 ; a severe storm, 252 ; snow- 
 muffled winds, 288 ; an intoxi- 
 cant, 301 ; forts, 301 
 
 Snowdon, 186, 207, 210 
 
 Snowdon Ranger, 208 
 
 Snowdrops, 4, 16-ig, 28, 31, 32, 
 
 151 
 
 Solar Worship, 128 - 
 
 Solomon's seal, 74, 331 
 
 Sorrel, 150, 220 
 
 Soul-cakes, 248 
 
 Souls, departed, on Midsummer 
 Eve, 120 
 
 Southey, quoted, 89 
 
 Sparrow, 16, 80, 228, 237,256,305 
 
 Speedwell, 21 
 
 Spence (Sir Patrick), quoted, 35 
 
 Spenser quoted, 10, 123, 232 
 
 Spiders' webs, 235 
 
 Spinning, 277 
 
 Spring days in January, 2 ; time 
 in the Lake Country, 25 ; on the 
 coast, 43; weather, 51; 'the 
 winter is gone,' 70 ; ' the living 
 green of,' 134 ; echoes of, 221- 
 226 ; song of, 230 
 
 A A 
 
346 
 
 Index. 
 
 Stag's-horn moss, 293 
 
 Starling, 36, 52, 57 
 
 Star-of-Bethlehem, 74, 331 
 
 Stellaria, 113, 260, 332 
 
 Still days, 93 
 
 Stitchwort, 332 
 
 Stocks, 271 
 
 Storms on All Hallows, 249 
 
 Strawberries, rg, 31, 69, 87, 225 
 
 Suidhe-Fergus, r65 
 
 Summer in the Midlands, no ; 
 
 tropical, 123; woods, 133 ; hot 
 
 again, 139 
 Sunday in the Lake-Country, 31 ; 
 
 at Church Stretton, 114 
 Sunrise, 7, 171 
 Sunset, 109, 117, 127, 142 ; on 
 
 the mountains, 1S1, 193 
 Sunshine not essential to beauty, 
 
 g3 ; in the mountains, 217 
 Surrey dogwood, 229 
 Swallows, 138 
 Sweden, midsummer in, 113 
 Sweet-Gale, 179, 333 
 Sweet- William, 124 
 Swift, 115, 332 
 Swinburne, quoted, 165 
 Swithin's (St.) Day, 139 
 Sword-grass, 108 
 Sycamore, 122, 135, 151, 200, 241 
 Syringa, 226, 271, 333 
 
 ''pALIESIN, quoted, 50 
 JL Tannahill, quoted, 304 
 
 Tan-y-Bwlch Hotel, 217 
 
 Tea and herrings, igi 
 
 Tegner (Bishop), quoted, ng 
 
 Temperature, 51, 123, 140, ig8, 
 222, 303 
 
 Tennyson (Alfred), quoted, 12, 
 17, 20, 31, 44, 46, 70, 87, g8, 
 104, no, 125, 132, 137, 141, 
 148, 216, 241, 263, 313, 3ig 
 
 Tennyson (Frederick), quoted, S6 
 
 Tentacula, 169 
 
 Thirlmere, 25, 286, 287, 291, 2g5 
 
 Thistles, 150, igg 
 
 Thomson (James), quoted, 43, 2gg 
 
 Thorn, 65, 76, 200, 228 
 
 Throstle, 23, 57, 64, 71, 85, ng, 
 137. I 38, 141, 204, 243 
 
 ' Throstle Glen,' 243 
 
 Throstle's nest, history of, 78 
 
 Thrush (see Throstle) 
 
 Thunder, 77, 85, 232, 254 
 
 Thyme, 46, 146, 232 
 
 Tit-lark, 100 
 
 Titling, 100 
 
 ' Toilers of the Sea,' 46 
 
 Toothache, a cure for, 146 
 
 Tormentil, 210, 333 
 
 Traeth-Mawr, 2og 
 
 Trees, love of trees and the de- 
 scent of man, 105 ; by the sea, 
 162 ; in autumn, ig6 
 
 Trefoil, 15 
 
 Tropical summer, 123 
 
 Tudor, Henry and Mary, 114 
 
 Tulips, 74 
 
 Turner (J. W. M.), his ' Frosty 
 Morning,' 13 
 
 Tusser, quoted, 56, 3og 
 
 Twilight, ng 
 
 Tyn-y-coed, 2ig 
 
 u 
 
 LLSWATER, 3g 
 
 VALE of St. John, 25, 30 
 Vaughan (H.), quoted, 95, 
 102, 312, 314 
 Veronica, 151, 195, 227,333 
 Vervain, 120, 146 
 Vetch, 156 
 Vetchling, 150, 333 
 Violet, 21, 42 
 Vortigern, 207 
 
 w 
 
 fAENFAWR, 207 
 
 Waggons, country, 258 
 
Index. 
 
 347 
 
 Wagtail, 138, 156, 209, 333 
 
 Walker (Fred.) at North Meols, 45 
 
 Walton (I), 83 
 
 Wansfell, 284 
 
 Warbler, 80 
 
 Wassail, 318 
 
 Watendlath, 291, 293, 295, 296 
 
 Water arrow-head, 146 
 
 Water, rare sweet, recipe for, 28 
 
 Water sprites, 277 
 
 Watts (Isaac), quoted, 134 
 
 Waves, sound of, i6g ; laughter 
 
 of, 171 
 Weather - Prophet, Dugald the, 
 
 176 
 Weaving, 277 
 Wekeen, 100 
 
 Welsh hills in autumn, 205 
 Westmoreland, the mountains of, 
 
 280 
 Whaite (Clarence), 218 
 Whinberry, 67, 331 
 White fog, 10 
 White (Gilbert), 83 
 White-thorn, 83 
 White Water, 161, 179 
 Whiting Bay, isg 
 Whitsuntide, 106 
 Whortleberry, 67, 331 
 Whytemosse, 273 
 Wild succory, 146 
 Willow, 46, 47, 121, 136, 151, 
 
 162, 200, 242 
 Willow herb, 150, 156, 225, 333 
 Wind, whistle of the North, 8 ; 
 
 varying qualities of the four, 
 
 56 ; rending the clouds, 77 ; 
 
 the wild West, 200 
 
 Wind-flower, 77, 332 
 
 Winter, returning, 4 ; dumbness 
 of, 8 ; gone, 70 ; fire, cessation 
 of, 117; first week of, 245; in 
 the Lake-Country, 280; beauty 
 of, 282 ; an old-fashioned, 298 
 
 Winter-house, 299 
 
 Witches, 278 
 
 Wither (G.), quoted, 308 
 
 Wizards, 278 
 
 Wolsey (Cardinal), 249 
 
 Wool, 277 
 
 Wordsworth (Dorothy),quoted,39 
 
 Wordsworth (W.), quoted, 1,2,18, 
 38, 54, 56, 64, 6g, 76, 80, 116, 
 119, 155, 158, 167, 182, 191, 
 219, 227, 259, 285, 286, 287, 
 288, 297, 299, 323 ; his house 
 at Rydal, 32 ; garden at Rydal, 
 148 ; his delight in the beauties 
 of nature, 149 
 
 Worm, 103 
 
 Wood in summer, 133 ; in 
 autumn, 226 
 
 Woodbine, 156 
 
 Woodruff, 113, 146, 156 
 
 Wood-sorrel, 31, 69, 77, 146, 331 
 
 Wren, 30, 204, 243 
 
 YARRELL, quoted, 100 
 Yarrow, 156, 333 
 Year ended, 314 
 Yellow wagtail, 138, 333 
 Yew tree, 88 
 Yr Eifl, 207 
 Yuletide, 120 
 Y-Wyddfa, 216 
 
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8 A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
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io A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
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12 A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
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 {Continued. 
 
14 A CA TALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL L1TERA TURE 
 
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 Boedder. Cro\vn 8vo. 6s. 6d. 
 
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 S. Devas. 6s. 6d. 
 
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 Crown 8vo. ys. 6d. 
 
 HOME PRAYERS. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
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 each. 
 
 I. Personal : Political. 
 II. Ecclesiastical : Historical. 
 
 III. Theological : Philosophical. 
 
 IV. (Academical : Religious. 
 
 MATTHEWS (Brander).— A FAMILY TREE, and other Stories. Crown 
 8vo. 6s. 
 
 PEN AND INK— Selected Papers. Crown 8vo. jr. 
 
 WITH MY FRIENDS : Tales told in Partnership. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
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 900 Woodcuts. 
 Treasury of Geography. With 7 Maps 
 
 and 16 Plates. 
 Scientific and Literary Treasury. 
 Historical Treasury. 
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 15 Plates, and 300 Woodcuts. Fcp. 
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 J. Ltndley and T. Moore. With 
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 ANTHROPOLOGICAL RELIGION : The Gifford Lectures delivered 
 
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 {Continued. 
 
i6 A- CA TALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 MAX MULLEE, (F.)— (Continued). 
 
 THEOSOPHY OR PSYCHOLOGICAL RELIGION: the Gilford 
 
 Lectures delivered before the University of Glasgow in 1892. Crown 8vo. 
 
 THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. 8vo. 21*. 
 
 THREE INTRODUCTORY LECTURES ON THE SCIENCE OF 
 
 THOUGHT. 8vo. 21. 6d. 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORDS, AND THE HOME OF THE ARYAS. 
 
 Crown 8vo. js. 6d. 
 
 INDIA, WHAT CAN IT TEACH US? Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 A SANSKRIT GRAMMAR FOR BEGINNERS. New and Abridged 
 
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 MAY (Sir Thomas Erskine).— THE CONSTITUTIONAL HISTORY 
 OF ENGLAND since the Accession of George III. 3 vols. Crown 8vo. i&r. 
 
 MEADE (L. T.).— DADDY'S BOY.. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 DEB AND THEDUCHESS. Illust. by M. E. Edwards. Cr. 8vo. jr. 6d. 
 
 THE BERESFORD PRIZE. Illustrated byM. E. Edwards. Cr. 8vo. 5s. 
 
 MEATH (The Earl of ).— SOCIAL ARROWS : Reprinted Armeies on 
 various Social Subjects. Crown 8vo. jr. 
 
 PROSPERITY OR PAUPERISM ? Physical, Industrial, and Technical 
 
 Training. Edited by the Earl of Meath. 8vo; 5s. 
 
 MELVILLE (G-. J. "Whyte).— Novels by. Crown 8vo. is. each, boards ; 
 is. 6d. each, cloth. 
 
 The Queen's Maries. Digby Grand. 
 
 Holmby House. General Bounce. 
 
 Kate Coventry. 
 
 The Gladiators. 
 The Interpreter. 
 Good for Nothing. 
 
 MEUDELSSOHIS".— THE LETTERS OF FELIX MENDELSSOHN. 
 Translated by Lady Wallace. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 10s. 
 
 MERIVALE (Rev. Cb_as.).— HISTORY OF THE ROMANS UNDER 
 THE EMPIRE. Cabinet Edition, 8 vols. Crown 8vo. 48s. Popular Edition, 
 8 vols. Crown 8vo. 3J. 6d. each. 
 
 THE FALL OF THE ROMAN REPUBLIC : a Short History of the 
 
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 MILL (John Stuart).— PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
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 A SYSTEM OF LOGIC. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
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 UTILITARIANISM. 8vo. si. 
 
 EXAMINATION OF SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON'S PHILO- 
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 NATURE, THE UTILITY OF RELIGION AND THEISM. Three 
 
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PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, if CO. 
 
 17 
 
 MILNER (George).— COUNTRY PLEASURES ; the Chronicle of a Year 
 chiefly in a Garden. Crown 8vo. 3S.-6d. 
 
 MOLESWORTH (Mrs.).— SILVERTHORNS. With Illustrations by F. 
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 STORIES OF THE SAINTS FOR CHILDREN : the Hack Letter 
 
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 MOORE (Edward).— DANTE AND HIS EARLY BIOGRAPHERS. 
 
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 TVTTTT.TTAT.T. (Michael O-.).— HISTORY OF PRICES SINCE THE YEAR 
 
 1850. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 NAJTSEN" (Dr. Fridtjof ).— THE FIRST CROSSING OF GREENLAND. 
 With numerous Illustrations and a Map. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 NAPIER — THE LIFE OF SIR JOSEPH NAPIER, BART, EX-LORD 
 CHANCELLOR OF IRELAND. By Alex. Charles Ewald. 8vo. 15J. 
 
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 HON. SIR JOSEPH NAPIER, BART. 8vo. izs. 6d. 
 
 NESBIT (E.).— LEAVES OF LIFE : Verses. Crown 8vo. &. 
 
 LAYS AND-LEGENDS. First Series. Crown 8vo. 3J. 6d. Second 
 
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 NEWHAN (Cardinal).— "Works 
 
 Discourses to Mixed Congregations. 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 6r. 
 Cheap Edition, 31. 6d. 
 
 Sermons en Various Occasions. Ca- 
 binet Edition, Cr. 8vo. dr. Cheap 
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 The Idea of a University defined and 
 illustrated. Cabinet Edition, Cr. 8vo. 
 7s.. Cheap Edition, Cr. 8vo.. 31. 6d. 
 
 Historical Sketches. Cabinet Edition, 
 3 vols. Crown 8vo. 6s. each. Cheap 
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 The Arians of the Eourth Century. 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. bs. 
 Cheap Edition, Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
 Select Treatises of St. Athanasius in 
 Controversy with the Arians. Freely 
 Translated. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 
 
 15s. 
 Discussions and Arguments onYarious 
 
 Subjects. Cabinet Edition, Crown 
 
 8vo. 6s. Cheap Edition, Crown 
 
 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 Apologia Pro Yita Sua. Cabinet Ed. , 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. Cheap Ed. 3s. 6d. 
 Development of Christian Doctrine. 
 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Cheap Edition, Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 by:- 
 
 Certain Difficulties felt by Anglicans 
 In Catholic Teaching Considered. 
 
 Cabinet Edition. Vol. I. Crown 8vo. 
 7s. 6d. ; Vol. II. Crown 8vo. 5*. 6d. 
 Cheap Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 
 3$. 6d. each. 
 
 The Via Media of the Anglican Church, 
 Illustrated in Lectures, &c. Cabinet 
 Edition, 2 vols. Cr. 8vo. 6s. each. 
 Cheap Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 
 3s. 6d. each. . . 
 
 Essays, Criticaland Historical. Cabi- 
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 Cheap Edition, 2 vols. Cr. 8vo. 7s. 
 
 Biblical and Ecclesiastical Miracles. 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Cheap Edition, Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 Present Position of Catholics in Eng- 
 land. ' Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 
 7s. 6d. Cheap Edition, Crown 8vo. 
 3s. 6d. 
 
 Tracts. 1. Dissertatiunculse. 2, On 
 the Text of the Seven Epistles of St.- 
 Ignatius. 3. Doctrinal Causes of 
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 St. Cyril's Formula. 6. Ordo de 
 Tempore. 7. Douay Version of 
 Scripture. Crown 8vo. 8s. 
 
 - \Continned. 
 
18 A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS /N GENERAL LITER A TURE 
 
 KjswMAH (Cardinal).— "Works by :— (continued). 
 
 Loss and Gain: a Tale. Cabinet 
 Edition, Crown 8vo. 6s. Cheap 
 Edition, Crown 8vo. 3J. 6W. 
 The Dream of Gerontius. i6mo. 6d. 
 
 An Essay in Aid of a Gramma; of 
 
 Assent. Cabinet Edition, Crown 
 8vo. 7s. 6d. Cheap Edition, Crown 
 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 Callista : a Tale of the Third Century. 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. or. 
 Cheap Edition, Crown 8vo. 31. 6d. 
 
 sewed, is. cloth. 
 Verses on Various Occasions. Cabinet 
 Edition, Crown 8vo. 6s. Cheap 
 Edition, Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 %* For Cardinal Newman's other Works see Messrs. Longmans fi 3 Co. 7 s 
 Catalogue of Theological Works. 
 
 NORTON (Charles L.).— A HANDBOOK OF FLORIDA 49 Maps and 
 Plans. Fcp. 8vo. ty. 
 
 O'BRIEN (William).— WHEN WE WERE BOYS : A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 
 zs. 6d. 
 
 OLIPHANT (Mrs.).— MADAM. Crown 8vo. is. boards ; is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 IN TRUST. Crown 8vo. is. boards ; is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 OMAN (C. W. C.).— A HISTORY OF GREECE FROM THE EARLIEST 
 TIMES TO THE MACEDONIAN CONQUEST. With Maps. Crown 8vo. 
 Us. 6d. 
 
 PARKES (Sir Henry). — FIFTY YEARS IN THE MAKING OF 
 AUSTRALIAN HISTORY. With Portraits. 2 vols. 8vo. 32s. 
 
 PAUL (Hermann).— PRINCIPLES OF THE HISTORY OF LANGUAGE 
 Translated by H. A. Strong. 8vo. ioj. 6d. 
 
 PAYN (James).— THE LUCK OF THE DARRELLS. Cr. 8vo. is. bds. ; 
 15. 6d. cl. 
 
 THICKER T/HAN WATER. Crown 8vo. is. boards ; is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 PERRING (Sir Philip).— HARD KNOTS IN SHAKESPEARE. 8vo. 
 •js. 6d. 
 
 THE ' WORKS AND DAYS ' OF MOSES. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 PHTLLIPPS-WOLLEY (C.).— SNAP : a Legend of the Lone Mountain. 
 With 13 Illustrations by H. G. Willink. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 POLE (W".).— THE THEORY OF THE MODERN SCIENTIFIC GAME 
 OF WHIST. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. 
 
 POOLE (W. H. and Mrs.).— COOKERY FOR THE DIABETIC. Fcp. 
 8vo. zs. td. 
 
 PRAEGER (P.).— WAGNER AS I KNEW HIM. Crown 8vo. 7 s. 6d. 
 
 PRATT (A. E., P.R.G.S.).— TO THE SNOWS OF TIBET THROUGH 
 CHINA. With 33 Illustrations and a Map. 8vo. 18*. 
 
 PRENDERGAST (JohnP.).— IRELAND, FROM THE RESTORATION 
 TO THE REVOLUTION, 1660-1690. 8vo. 5s. 
 
PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, £ CO. 
 
 19 
 
 PROCTOR (R.A.).— Works by:— 
 Old and New Astronomy. 4to. 36.1. 
 The Orbs Around Us. Crown 8vo. jj._ 
 Other Worlds than Ours. With 14 
 
 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. $s. Cheap 
 
 Edition, 3s. 6d. 
 The Moon. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 Universe of Stars. 8vo. 10s. 6d. 
 Larger Star Atlas for the Library, in 
 
 12 Circular Maps, with Introduction 
 
 and 2 Index Pages. Folio, 15*. or 
 
 Maps only, 12.J. 6d. 
 The Student's Atlas. In 12 Circular 
 
 Maps. 8vo. 5.J. 
 New Star Atlas. In 12 Circular Maps. 
 
 Crown 8vo. $s. 
 Light Science for Leisure Hours. 
 
 3 vols. Crown 8vo. 55. each. 
 Chance and Luck. Crown 8vo. as. 
 
 boards ; zs. 6d. cloth. 
 Pleasant Ways in Science. Cr.8vo. 5s. 
 
 Cheap Edition, 3J. 6d. 
 How to Play Whist : with the Laws and 
 
 Etiquette of Whist. Crown 8vo. y.6d. 
 Home Whist : an Easy Guide to 
 
 Correct Play. 161110. is. 
 
 The Stars in their Season. 12 Maps. 
 
 Royal 8vo. 5.?. 
 Star Primer. Showing the Starry Sky 
 
 Week by Week, in 24 Hourly Maps. 
 
 Crown 4to. 2j. 6d. 
 The Seasons Pictured in 48 Sun-Views 
 
 of the Earth, and 24 Zodiacal Maps, 
 
 &c. Demy 4to. 5J. 
 Strength and Happiness. With 9 
 
 Illustrations. Crown 8vg. 5J. 
 Strength: How to get Strong and 
 
 keep Strong. Crown 8vo. zs. 
 Rough Ways Made Smooth. Essays on 
 
 Scientific Subjects. - Crown 8vo : $s. 
 
 Cheap Edition, 3J. 6d. 
 Our Place among Infinities. Cr. 8vo. 5.1'. 
 The Expanse of Heaven. Cr. 8vo. 55. 
 The Great Pyramid. Crown 8vo. 5.1. 
 Myths and Marvels of Astronomy 
 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 Nature Studies. By Grant Allen, A. 
 
 Wilson, T. Foster, E. Clodd, and 
 
 R. A. Proctor. Crown 8vo. 5J. 
 Leisure Readings. By E. Clodd, A. 
 
 Wilson, T. Foster, A. C. Ranyard, 
 
 and R. A. Proctor. Crown 8vo. 5J. 
 
 RAHTSOME (Cyril).— THE RISE OF CONSTITUTIONAL GOVERN- 
 MENT IN ENGLAND : being a Series of Twenty Lectures. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 READER (Emily E.).— VOICES FROM FLOWER-LAND : a Birthday 
 Book and Language of Flowers. Illustrated by ADA Brooke. Royal i6mo. 
 Cloth, 2J.. 6d. ; vegetable vellum, 3*. 6d. 
 
 REPLY (A) TO DR. LIGHTFOOT'S ESSAYS. By the Author of ' Super- 
 natural Religion '. 8vo. 6s. 
 
 RIBOT (Th.).— THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ATTENTION. Crown 8vo. 3 s. 
 
 RICH (A.).— A DICTIONARY OF ROMAN AND GREEK ANTIQUITIES. 
 With 2000 Woodcuts. Crown 8vo. js. 6d. 
 
 RICHARDSON" (Dr. B. W.).— NATIONAL HEALTH. A Review of 
 the Works of Sir Edwin Chadwick, K.C. B. Crown 4s. 6d. 
 
 RIVERS (T. and T. P.).— THE MINIATURE FRUIT GARDEN ; or, 
 The Culture of Pyramidal and Bush Fruit Trees. With 32 Illustrations. 
 Crown 8vo. 4s. 
 
 RIVERS (T.).— THE ROSE AMATEUR'S GUIDE. Fcp. 8vo. 41. 6d. 
 
 ROBERTSON (A.).— THE KIDNAPPED SQUATTER, and other Aus- 
 tralian Tales. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 ROGET (John Lewis).— A HISTORY OF THE 'OLD WATER 
 COLOUR ' SOCIETY. 2 vols. Royal 8vo. 42s. 
 
 ROGET (Peter M.)J— THESAURUS OF ENGLISH WORDS AND 
 PHRASES. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d. 
 
2o A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 ROMANES (George John, M.A., LLJ)., F.R.S0 — DARWIN, AND 
 AFTER DARWIN : an Exposition of the Darwinian Theory and a Discus- 
 sion of Post-Darwinian Questions. Part I.— The Darwinian Theory. With a 
 Portrait of Darwin and 125 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. ion. 6<£. 
 
 ROISALDS (Alfred).^THE FLY-FISHER'S ETYMOLOGY. With 20 
 Coloured Plates. 8vo. 14J. 
 
 ROSSETTI (Maria Francesca).— A SHADOW OF DANTE : being an 
 Essay towards studying Himself, his World, and his Pilgrimage. Cr. 8vo. ioj. 6d. 
 
 ROUND (J. H., M.A.).— GEOFFREY DE MANDEVILLE : a Study of 
 the Anarchy. 8vo. i6j. 
 
 RUSSELL.— A LIFE OF LORD JOHN RUSSELL. By Spencer Walpole. 
 2 vols. 8vo. 36J. Cabinet Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 12s. 
 
 SEEBOHM (Frederick). — THE OXFORD REFORMERS — JOHN 
 COLET,. ERASMUS, AND THOMAS MORE. 8vo. 141. 
 
 THE ENGLISH VILLAGE COMMUNITY Examined in its Re-. 
 
 lations to the Manorial and Tribal Systems, &c. 13 Maps and Plates. 8vo. i6j. 
 THE ERA OF THE PROTESTANT REVOLUTION. With Map. 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. 
 
 SEWELL (Elizabeth M.).— STORIES AND TALES, 
 each, cloth plain ; zs. 6d. each, cloth' extra, gilt edges : 
 
 Crown 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 Amy Herbert. 
 The Earl's Daughter. 
 The Experience of Life. 
 A Glimpse of the World. 
 Cleve Hall. 
 
 Katharine Sshton. 
 Margaret Percival. 
 Laneton Parsonage. 
 Ursula. 
 
 Gertrude. 
 Ivors. 
 Home Life. 
 After Life. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE— BOWDLER'S FAMILY SHAKESPEARE. 1 vol. 8yp, 
 
 With 36 Woodcuts, 14J. , or in 6 vols. Fcp. 8vo. 2ij. 
 OUTLINES OF THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. By J. O. 
 
 Halliwell-Phillipps. With Illustrations. 2 vols. Royal 8vo. £1 is. ■ 
 SHAKESPEARE'S TRUE LIFE. By James Walter. With 500 
 
 Illustrations. Imp. 8vo. zts. 
 
 — THE SHAKESPEARE BIRTHDAY BOOK. By Marv F. Dunbar. 
 
 . 32mo. is. 6d. cloth. With Photographs, 32mo. $s. Drawing -Room Edition, 
 
 with Photographs, Fcp. 8vo. 10s. 6d. 
 
 SHERBROOKE (Viscount).— LIFE AND LETTERS OF THE RIGHT 
 HON. ROBERT LOWE, VISCOUNT SHERBROOKE, G.C.B. By A. 
 Patchett Martin. With 5 Copper-plate Portraits, &c. 2 vols. 8vo. 
 
 -AN ANALYSIS OF THE IDEAS OF ECONOMICS. 
 
 SHIRRES (L. P.).- 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 SIDGWTCk (Alfred).— DISTINCTION : 
 8vo. 6s. 
 
 and the Criticism of Beliefs. Cr. 
 
 SILVER LIBRARY, The— Crown 
 BAKER'S (Sir S. W.) Eight Years in 
 
 Ceylon. With 6 Illustrations. 
 — ■ Eifle and Hound in Ceylon. 
 
 With 6 Illustrations. 
 BARING-GOULD'S (S.) Curious Myths 
 
 of the Middle Ages. 
 — Origin and Development of 
 
 Religious Belief. 2 vols. 
 BRASSEY'S (Laiy) A Voyage In the 
 .'Sunbeam'. With 66 Illustrations. 
 
 8vo. price 3s. 6d. each volume. 
 
 CLODD'S (E.) Story of Creation : a 
 Plain Account of Evolution. With 
 77 Illustrations. 
 
 CONYEEARE (Rev. W. J.) and HOW- 
 SON'S (Very Rev. J. S.) Life and 
 Epistles of St. Paul. 46 Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 DOUGALL'S (L.) Beggars All ; a Novel. 
 
 DOYLE'S (A. Conan) Micah Clarke : a 
 Tale of Monmouth's Rebellion. 
 
 [Continued. 
 
PUBLISHED BY MESSRS; LONGMANS, GREEN, &> CO. , 21 
 
 SILVER LIBRARY, The.— (Continued). 
 
 DOYLE'S (ft. Conan) The Captain of 
 
 the Polestar, and other Tales. 
 FROUDE'S (J. A.) Short Studies on 
 
 Great Subjects. 4 vols. 
 The History of England, 
 
 from the Fall of Wolsey to the 
 
 Defeat of the Spanish Armada. 12 
 
 vols. 
 
 — Caesar : a-Sketch. 
 
 Thomas Carlyle : a History 
 
 of his Life. 1795-1835. 2 vols. 
 
 1834-1881. 2 vols.' 
 The Two Chiefs of Dunboy : 
 
 an Irish Romance of the Last 
 
 Century. 
 GLEIG'S (Rev. 6. R.) Life of the Duke 
 
 of Wellington. With Portrait. 
 HAGGARD'S (H. R.) She : A History of 
 
 Adventure. 32 Illustrations. 
 Allan Quatermain. With 
 
 20 Illustrations. 
 Colonel Quaritch, Y.C. : a 
 
 Tale of Country Life. 
 
 - Cleopatra. With 29 Full- 
 
 page Illustrations. 
 - Beatrice. 
 
 HARTE'S (Bret) In the Carquinez 
 
 Woods, and other Stories. 
 HELMHOLTZ'S (Professor) Popular 
 
 Lectures on Scientific Subjects. 
 
 With 68 Woodcuts. 2 vols. 
 HOWITT'S (W.) Visits to Remarkable 
 
 Places,* 80 Illustrations. 
 JEPFERIES' (R.) The Story of My 
 
 Heart. With Portrait. 
 Field and Hedgerow. Last 
 
 Essays of. With Portrait. 
 
 Red Deer. With 17 Illust. 
 
 KNIGHT'S (E. F.) CruiBe of the 
 
 'Alerte,' a Search, for Treasure. 
 
 With 2 Maps and 23 Illustrations. 
 LEES (J. A.) and CLUTTERBUCK'S 
 
 (W. J.) B.C. 1887. British Columbia. 
 
 75 Illustrations. 
 MACAULAY'S (Lord) Essays— Lays of 
 
 Ancient Rome. In 1 vol. With Por- 
 trait and Illustrations to the ' Lays '. 
 MACLEOD'S (H. D.) The Elements of 
 
 Banking. 
 MARSHMAN'S (J. C.) Memoirs of Sir 
 
 Henry Havelock. 
 MAX MULLER'S (F.) India, What can 
 
 it teach us ? 
 Introduction to the Science 
 
 of Religion. 
 
 MERIYALE'S (Dean) History of the 
 Romans under the Empire. 8 vols. 
 
 MILL'S (J, S.) Principles of Political 
 Economy. 
 
 System of L'ogic. 
 
 MILNER'S (G.) Country Pleasures. 
 
 NEWMAN'S (Cardinal) Historical 
 Sketches. 3 vols. 
 
 Fifteen Sermons Preached 
 
 before the University of Oxford. 
 
 Apologia Pro Yita Sua. 
 
 Callista : a Tale of the Third 
 
 Century. 
 
 Loss and Gain : a Tale. 
 
 Essays, Critical and His- 
 torical. 2 vols. 
 
 Sermons on Various Occa- 
 sions. 
 
 Lectures on the Doctrine of 
 
 Justification. 
 
 Fifteen Sermons Preached 
 
 before the University of Oxford. 
 An Essay on the Develop- 
 ment of Christian Doctrine. 
 
 - The Arians of the Fourth 
 
 Century. 
 Verse's on 
 
 sions. 
 
 Various Occa- 
 
 - Difficulties felt by Anglicans 
 in Catholic Teaching Considered. 
 2 vols. 
 
 The Idea of a University 
 
 defined and Illustrated. 
 
 Biblical and Ecclesiastical 
 
 Miracles. 
 
 Discussions and Arguments 
 
 on Various Subjects. 
 
 Grammar of Assent. 
 
 The Via Media of the An- 
 glican Church. 2 vols. 
 
 Parochial and Plain Ser- 
 mons. 8 vols. 
 
 Selection from 'Parochial 
 
 and Plain ~ Sermons 
 
 - Discourses Addressed 
 
 Mixed Congregations 
 
 Present Position of Ca 
 
 to 
 
 tholics in England. 
 : — Sermons bearing upon Sub- 
 jects of the Day. 
 
 PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY'S (C.) Snap: a 
 Legend of the Lone Mountains. 13 
 Illustrations. 
 
 PROCTOR'S (R. A.) Other Worlds than 
 Ours. 
 
 {Continued. 
 
22 A CA TALOGUB OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITER A TURE 
 SILVER LIBRARY, The {Continued.) 
 
 WE YMAH'S (Stanley J.) The House of 
 the Wolf: a Romance. 
 
 WOOD'S (Rev. J. G.) Petland Re- 
 visited. With 33 Illustrations. 
 
 Strange Dwellings. With 
 
 60 Illustrations. 
 
 Out of Doors. With n Illus- 
 
 PROCTOR'S (R. A.) Rough Ways made 
 Smooth. 
 
 Pleasant Ways in Science. 
 
 . STANLEY'S (Bishop) Familiar History 
 
 of Birds. With 160 Illustrations. 
 STEVENSON (Robert Louis) and OS- 
 BOURNE'S (Lloyd) The Wrong 
 Box. trations. 
 
 SMITH (R. Bosworth).— CARTHAGE AND THE CARTHAGINIANS. 
 Maps, Plans, &c. Crown 8vo. di. 
 
 STANLEY (E.).— A FAMILIAR HISTORY OF BIRDS. With 160 Wood- 
 cuts. Crown 8vo. 3*. bd. 
 
 STEPHEN" (Sir James). — ESSAYS IN ECCLESIASTICAL BIO- 
 GRAPHY. Crown 8vo. 7s. bd. 
 
 STEPHEN'S (H. Morse).— A HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLU- 
 TION. 3 vols. 8vo. Vol. I. iSs. Vol. II. i8j. {Vol. III. in the press. 
 
 STEVENSON (Robt. Louis).— A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES. 
 Small Fcp. 8vo. 5*. 
 
 A CHILD'S GARLAND OF SONGS, Gathered from ' A Child's 
 
 Garden of Verses '. Set to Music by C. Villiers Stanford, Mus. Doc. 
 410. 2s. sewed, 3s. 6d. cloth gilt. 
 
 THE DYNAMITER. Fcp. 8vo. 11. sewed, is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 - STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE. Fcp. 8vo. 
 
 is. sewed, is. 6d. cloth. 
 
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