"March winds and April showers
Bring forth May flowers."
But I doubt the fact. They may _call_ them forth, perhaps,--whistling
over the roofs of their subterraneous dwellings, to let them know that
Winter is past and gone. Or, in our disposition to "turn diseases to
commodities," let us regard them as the expectant damsel does the sound
of the mail coach horn that whisks through the village, as she lies in
bed at midnight, and tells her that _to-morrow_ she may look for a
letter from her absent swain.
The only other express and specific reason why I object to March, is
that she drives hares mad; which is a great fault. But be all this as it
may, she is still fraught with merits; and let us proceed, without more
ado, to point out a few of them. And first of the country;--to which, by
the way, I have not hitherto allowed its due supremacy--for
"God made the Country, but man made the Town."
Now, then, even the winds of March, notwithstanding all that we have
insinuated in their disfavour, are far from being virtueless; for they
come careering over our fields, and roads, and pathways, and while they
dry up the damps that the thaws had let loose, and the previous frosts
had prevented from sinking into the earth, "pipe to the spirit ditties"
the words of which tell tales of the forthcoming flowers. And not only
so, but occasionally they are caught bearing away upon their rough
wings the mingled odours of violet and daffodil, both of which have
already ventured to
"Come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty."
The general face of nature has not much changed in appearance since we
left it in February; though its internal economy has made an important
step in advance. The sap is alive in the seemingly sleeping trunks that
every where surround us, and is beginning to mount slowly to its
destination; and the embryo blooms are almost visibly struggling towards
light and life, beneath their rough, unpromising outer coats--unpromising
to the idle, the unthinking, and the inobservant; but to the eye that
"can see Othello's visage in his mind," bright and beautiful, in virtue
of the brightness and the beauty that they cover, but not conceal. Now,
too, the dark earth becomes soft and tractable, and yields to the kindly
constraint that calls upon it to teem with new life,--crumbling to the
touch, that it may the better clasp in its fragrant bosom the rudiments
of that gay, but ephemeral creation which are born with the spring, only
"to run their race rejoicing" into the lap of summer, and there yield up
their sweet breath, a willing incense at the shrine of that nature the
spirit of which is endless constancy growing out of endless change. Must
I tell the reader this in plainer prose?--Now, then, is the time to sow
the seeds of most of the annual flowering plants; particularly of those
which we all know and love--such as Sweet Pea, the most feminine of
flowers, that must have a kind hand to tend its youth, and a supporting
arm to cling to in its maturity, or it grovels in the dust, and straggles
away into an unsightly weed; and Mignionette, with a name as sweet as its
breath,--that loves "within a gentle bosom to be laid," and makes haste
to die there, lest its white lodging should be changed; and Larkspur,
trim, gay, and bold, the gallant of the garden; and Lupines, blue, and
yellow, and rose coloured, with their winged flowers hovering above their
starry leaves; and a host of others, that we must try to characterise as
they come in turn before us.
Now, too, we have some of the bulbous rooted flowers at their best,
particularly the pretty Crocuses, yellow, blue, striped, and white;
while others, the Narcissus, Hyacinths, and Tulips, are visibly
hastening towards their perfection.
Those spring flowers, too, which ventured to show themselves last month
before they had well recovered from their winter trance, have now grown
bold in their renewed strength, and look the winds in the face
fearlessly. Perhaps the most poetical of these, because the most
pathetic in their pale and pining beauty, are the Primroses. Their bold
and bright-eyed relatives the Polyanthuses (no two alike) are also now
all on the look out for lovers, among the bees that the warm sunny
mornings already begin to call forth.
These, with the still prevailing Hepaticas and Anemonies, the Daisies
that start up singly here and there, an early Wall-flower, the pretty
pink rods of the Mezereon, and (in the woods) the lovely Wind-flower, or
white Wood-anemone, constitute the principal wealth of this preparatory
month.
Now, too, the tender green of spring first begins to peep forth from the
straggling branches of the hedge-row Elder, the trim Lilac, and the thin
threads of the stream enamoured Willow; the first to put on its spring
clothing, and the last to leave it off. And if we look into the kitchen
garden, there too we may chance to find those forest trees in miniature,
the Gooseberries and Currants, letting their leaves and blossoms (both
of a colour) look forth together, hand in hand, in search of the April
sun before it arrives, as the lark mounts upward to seek for it before
it has risen in the morning. It will be well if these early
adventurers-forth do not encounter a cutting easterly blast; or still
worse, a deceitful breeze, that tempts them to its embraces by its
milder breath, only to shower diseases upon them. But if they _will_ be
out on the watch for Spring before she calls them, they must be content
to take their chance.
NOW, about the middle of the month, a strange commotion may be seen and
heard among the winged creatures, portending momentous matters. The lark
is high up in the cold air before day-light; and his chosen mistress is
listening to him down among the dank grass, with the dew still upon her
unshaken wing. The Robin, too, has left off, for a brief season, his low
plaintive piping, which it must be confessed was poured forth for his
own exclusive satisfaction, and, reckoning on his spruce looks and
sparkling eyes, issues his quick peremptory love-call, in a somewhat
ungallant and husband-like manner.
The Sparrows, who have lately been sulking silently about from tree to
tree, with ruffled plumes and drooping wings, now spruce themselves up
till they do not look half their former size; and if it were not
pairing-time, one might fancy that there was more of war than of love in
their noisy squabblings. But the crouching forms, quivering wings, and
murmuring bills, of yonder pair that have quitted for a moment the
clamorous cabal, can indicate the movements of but _one_ passion.
But we must leave the feathered tribe for the present:
"Sacred be love from sight, whate'er it is."
We shall have many opportunities of observing their pretty ways
hereafter.
Now, also, the Ants (with whom we shall have a crow to pick by and by)
first begin to show themselves from their subterranean sleeping-rooms;
those winged abortions, the Bats, perplex the eyes of evening wanderers
by their seeming ubiquity; and the Owls hold scientific converse with
each other at half a mile distance.
Lastly, now we meet with one of the prettiest, yet most pathetic sights
that the animal world presents; the early Lambs, dropped, in their
tottering and bleating helplessness, upon the cold skirts of winter, and
hiding their frail forms from the March winds, by crouching down on the
sheltered side of their dams.
Now, quitting the country till next month, we find London all alive,
Lent and Lady-day notwithstanding; for the latter is but a day, after
all; and he must have a very countrified conscience who cannot satisfy
it as to the former, by doing penance once or twice at an Oratorio, and
hearing comic songs sung in a foreign tongue; or, if this does not do,
he may fast if he pleases, every Friday, by eating salt fish in addition
to the rest of his fare.
Now, the citizens have pretty well left off their annual visitings, and
given the great ones leave to begin; so that there is no sleep to be had
in the neighbourhood of May-fair, for love or money, after one in the
morning.
Now, the dress boxes of the winter houses can occasionally boast a
baronet's lady; this, however, being the extent of their attainments in
that way; for how can the great be expected to listen to Shakespear
under the same roof with their shop-keepers? There is, in fact, no
denying that the said great are marvellously at the mercy of the said
little, in the matter of amusement; and there is no saying whether the
latter will not, some day or other, make an inroad upon Almack's itself.
Now, however, in spite of the said inroads, the best boxes at the Opera
do begin to be worth exploring, since a beautiful Englishwoman of high
fashion is "a sight to set before a king."
Now, the actors (all but the singing ones) in their secret hearts put up
periodical prayers for the annual agitation of the Catholic Question;
for without some stimulus of this kind, to correct the laxity of our
religious morals, there is no knowing how soon they may cease to give
thanks for three Sundays in the week during Lent.
Now, (during the said pious period) occasionally an inadvertent
apprentice gets leave to go to "the play" on a Wednesday or Friday; and,
having taken his seat in the one shilling gallery, wonders during six
long hours what can have come to the players, that they do nothing but
sit in a row with their hands before them, in front of a pyramid of
fiddlers, and break silence now and then by singing a psalm; for a psalm
he is sure it must be, though he never heard it at church.
Now, every other day, the four sides of the newspapers offer to the
wearied eye one unbroken ocean of _long-primer_; to the infinite
abridgement of the labour of Chapter Coffee House quidnuncs, who find
that they have only one sheet to get through instead of ten; and to the
entire discomfiture of the conscientious reader, who makes it a point of
duty to spell through all that he pays for, avowed advertisements
included; for in these latter there is some variety--of which no one can
accuse the parliamentary speeches. By the by, it would be but consistent
in the Times to bestow their ingenuous prefix of [_advertisement_] on a
few of the last named effusions. And if they were placed under the head
of "Want Places," nobody but the advertiser would see cause to complain
of the mistake.
Now, Fashion is on the point of awaking from her periodical sleep,
attended by Mesdames Bean, Bell, and Pierrepoint on one side of her
couch, and Messieurs Myers, Stultz, and Davison on the other; each
individual of each party watching with apparent anxiety to catch the
first glance of her opening eye, in order to direct their several
movements accordingly; but each having previously determined on those
movements as definitively as if their legitimate monarch and directress
had nothing to do with matter; for, to say truth, notwithstanding her
boasted legitimacy, Fashion has but a very limited control, even in her
own court; the real government being an Oligarchy, the members of which
are each lords paramount in their own particular departments. Who, in
fact, shall dispute an epaulet of Miss Pierrepoint's? and when Mr. Myers
has achieved a collar, who shall call it in question?
Now, Hyde Park is worth walking in at four o'clock of a fine week day,
though the trees are still bare; for there, as sure as the sunshine
comes, shall be seen sauntering beneath it three distinct classes of
fashionables; namely, first, the fair immaculates from the mansions
about May Fair, who loll listlessly in their elegant equipages, and
occasionally eye, with an air of infinite disdain, the second class, who
are peregrinating on the other side the bar,--the fair frailties from
the neighbourhood of the New Road; which latter, more magnanimous than
their betters, and less envious, are content, for their parts, to
appropriate the greater portion of the attentions of the third
class--the ineffables and exquisites from Long's, and Stevens's. Among
these last-named class something particular indeed must have happened if
you do not recognise that _arbiter elegantiarum_ of actresses, the
marquis of W----; that delighter in dennets and decaying beauties, the
honourable L---- S----; and that prince-pretty-man of rake-hells and
roués little George W----.