APRIL.

April is come! "proud--pied April!" and "hath put a spirit of youth in

every thing." Shall our portrait of her, then, alone lack that spirit?

Not if words can speak the feelings from which they spring. "Spring!"

See how the name comes uncalled-for; as if to hint that it should have

stood in the place of "April." But April _is_ spring--the only spring

month that we possess in this egregious climate of ours. Let us, then,

make the most of it.

April is at once the most juvenile of the Months, and the most

feminine--never knowing her own mind for a day together. Fickle as a

fond maiden with her first lover;--coying it with the young Sun till he

withdraws his beams from her, and then weeping till she gets them back

again. High-fantastical as the seething wit of a poet, that sees a world

of beauty growing beneath his hand, and fancies that he has created it,

whereas it is it that has created him a poet; for it is Nature that

makes April, not April Nature.

April is doubtless the sweetest month of all the year; partly because it

ushers in the May, and partly for its own sake, so far as any thing can

be valuable without reference to any thing else. It is, to May and June,

what "sweet fifteen," in the age of woman, is to passion-stricken

eighteen, and perfect two-and-twenty. It is, to the confirmed Summer,

what the previous hope of joy is to the full fruition; what the boyish

dream of love is to love itself. It is indeed the month of promises; and

what are twenty performances compared with one promise? When a promise

of delight is fulfilled, it is over and done with; but while it remains

a promise, it remains a hope: and what is all good, but the hope of

good? What is every _to-day_ of our life, but the hope (or the fear) of

to-morrow? April, then, is worth two Mays, because it tells tales of May

in every sigh that it breathes, and every tear that it lets fall. It is

the harbinger, the herald, the promise, the prophecy, the foretaste of

all the beauties that are to follow it--of all, and more--of all the

delights of Summer, and all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of

glorious" Autumn. It is fraught with beauties itself that no other month

can bring before us, and

"It bears a glass which shews us many more."

As for April herself, her life is one sweet alternation of smiles and

sighs and tears, and tears and sighs and smiles, till it is consummated

at last in the open laughter of May. It is like--in short, it is like

nothing in the world but "an April day." And her charms--but really I

must cease to look upon the face of this fair month generally, lest, like

a painter in the presence of his mistress, I grow too enamoured to give a

correct resemblance. I must gaze upon her sweet beauties one by one, or I

shall never be able to think and treat of her in any other light than

that of _the Spring_; which is a mere abstraction,--delightful to think

of, but, like all other abstractions, not to be depicted or described.

Before I proceed to do this, however, let me inform the reader that what

I have hitherto said of April, and have yet to say, is intended to

apply, not to this or that April in particular--not to April eighteen

hundred and twenty-four, or fourteen, or thirty-four--but to APRIL _par

excellence_; that is to say, what April ("not to speak it profanely")

_ought to be_. In short, I have no intention of being _personal_ in my

remarks; and if the April which I am describing should happen to differ,

in any essential particulars, from the one in whose presence I am

describing it, neither the month nor the reader must regard this as a

covert libel or satire. The truth is that, for what reason I know

not--whether to put to shame the predictions of the Quarterly Reviewers,

or to punish us Islanders for our manifold follies and iniquities, or

from any quarrel, as of old, between Oberon and Titania--but certain it

is that

"The seasons alter: hoary headed frosts

Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose;

And on old Hyems' thin and icy crown

An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

Is, as in mockery, set: the Spring, the Summer,

The chilling Autumn, angry Winter, change

Their wonted liveries; and the amazed world,

By their increase, now knows not which is which."

It is of April, then, as she is when Nature is in her happiest mood,

that I am now to speak; and we will take her in the prime of her life,

and our first place of rendezvous shall be the open fields.

What a sweet flush of new green has started up to the face of this

meadow! And the new-born Daisies that stud it here and there, give it

the look of an emerald sky powdered with snowy stars. In making our way

to yonder hedgerow, which divides the meadow from the little copse that

lines one side of it, let us not take the shortest way, but keep

religiously to the little footpath; for the young grass is as yet too

tender to bear being trod upon; and the young lambs themselves, while

they go cropping its crisp points, let the sweet daisies alone, as if

they loved to look upon a sight as pretty and as innocent as themselves.

I have been hitherto very chary of appealing to the poets in these

pleasant papers; because they are people that, if you give them an inch,

even in a span-long essay of this kind, always endeavour to lay hands on

the whole of it. They are like the young cuckoos, that if once they get

hatched within a nest, always contrive to oust the natural inhabitants.

But when the Daisy, "la douce Marguerite," is in question, how can I

refrain from pronouncing a blessing on the bard who has, by his sweet

praise of this "unassuming commonplace of nature," revived that general

love for it, which, until lately, was confined to the hearts of "the old

poets," and of those young poets of all times, the little children? But

I need not do this, for he has his reward already, in the fulfilment of

that prophecy with which he closes his address to his darling flower:

"Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;

Dear shalt thou be to future men,

As in old time."

Does the reader, now that I have brought before him, in company with

each other, "this child of the year," and the gentlest and most eloquent

of all her lovers, desire to hear a few more of the compliments that he

has paid to her, without the trouble of leaving the fields, and opening

a book? I can afford but a few; for beneath yonder hedgerow, and within

the twilight of the copse behind it, there are flocks of other sweet

flowers, waiting for their praise.

"When soothed awhile by milder airs,

Thee Winter in the garland wears

That thinly shades his few gray hairs;

Spring cannot shun thee;

And Autumn, melancholy wight,

Doth in thy crimson head delight

When rains are on thee."

[By the by, I cannot let pass this epithet, "melancholy," without

protesting most strenuously against the above application of it. Seldom,

indeed, is it that the poet before us falls into an error of this kind;

and it is _therefore_ that I point it out.]

"In shoals and bands, a morrice train,

Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane.

* * * *

And oft alone in nooks remote

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

When such are wanted.

Be violets, in their secret mews,

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;

Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews

Her head impearling;

* * * *

_Thou_ art the poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,

Or some bright day of April sky

Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie

Near the green holly,

And wearily at length should fare,

He need but look about, and there

Thou art, a friend at hand, to scare

His melancholy!

If stately passions in me burn,

And one chance look to thee should turn,

I drink out of an humbler urn

A lowlier pleasure;

The homely sympathy, that heeds

The common life our nature breeds;

A wisdom fitted to the needs

Of hearts at leisure."

And then do but see what "fantastic tricks" the poet's imagination

plays, when he comes to seek out _similies_ for his fair favourite:

"A nun demure, of lowly port;

A sprightly maiden of love's court,

In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

A queen in crown of rubies drest;

A starveling in a scanty vest;

Are all, as seem to suit thee best,

Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye

Staring, to threaten or defy--

That thought comes next--and instantly

The freak is over;

The shape will vanish--and behold!

A silver shield with boss of gold,

That spreads itself, some fairy bold

In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar,--

And then thou art a pretty star;

Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,

Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest!

* * * *

Sweet flower! for by that name at last,

When all my reveries are past,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast;

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!"

What poetry is here! It "dallies with the innocence" of the poet and of

the flower, till we know not which to love best. But we must turn at

once from the fascination of both, and not allow them again to seduce us

from our duty to the rest of those sweet "children of the year" that are

courting our attention.

See, upon the sloping sides of this bank, beneath the hedgerow, what

companies of Primroses are dedicating their pale beauties to the

pleasant breeze that blows over them, and looking as faint withal as if

they had senses that could "ache" at the rich sweetness of the hidden

Violets that are growing here and there among them.

The intermediate spots of the bank are now nearly covered from sight by

the various green weeds that sprout up every where--beginning to fill

the interstices between the lower stems of the Hazel, the Hawthorn, the

Sloe, the Eglantine, and the Woodbine, which unite their friendly arms

together above, to form the natural inclosure,--that prettiest feature

in our English scenery, or at least that which communicates a

picturesque beauty to all the rest.

Of the above-named shrubs, the Hazel, you see, is scarcely as yet in

leaf; the scattered leaves of the Woodbine, of a dull purplish green,

are fully spread; the Sloe is in blossom, offering a pretty but

scentless imitation of the sweet hawthorn bloom that is to come next

month. This latter is now vigorously putting forth its crisp and

delicate filigree work of tender green, tipped with red; and the

Eglantine, or wild rose, is opening its green hands, as if to welcome

the sun.

Entering the little copse which this inclosure separates from the

meadow, we shall find, on the ground, all the low and creeping plants

pushing forth their various shaped leaves--stars, fans, blades, fingers,

fringes, and a score of other fanciful forms; and some of them bearing

the prettiest flowers in the world. Conspicuous among these, in addition

to those of February and March, are the elegant little Wood-sorrel, with

its delicately pencilled cups; the pretty Wild Strawberry; the common

blue Hyacinth,--so delightful when it comes upon you in innumerable

flocks while you are thinking of nothing less; the gently-stooping

Harebell, the most fragile of all flowers, yet braving the angriest

winds of heaven, by bowing to the ground before them; and, lastly, that

strangest of flowers (if flower it be) called by the country folks

Cuckoo-pint, and by the children Lords and Ladies.

Still passing on through this copse, we shall find all the young forest

trees, except the oaks, in a kind of half-dress, like so many village

maidens in their trim bodices, and with their hair in papers. Among

these are conspicuous the graceful Birch, hanging its head like a

half-shamefaced, half-affected damsel; the trim Beech, spruce as a

village gallant dressed for the fair; the rough-rinded Elm, grave and

sedate looking, even in its youth, and already bespeaking the future

"green-robed senator of mighty woods." These, with the white-stemmed

Ash, the Alder, the artificial-looking Hornbeam, and the as yet bare

Oak, make up this silent but happy company, who are to stand here on the

same spot all their lives, looking upward to the clouds and the stars,

and downward to the star-like flowers, till we and our posterity (who

pride ourselves on our superiority over them) are laid in that earth of

which _they_ alone are the true inheriters.

But who ever heard of choosing a warm April morning to moralize in? Let

us wait till winter for that; and in the mean time pass out of this

pleasant little copse, and make our way windingly towards the village.

In the little green lane that leads to it we meet with nothing very

different from what we have already noticed; unless it be an early Bee

booming past us, or hovering for a moment over the snowy flower of the

Lady-smock; or a village boy looking upward with hand-shaded brow after

the mounting Lark, while he holds in his other hand the tether of a

young heifer, that he has led forth to take her first taste of the

fresh-sprouting herbage.

On reaching the Village Green, we cannot choose but pause before this

stately Chestnut-tree, the smooth stem of which rises from the earth

like a dark coloured marble column, seemingly placed there by art to

support the pyramidal fabric of beauty that surmounts it. It has just

put forth its first series of rich fan-like leaves, each family of which

is crowned by its splendid spiral flower; the whole, at this period of

the year, forming the grandest vegetable object that our kingdom

presents, and vying in rich beauty with any that Eastern woods can

boast. And if we could reach one of those flowers, to pluck it, we

should find that the most delicate fair ones of the Garden or the

Greenhouse do not surpass it in elaborate pencilling and richly varied

tints. It can be likened to nothing but its own portrait painted on

velvet.

Farther on, across the Green, with this little raised footpath leading

to it, stands a row of young Lindens, separating in the middle to admit

a view of the Parsonage-house; for it can be no other. What a lovely

green is theirs! and what an exact shape in their bright circular

leaves, all alike, clustering and flapping over each other! And their

smooth pillar-like stems shoot out from the hard gravel pathway like

artificial shafts, without a ridge, a knot, or an inequality, till they

spread forth suddenly just above the reach of branch-plucking

schoolboys.

The Honeysuckles, that wreathe the trellised door of the neat dwelling,

have already put forth their dull purple-tinged leaves, at distant

intervals, on the slim shoots; but the Jasmin, that spreads itself over

the circular-topped windows, is not yet sufficiently clothed to hide

the formality of its training.

To the right, the fine old avenue of Elms, forming the Walk leading to

the low Church, are sprinkled all over with their spring attire; but not

enough to form the shade that they will a month hence. At present the

blue sky can every where be seen through them.

We might wander on through the Village and its environs for a while

longer, pleasantly enough, without exhausting the objects of novelty and

interest that present themselves in this sweetest of months; but we must

get within more confined limits, or we shall not have space to glance at

half those which more exclusively belong to this time.

* * * * *

If the Garden, like the Year, is not now absolutely at its best, it is

perhaps better; inasmuch as a pleasant promise but half performed

partakes of the best parts of both promise and performance. Now, all is

neatness and finish, or ought to be; for the weeds have not yet began to

make head; the annual flower seeds are all sown; the divisions and

changes among the perennials, and the removings and plantings of the

shrubs, have all taken place. The Walks, too, have all been turned and

freshened, and the Turf has began to receive its regular rollings and

mowings. Among the bulbous-rooted perennials, all that were not in

flower during the last two months, are so now; in particular the

majestic Crown-imperial; the Tulip, beautiful as the panther, and as

proud,--standing aloof from its own leaves; the rich double Hyacinth,

clustering like the locks of Adam; and Narcissus, pale and

passion-stricken at the sense of its own sweetness.

But what we are chiefly to look for now are the fibrous-rooted and

herbaceous Perennials. There is not one of these that has not awakened

from its winter dreams, and put on at least the half of its beauty. A

few of them venture to display all their attractions at this time, from

a wise fear of that dangerous rivalry which they must be content to

encounter if they were to wait for a month longer; for a pretty villager

might as well hope to gain hearts at Almack's, as a demure daisy of a

modest polyanthus think to secure its due share of attention in presence

of the glaring peonies, flaunting roses, and towering lilies of May and

midsummer.

Now, too, those late planted Stocks and Wallflowers, that have had

strength to brave the cutting blasts of winter, feel the benefit of

their hardihood, and show it in the profusion of their blooms and the

richness of their colours.

Finally, among flowers we have now the singular spotted Fritillary;

Heart's-ease, the "little western flower," that cannot be looked at or

thought of without feeling its name; and the Auricula, that richest in

its texture and colour of all the vegetable tribe, and as various as

rich.

Among the Shrubs that form the inclosing belt of the flower-garden, the

Lilac is in full leaf, and loaded with its heavy bunches of bloom-buds;

the common Laurel, if it has reached its flowering age, is hanging out

its meek modest flowers, preparatory to putting forth its vigorous

summer shoots; and the Larch has on it hairy tufts of pink, stuck here

and there among its delicate threads of green.

But the great charm of this month, both in the open country and the

garden, is undoubtedly the infinite _green_ which pervades it every

where, and which we had best gaze our fill at while we may, as it lasts

but a little while,--changing in a few weeks into an endless variety of

shades and tints, that are equivalent to as many different colours. It

is this, and the budding forth of every living member of the vegetable

world, after its long winter death, that in fact constitutes THE SPRING;

and the sight of which affects us in the manner it does, from various

causes--chiefly moral and associated ones; but one of which is

unquestionably physical: I mean the sight of so much tender green after

the eye has been condemned to look for months and months on the mere

negation of all colour, which prevails in winter in our climate. The eye

feels cheered, cherished, and regaled by this colour, as the tongue does

by a quick and pleasant taste, after having long palated nothing but

tasteless and insipid things.

This is the principal charm of Spring, no doubt. But another, and one

that is scarcely second to this, is, the bright flush of Blossoms that

prevails over and almost hides every thing else in the Fruit-garden and

Orchard. What exquisite differences and distinctions and resemblances

there are between all the various blossoms of the fruit-trees; and no

less in their general effect than in their separate details! The

Almond-blossom, which comes first of all, and while the tree is quite

bare of leaves, is of a bright blush-rose colour; and when they are

fully blown, the tree, if it has been kept to a compact head instead of

being permitted to straggle, looks like one huge rose, magnified by some

fairy magic, to deck the bosom of some fair giantess. The various kinds

of Plum follow, the blossoms of which are snow-white, and as full and

clustering as those of the almond. The Peach and Nectarine, which are

now full blown, are unlike either of the above; and their sweet effect,

as if growing out of the hard bare wall, or the rough wooden paling, is

peculiarly pretty. They are of a deep blush colour, and of a delicate

bell shape, the lips, however, divided, and turning backward, to expose

the interior to the cherishing sun.

But perhaps the bloom that is richest and most _promising_ in its

general appearance is that of the Cherry, clasping its white honours all

round the long straight branches, from heel to point, and not letting a

leaf or a bit of stem be seen, except the three or four leaves that come

as a green finish at the extremity of each branch.

The other blossoms, of the Pears, and (loveliest of all) the Apples, do

not come in perfection till next month.

* * * * *

In thinking of the circumstances which happen this month in connexion

with the animal world, I scarcely know where to begin my observations,

so numerous are the subjects, and so limited the space they must be

despatched in. The Birds must have precedence, for they are now, for

once in their lives, as busy as the bees are always. They are getting

their houses built, and seeing to their household affairs, and

concluding their family arrangements, that when the summer and the

sunshine are fairly come, they may have nothing to do but teach their

children the last new modes of flying and singing, and be as happy

as--birds, for the rest of the year. Now, therefore, as in the last

month, they have but little time to sing to each other; and the Lark has

the morning sky all to himself. Not but we have other April melodies,

and one or two the _prémices_ of which belong so peculiarly to this

month, that we must listen to them for a moment, whatever else is

awaiting us. And first let us hearken to the Cuckoo, shooting out its

soft and mellow, yet powerful voice, till it seems to fill the whole

concave of the heavens with its two mysterious notes, the most primitive

of musical melodies. Who can listen to those notes for the first time in

Spring, and not feel his school days come back to him? And not as he did

then

"------------look a thousand ways

In bush, and tree, and sky?"

But he will be likely to look in vain; for so shy are they, that lucky

(or rather _un_lucky, to my thinking) is he who has ever _seen_ a

cuckoo. I well remember that from the first moment I saw one flutter

heavily out of an old hawthorn bush, and flurr awkwardly away across the

meadow, as I was listening in rapt attention to its lonely voice, the

mystery of the sound was gone, and with it no small share of its beauty.

If we happen to be wandering forth on a warm still evening during the

last week in this month, and passing near a roadside orchard, or

skirting a little copse in returning from our twilight ramble, or

sitting listlessly on a lawn near some thick plantation, waiting for

bedtime, we may chance to be startled from our meditations (of whatever

kind they may be) by a sound, issuing from among the distant leaves,

that scares away the silence in a moment, and seems to put to flight

even the darkness itself;--stirring the spirit, and quickening the

blood, as no other mere sound can, unless it be that of a trumpet

calling to battle. That is the Nightingale's voice. The cold spells of

winter, that had kept him so long tongue-tied, and frozen the deep

fountains of his heart, yield before the mild breath of Spring, and he

is voluble once more. It is as if the flood of song had been swelling

within his breast ever since it last ceased to flow; and was now gushing

forth uncontrollably, and as if he had no will to control it: for when

it does stop for a space, it is suddenly, as if for want of breath. In

our climate the nightingale seldom sings above six weeks; beginning

usually the last week in April. I mention this because many, who would

be delighted to hear him, do not think of going to listen for his song

till after it has ceased. I believe it is never to be heard after the

young are hatched.

Now, too, the pretty, pert-looking Blackcap first appears, and pours

forth his tender and touching love-song, scarcely inferior, in a certain

plaintive inwardness, to the autumn song of the Robin. The mysterious

little Grasshopper Lark also runs whispering within the hedgerows; the

Redstart pipes prettily upon the apple trees; the golden-crowned Wren

chirps in the kitchen-garden, as she watches for the new sown seeds; and

lastly, the Thrush, who has hitherto given out but a desultory note at

intervals to let us know that he was not away, now haunts the same tree,

and frequently the same branch of it, day after day, and sings an

"English Melody" that even Mr. Moore himself could not write appropriate

words to.

Though all the above-named are what are commonly called birds of

passage, yet from their not congregating together, and from their

particular habits (except of singing) being consequently but little

observed, we are accustomed to blend them among the general class of

English birds, and look upon them as if they belonged to us. But now

also first come among us (whether from a far off land, or from their

secret homes within our own, remains to this day undetermined) those

mysterious and interesting strangers that enliven all the air of Spring

and Summer with their foreign manners, and the infinite variety of whose

movements it is almost as pleasant to watch as it is to listen to the

modulations of their vocal brethren. I allude to the Swallow tribe, who

come usually in the following order, namely, first the Sand-Martin, the

least noticeable of the tribe, and not affecting the dwellings of man;

then the House or Chimney Swallow; then the House Martin; and lastly the

Swift. Those who can see shoot past them, like a thought, the first

swallow of the year, and yet continue pondering on their own affairs as

if nothing had happened, may be assured that "the seasons and their

change" were not made for them, and that, whatever they may fancy they

feel to the contrary, Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter are to them

mere words, indicating the periods when rents are payable and interest

becomes due.

As the Swallow tribe do nothing, for the first fortnight after their

arrival, but disport themselves, we will leave them and the rest of the

feathered tribe for the present. We shall have sufficient opportunities

of observing all their pretty ways hereafter.

I am afraid we must now quit the country altogether, _as_ the country;

not however without mentioning that now begins that most execrable of

all practices, Angling. Now Man, "lordly man," first begins to set his

wit to a simple fish; and having succeeded in attracting it to his

lure, watches it for a space floundering about in its crystal waters, in

the agonies of death; and when he is tired of this _sport_, drags it to

the green bank, among the grass, and moss, and wild-flowers, and stains

them all with its blood![2] The "gentle" reader may be sure that I would

willingly have refrained altogether from forcing upon his attention this

hateful subject, especially amid such scenes and objects as we have just

been contemplating: but I was afraid that my "silence" might have seemed

to "give consent" to the practice.

[2] There is poetical authority for this expression, but I believe no

other:

"And weltering dies the primrose with his blood."