MAY.

Spring is with us once more, pacing the earth in all the primal pomp of

her beauty, with flowers and soft airs and the song of birds every where

about her, and the blue sky and the bright clouds above. But there is

one thing wanting, to give that happy completeness to her advent, which

belonged to it in the elder times; and without which it is like a

beautiful melody without words, or a beautiful flower without scent, or

a beautiful face without a soul. The voice of Man is no longer heard,

hailing her approach as she hastens to bless him; and his choral

symphonies no longer meet and bless _her_ in return--bless her by

letting her behold and hear the happiness that she comes to create. The

soft songs of women are no longer blended with her breath as it whispers

among the new leaves; their slender feet no longer trace _her_ footsteps

in the fields and woods and wayside copses, or dance delighted measures

round the flowery offerings that she prompted their lovers to place

before them on the village green. Even the little children themselves,

that have an instinct for the Spring, and feel it to the very tips of

their fingers, are permitted to let May come upon them, without knowing

from whence the impulse of happiness that they feel proceeds, or whither

it tends. In short,

"All the earth is gay;

Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May

Doth every beast keep holiday:"

while man, man alone, lets the season come without glorying in it; and

when it goes he lets it go without regret; as if "all seasons and their

change" were alike to him; or rather, as if he were the lord of all

seasons, and they were to do homage and honour to him, instead of he to

them! How is this? Is it that we have "sold our birthright for a mess of

pottage?"--that we have bartered "our being's end and aim" for a purse

of gold? Alas! thus it is:

"The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away--a sordid boon!"

And the consequence is, that, if we would know the true nature of those

hearts, and the manner in which they are adapted to receive and act upon

the impressions that come to them from external things, we must gain

what we seek at secondhand; we must look into the records that have been

copied from hearts that lived and beat ages ago; for in our own breasts

we shall find only a blurred and scribbled sheet, or at best but a blank

one. Even among our poets, the passions, characters, and events growing

out of an over-civilized state of society, have usurped the place of

those primary impulses and impressions in the susceptibility to receive

which the poetical temperament mainly consists; and instead of Nature

and her works being any longer the theme of our verse, these are only

brought in as occasional aids and ornaments, to show off, not _man_ as

he essentially is in all time, but _men_ as they accidentally are in the

nineteenth century. It is true that one of our poets, and he the

greatest, has nearly escaped the polluting influence of towns and

cities. But in doing so, he has been compelled to take such close

shelter within the citadel of his own heart, that his mental health has

somewhat suffered from a want of due airing and exercise. And this it is

which will, in a great measure, prevent his works from calling us back

to that vigorous and healthful condition which they otherwise might. No,

even Mr. Wordsworth himself has not been able, from the loopholes of his

retreat, to take that kind of glance at "man, nature, and society,"

which will enable him so to adapt himself to our wants as to do more

than persuade us of their existence. To supply or set aside those wants

will demand even a greater than he: unless indeed (as I fear) we are

"hurt past all _poetry_," and must look for a cure to that Nature alone

which we have so long despised and outraged. But be this as it may, we

are still able to _feel_ what Nature is, though we have in a great

measure ceased to _know_ it; though we have chosen to neglect her

ordinances, and absent ourselves from her presence, we still retain some

instinctive reminiscences of her beauty and her power; and every now and

then the sordid walls of those mud hovels which we have built for

ourselves, and choose to dwell in, fall down before the magic touch of

our involuntary fancies, and give us glimpses into "that imperial

palace whence we came," and make us yearn to return thither, though it

be but in thought.

"Then sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We _in thought_ will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the MAY!"

Meet me, then, gentle reader, here on this Village Green, and forgetting

that there are such places as cities in the world, let us "do observance

to a morn of May:" we shall find it almost as pleasant an employment as

money-getting itself! From this spot we can observe specimens of many of

those objects which are now in their fullest beauty, and which we were

obliged to pass over at our last meeting.

The stately Horse-chestnut is in still greater perfection than it was

last month--each of its pyramidal flowers looking like a "picture in

little" of the great American Aloe. The Limes, too, that shade the lower

windows of the Parsonage, and the Honeysuckles that make a little bower

of its trellised doorway, are now in full leaf.

By the sunshine, which falls in bright patches on this broad walk

leading to the Church, we may observe that the Elms are not as yet in

full leaf; and casting our eyes upward, we shall see, through the

intervals between the thinly spread leaves, spots of blue sky looking

down upon us like a host of blue eyes. In the little Churchyard the

graves are all covered with a flush of new green, spotted here and there

with Daisies, which make even them look gay; the Ivy, which binds

together the stones of the old belfry, is every where putting forth its

young shoots; and the dark Yew itself, that shades the low porch, feels

the influence of the season, and is once more putting on a look of green

old age.

Let us now pass over the little stile that divides this sadly sweet

inclosure from the adjacent paddock, and make our way into the open

fields beyond. But what is this rich perfume, that comes floating past

us as we go, borne on the warm breeze like incense? What but the sweet

breath of the Hawthorn, blended (for those who have organs delicate

enough to distinguish it) with that of the Violet, which grows about its

roots, and steams up its plaintive odours from a crowd of hidden

censers, till they reach the clouds of sweetness that are hanging above,

and both are borne away together on the wings of every wind that passes.

Those who are not accustomed to the _harmony of scents_, and cannot

detect two or three together when they are blended in this manner, are

exactly in the situation of those who are only susceptible of the

_melodies_ of music, and can hear nothing in _harmony_ but a _single

sound_.

One of the loveliest objects in the vegetable kingdom is a fine-grown

Hawthorn tree, in the state in which we meet with it this month. But

they are scarcely ever to be found in the open country, being of such

extremely slow growth that they require particular advantages of soil,

protection from the depredations of cattle, &c. before they can be made

to reach the state of _a tree_. They are seldom to be met with in this

state except in parks and pleasure-grounds; and even then they require

to stand perfectly alone, or they do not gain that picturesque elegance

of form on which so much of their beauty depends. There are some, I

remember, both pink and white, in the deer-park of Maudlin College,

that are _a sight_ to look upon. The extreme beauty of this tree when in

blossom arises partly from the delightful mixture of the leaves and

blossoms together,--almost all the other trees that can properly be

called _flowering_ ones putting forth their blossoms before they have

acquired sufficient green leaves to contrast with and set them off.

There is another tree that we have not yet noticed, the Sycamore, the

effect of which, when it is suffered to grow singly, is extremely

elegant at this season.

Now, too, and not till now, the Oak, the Walnut, and the Mulberry begin

to put forth their leaves, offering us, even till the commencement of

June, a seeming renewal or lengthening out of the Spring, when all the

rest of the vegetable world has put on the hues of Summer. The two first

of these, however, have during the first fortnight of their vegetation

the brown and golden hues of Autumn upon them.

But we must be more brief in our search after the beauties of May, or we

shall not have space to name the half of them. Let us turn, then,

towards our home inclosures; glancing, as we pass, at a few more of

those sweet sights which belong to the fields exclusively. And first

let us feed our eyes with the brilliant green of yonder Wheat-field. The

stems, you see, have just attained height enough to wave gracefully in

the wind; which, as it passes over them, seems to convert the whole into

a beautiful lake of bright green undulating water. That Meadow which

adjoins it, glittering all over with yellow King-cups, is no less bright

and beautiful. It looks like the bed where Jupiter visited Danäe in a

shower of gold. How pretty, too, are these Cowslips, starting up close

beside our path, as if anxious to be seen, and yet hanging down their

modest heads, as if afraid to meet the gaze that they seem to court.

We must delay for a moment beside this pretty Hedgerow, to observe a few

more of the various coloured weeds (so called by those manufacturers of

artificial flowers, the gardeners) which first put forth their blossoms

this month. Conspicuous is the Campion, rising from the bank, with its

single lake-coloured flowers scattered aloof from each other, upon their

long bare stems. Among the lower leaves of these, rising from the ditch

below, the Water-violet rears its elegant head, consisting of rosy

clusters ranged tier above tier, and lessening towards the top, till

they form a flowery pyramid. About the edges of the banks, low on the

ground, are scattered the Hyacinths in blue profusion, relieved here and

there by the white Cuckoo-flower, or Lady-smock, the plain, but

sweet-scented Woodruff, and the sunny Dandelion; while, close beneath

the overhanging hedgerow, the Cuckoo-pint stands motionless in its green

pavilion, and seems to keep watch, like a sentinel, over the flowery

tribe around.

But see! yonder Butterfly, fluttering past us like a winged flower,

reminds us that now come forth that ephemeral race whose lives are

scarcely of longer date than those of the flowers on whose aroma they

feed.

Now, shoot past us, like winged arrows, or hover near us like Fairies'

messengers come to bring us tidings of the Summer, those frail

creatures--green, and purple, and gold--borne on invisible gossamer

wings,--of which the flying dragons of fairy and of pantomime-land are

but clumsy imitations. Now, blithe companies of Gnats hum and hover up

and down in the warm air, like motes in a sunbeam. Now, the wayside

Cricket begins to chirrup forth its monotonous mirth; for ever harping

on one note, and never tiring or growing tired. Now, the great Humble

Bee goes booming along, startling the pleased ear as he passes; or

hurries suddenly out of the heart of some wayside flower, and leaves it

trembling at his departure, as if a thought of his distant home had

disturbed him in the midst of his blithe labours. Now, in the early

dusk, the heavy Cockchafer hums drowsily along, or flurs from out some

near lime-tree, and flings his mailed form (as if on purpose) into the

face of the startled passenger. Now, at night, the Glow-worm shows her

bright love-lamp to her distant mate, as he floats in the dim air above;

and, seeing it, he closes his thin wings about him, and drops down to

her side.

Now, the most active and industrious of all the smaller birds, the

Swallow tribe, begin to devote themselves seriously to the business of

the season. They have hitherto, since their first appearance, been

sporting about in seeming idleness. But without this needful exercise

and relaxation they would not be fit to go through the henceforth

unceasing toils of the Summer; for they have two or three broods to

bring up before they retire, each of which, when hatched, requires the

incessant toil of the parents from light till dark, to provide them

food,--so dainty and delicate are they in the choice of it. Now, during

this month, they begin and complete their dwellings; the House-swallow

in the shafts of chimneys, thus providing their young at once with

warmth and safety; the confiding Martin in the windows, and under the

eaves, of our houses; and the Swift within the clefts of castles and

other high old buildings, where "the air is delicate."

Finally, now many of the earlier builders are _sitting_, and some few

have hatched their broods. Let those who would contemplate, in

imagination, the most perfect state of tranquil happiness of which a

sentient being is susceptible, gaze (still in imagination, for actual

sight would break the spell for both parties) on the mother bird,

breasting her warm eggs beneath the shade of some retired covert, while

her vocal lover (made vocal by his love) sits on some near bough beside,

and pours into her listening heart the joy that _will_ not be contained

within his own.

In the Garden we now find all the promises of April completed, and a

host of others springing up, to be fulfilled in their turn during the

rest of the season. But May, notwithstanding its reputation in this

particular, is not to be considered as, _par excellence_, the Month of

Flowers, at least in this climate, and in respect to those flowers which

have now become exclusively garden ones: though of _wild_ flowers, and

of blossoms which are afterwards to produce fruit, it is the month. Of

the annuals, for instance, which make so rich a show in common gardens,

(and it is of those alone that these unexotic pages profess to speak),

none flower in May; but all of them mix up their many-shaded greens, and

contrast their various shaped forms, with those that do. Among these

latter are, in addition to those of last month which still continue in

blow, the rich-scented Wall-flower; the flower of as many names as

colours, the prettiest of which is taken from that feeling which the

sight of it gives--Heart's-ease; Crown-imperial; Lily of the Valley,

most delicate of all the vegetable tribe, both in shape and odour,--its

bright little illumination-lamps looking out meekly from their pavilions

of emerald green; the towering, blue Monk's-hood; the pretty but

foreign-looking Fritillary, or Snake's-head, as it is more appropriately

called, from its shape and colours; and sometimes, when the season is

unfavourably favourable, the Rose herself. But her and her attractions

we must leave till they come upon us in showers, in her _own_ month of

June.

Among the flowering shrubs we have now, also, many which demand their

Spring welcome. And first the Lilac; for it was scarcely in full bloom

last month; and it is its rich fulness that constitutes much of its

charm, though its scent is delightful. Now, too, the Guelder-rose flings

up its spheres of white light into the air, supported on their invisible

stems, and looking, as the wind blows them about, like the jugglers'

balls chasing each other as if in sport. The Mountain-ash, too, puts

forth its fans of white blossom, which the imagination converts, as soon

as they appear, into those rich bunches of scarlet berries that make the

winter months look gay; and which said "imagination" would do the same

by the Elder-bloom, which also now appears, but that its delicious

odour, when scented at a sufficient distance from its source, tells

tales of any thing but winter and elder-wine. Lastly, the Laburnum now

hangs forth its golden glories, and shows itself, for a few brief days,

the most graceful of all the inhabitants of the shrubbery. The blossoms

of the Laburnum, where they are seen from a little distance, and have

(from circumstances of soil, &c.) acquired their due dependent posture,

can scarcely be looked at steadily without a seeming _motion_ being

communicated to them, as if some invisible hand had detached them from

their stems, and they were in the act of falling to the earth in the

form of a yellow rain.

In the orchard, the loveliest of all fruit-blossoms, the Apples, are now

in full perfection. These flowers are scarcely ever examined or praised

for their beauty; and yet they are formed of almost every other flower's

best. They are as fresh as the Rose, and more delicate; as innocent as

the Vale Lily, and more gay; as modest as the Daisy, and less prim. And

surely they are not the worse for being followed by a beautiful fruit;

any more than a beautiful bride is the worse for being a rich one. I

have been "cudgelling my brains" (which, to speak the truth, I am seldom

called upon to do) for a likeness to this lovely blossom; and I can

find none but that which I have used already. The Apple-blossom is like

nothing, in nature or in art, but the Countess of B----'s face; which is

itself not wholly in either, being a happy mixture of the best parts of

both--the sweet simplicity of the one, and the finished grace of the

other; and which--but I beseech her to take it away from before my

imagination at once, if she has any desire to see these pleasant papers

come to a conclusion; for if it should again open upon me from among the

flowers, like Cupid's from out the Rose, I cannot answer for the

consequences on the remainder of this history; for, though I am able to

find in the Apple-blossom no likeness to any thing but _her_ face, if

once I am put upon pointing out resemblances in _that_, it shall go hard

but I will prove it to be, in some particular or other, the prototype of

all beautiful things,--always excepting Sir Thomas's portrait of her;

which, however _she_ may be like _it_, is _not like her_. Her face is

like--

'Tis like the morning when it breaks;

'Tis like the evening when it takes

Reluctant leave of the low sun;

'Tis like the moon, when day is done,

Rising above the level sea;

'Tis like----

But hold!--if my readers, in consideration of the brief limits which

confine me, are not to be treated with other people's poetry, they

shall, at least, not be troubled with mine; to which end I must bid

adieu to the abovenamed face, once and for ever.

We may now quit the garden for this month; though it would be ungrateful

to do so without condescending to take one glance at that portion of it

which is to supply our more substantial wants. Now, then, the

Kitchen-garden is in its best trim, its orderly inhabitants having all

put on their Spring liveries, and their sprightliest looks, but not

being yet sufficiently advanced in growth to call down that havoc which

will soon be at work among them. We must not venture into detail here;

though the real lover of the Garden (unless he affects the _genteel_)

would scarcely be angry with us if we did. But we may notice, in

passing, the first fruits of the year--Gooseberries and Currants; the

successive crops of Peas and Beans, "each under each," the earliest just

getting into bloom; green lines of Lettuces, so spruce and orderly, that

it seems a pity ever to break them; (ditto of Cabbages we of course

utterly exclude, seeing that such things were never heard of in the

polite purlieus of Piccadilly;) Melon and Cucumber frames, glittering in

the bright light, and half open, to admit the morning visits of the sun

and air. In short, a flower-garden itself is but half complete, if we

cannot step out of it at pleasure into the kitchen one, on the other

side of the green screen or the fruit-clothed wall that bounds it.

* * * * *

Must we, after all this pleasant expatiation among the natural delights

of May, repair to the metropolis, and see whether there is any thing

worthy of remark among the artificial ones? I suppose we must; for it is

mid-winter in London now, and the fashionable season is at its height.

But we must not be expected to look about us there in the best possible

humour, after having left the flowers and the sunshine behind us. We

will, at all events, contrive to reach London on May-day, that we may

not lose the only relic that is left us of the sports which were once as

natural to this period as the opening of the leaves or the springing of

the grass. I mean the gloomy merriment of Jack in the Green, and the sad

hilarity of the chimney-sweepers. This is, indeed, a melancholy affair,

contrasted with what that must have been of which it reminds us. The

effect of it, to the bystanders, is like that of a wobegone

ballad-singer chanting a merry stave. It is good as far as it goes,

nevertheless; inasmuch as it procures a holiday, such as it is, for

those who would not otherwise know the meaning of the phrase. The

wretched imps, whose mops and mowes produce the mock merriment in

question, are the _parias_ of their kind; outcasts from the society even

of their equals, the very charity-boys give themselves airs of patronage

in their presence; and the little beggar's brat, that leads his blind

father along the streets, would scorn to be seen playing at

chuck-farthing with them. But even they, on May-day, feel themselves

somebody; for the rout of ragged urchins, that turned up their noses at

them yesterday, will to-day dog their footsteps with admiring shouts,

and, such is the love of momentary distinction, would not disdain to own

an acquaintance with them. Nay, some of them are trying, even now, to

recollect whether it was not with that young gentleman, in the gilt

jacket and gauze trowsers, that they had the honour of playing at

marbles "on Wednesday last." There was not a man in the crowd, when

Jack Thurtell was hanged, that would not have been proud of a nod from

him on the scaffold.

Now, on the first day, the hats of the Hammersmith coachmen grow

progressively heavy, and their heads light, with the "favours" they

receive from the barmaids of the fifteen public-houses at which they

regularly stop to refresh themselves between Kensington Gravel Pits and

Saint Paul's.

Now, the winter being fairly set in, London is full of life; and

Bond-street seems an enviable spot in the eyes of coach-makers, and

cavalry officers on duty.

Now, the innocent inhabitants of May-fair wonder what the people in the

street can mean by disturbing them at six in the morning, just as they

are getting to sleep, by crying, "come buy my nice bow-pots!" not having

any notion that there are natural flowers "in the midst of winter!"

Now, the Benefits have began at the winter theatres, and consequently

all "genteel" persons have left off going there; seeing that the only

attraction offered on those occasions is a double portion of amusement:

as if any body went to the theatre for _that_!

Now, the high fashionables, for once in the year, permit their horses'

hoofs to honour the stones of the Strand by striking fire out of them;

and, what is still more unaccountable, they permit plebeian shawls and

shoulders to come in contact with theirs, on the stairs of Somerset

House. And all to encourage the Arts! That their own portraits, by Sir

Thomas, are among the number of the works exhibited, cannot for a moment

be considered as the moving cause at such marvellous condescension.

Now, too, flowing through the Strand in opposite directions towards the

same spot, may be seen, on fine days of the first fortnight, two streams

of white muslin, on which flowers are floating, and which form a

confluence at the gates of the Academy, and ascending the winding

staircase together (which streams are seldom in the habit of doing),

presently disperse themselves into a lake at the top of the building,

which glows with as many colours as that on the top of Mount Cenis.

Now, too, still on the same spot, may be seen, peering half

shamefacedly in the purlieus of his own picture, some anxious young

artist, watching intently for those scraps of criticism which the

newspapers have as yet withheld from him (but which will doubtless

appear in _tomorrow's_ report); and believing, from the bottom of his

soul, that the young lady, aged twelve years, who has just fetched her

mamma to admire _his_ production, is the best judge in the room; which,

considering that he is a reasonable person, and nowise prejudiced, is

more than he can account for in one so young!

Now, an occasional butterfly is seen fluttering away over the heads of

the pale pedestrians of Ludgate Hill, who wonder what it can portend.

Now, country cousins pay their triennial visits to the sights of London;

and having been happy enough to secure lodgings in a side street in the

Strand, have no doubt whatever that they are living at the west end of

the town. Accordingly, they perambulate Parliament-street with exemplary

perseverance, and then return to the country, to tell tales of the

fashionables they have seen.

Finally, now the Parks really are the pleasantest imitations of the

country that can be met with away from it. That of Hyde is worth

walking in at five on a fine week-day, if it be only to see how the

footmen and the horses enjoy themselves; and still more so at four on a

fine Sunday, to see how the citizens do the same. The Green Park, in

virtue of the youths and maidens who meander about it in all directions

on the latter day, looks, at a distance, like a meadow strewn all over

with moving wild-flowers. And the great alley in Kensington Gardens,

when the fashionables please to patronise it, is as pretty to look down

upon, from the Pavilion at top, as one of Watteau's pictures.