JULY.

At last Summer _is_ come among us, and her whole world of wealth is

spread out before us in prodigal array. The Woods and Groves have

darkened and thickened into one impervious mass of sober uniform green,

and having for a while ceased to exercise the more active functions of

the Spring, are resting from their labours, in that state of "wise

passiveness" which _we_, in virtue of our so infinitely greater wisdom,

know so little how to enjoy. In Winter, the Trees may be supposed to

sleep in a state of insensible inactivity, and in Spring to be labouring

with the flood of new life that is pressing through their veins, and

forcing them to perform the offices attached to their existence. But in

Summer, having reached the middle term of their annual life, they pause

in their appointed course, and then, if ever, _taste_ the nourishment

they take in, and "enjoy the air they breathe." And he who, sitting in

Summer time beneath the shade of a spreading Plane-tree, can see its

brave branches fan the soft breeze as it passes, and hear its polished

leaves whisper and twitter to each other, like birds at love-making; and

yet can feel any thing like an assurance that it does _not_ enjoy its

existence, knows little of the tenure by which he holds his own, and

still less of that by which he clings to the hope of a future. I do not

ask him to make it an article of his _faith_ that the flowers feel; but

I do ask him, for his own sake, not to make it an article of his faith

that they _do not_.

Like the Woods and Groves, the Hills and Plains have now put off the

bright green livery of Spring; but, unlike them, they have changed it

for one dyed in almost as many colours as a harlequin's coat. The Rye is

yellow, and almost ripe for the sickle. The Wheat and Barley are of a

dull green, from their swelling ears being alone visible, as they bow

before every breeze that blows over them. The Oats are whitening apace,

and quiver, each individual grain on its light stem, as they hang like

rain-drops in the air. Looked on separately, and at a distance, these

three now wear a somewhat dull and monotonous hue, when growing in great

spaces; but this makes them contrast the more effectually with the

many-coloured patches that every where intermix with them, in an

extensively open country; and it is in such a one that we should make

our _general_ observations, at this finest period of all our year.

What can be more beautiful to look on, from an eminence, than a great

Plain, painted all over with the party-coloured honours of the early

portion of this month, when the all-pervading verdure of the Spring has

passed away, and before the scorching heats of Summer have had time to

prevail over the various tints and hues that have taken its place? The

principal share of the landscape will probably be occupied by the sober

hues of the above-named Corns. But these will be intersected, in all

directions, by patches of the brilliant emerald which now begins to

spring afresh on the late-mown meadows; by the golden yellow of the Rye,

in some cases cut, and standing in sheaves; by the rich dark green of

the Turnip-fields; and still more brilliantly, by sweeps, here and

there, of the bright yellow Charlock, the scarlet Corn-poppy, and the

blue Succory, which, like perverse beauties, scatter the stray gifts of

their charms in proportion as the soil cannot afford to support the

expenses attendant on them.

Still keeping in the open Fields, let us come into a little closer

contact with some of the sights which they present this month. The high

Down on which we took our stand, to look out upon the above prospect,

has begun to feel the parching influence of the Sun, and is daily

growing browner and browner beneath its rays; but, to make up for this,

all the little Molehills that cover it are purple with the flowers of

the wild Thyme, which exhales its rich aromatic odour as you press it

with your feet; and among it the elegant blue Heath-bell is nodding its

half-dependent head from its almost invisible stem,--its perpetual

motion, at the slightest breath of air, giving it the look of a living

thing hovering on invisible wings just above the ground. Every here and

there, too, we meet with little patches of dark green Heaths, hung all

over with their clusters of exquisitely wrought filigree flowers,

endless in the variety of their forms, but all of the most curiously

delicate fabric, and all, in their minute beauty, unparalleled by the

proudest occupiers of the Parterre. This is the singular family of

Plants that, when cultivated in pots, and trained to form heads on

separate stems, give one the idea of the Forest Trees of a Lilliputian

people. Those who think there is nothing in Nature too insignificant for

notice, will not ask us to quit our present spot of observation (a high

turf-covered Down) without pointing out the innumerable little

thread-like spikes that now rise from out the level turf, with scarcely

perceptible seed-heads at top, and keep the otherwise dead flat

perpetually alive, by bending and twinkling beneath the Sun and breeze.

Descending from our high observatory, let us take our way through one of

the pretty green Lanes that skirt or intersect the Plain we have been

looking down upon. Here we shall find the ground beneath our feet, the

Hedges that inclose us on either side, and the dry Banks and damp

Ditches beneath them, clothed in a beautiful variety of flowers that we

have not yet had an opportunity of noticing. In the Hedge-rows (which

are now grown into impervious walls of many-coloured and many-shaped

leaves, from the fine filigree-work of the White-thorn, to the large,

coarse, round leaves of the Hazel) we shall find the most remarkable of

these, winding up intricately among the crowded branches, and shooting

out their flowers here and there, among other leaves than their own, or

hanging themselves into festoons and fringes on the outside, by unseen

tendrils. Most conspicuous among the first of these is the great

Bind-weed, thrusting out its elegantly-formed snow-white flowers, but

carefully concealing its leaves and stem in the thick of the shrubs

which yield it support. Nearer to the ground, and more exposed, we shall

meet with a handsome relative of the above, the common red and white

wild Convolvolus; while all along the face of the Hedge, clinging to it

lightly, the various coloured Vetches, and the Enchanter's Night-shade,

hang their flowers into the open air; the first exquisitely fashioned,

with wings like the Pea, only smaller; and the other elaborate in its

construction, and even beautiful, with its rich purple petals turned

back to expose a centre of deep yellow; but still, with all its beauty,

not without a strange and sinister look, which at once points it out as

a poison-flower. It is this which afterwards turns to those bunches of

scarlet berries which hang so temptingly in Autumn, just within the

reach of little children, and which it requires all the eloquence of

their grandmothers to prevent them from tasting. In the midst of these,

and above them all, the Woodbine now hangs out its flowers more

profusely than ever, and rivals in sweetness all the other field scents

of this month.

On the bank from which the Hedge-row rises, and on _this_ side of the

now nearly dry water-channel beneath, fringing the border of the green

path on which we are walking, a most rich variety of Field Flowers will

also now be found. We dare not stay to notice the half of them, because

their beauties, though even more exquisite than those hitherto

described, are of that unobtrusive nature that you must stoop to pick

them up, and must come to an actual commune with them, before they can

be even seen distinctly; which is more than our desultory and fugitive

gaze will permit,--the plan of our walk only allowing us to pay the

passing homage of a word to those objects that _will_ not be overlooked.

Many of the exquisite little Flowers, now alluded to generally, look, as

they lie among their low leaves, only like minute morsels of

many-coloured glass scattered upon the green ground--scarlet, and

sapphire, and rose, and purple, and white, and azure, and golden. But

pick them up, and bring them towards the eye, and you will find them

pencilled with a thousand dainty devices, and elaborated into the most

exquisite forms and fancies, fit to be strung into necklaces for fairy

Titania, or set in broaches and bracelets for the neatest-handed of her

nymphs.

The little flowers of which I now speak,--with their minute blossoms,

scarcely bigger than pins' heads, scattered singly among their low-lying

leaves,--are the Veronicas, particularly that called the Wild Germander,

with its flowers coloured like no others, nor like any thing else,

except the Turquoise; the Scarlet Pimpernel; the Red Eyebright; and the

Bastard Pimpernel, the smallest of flowers. All these, however, and

their like, I must pass over (as the rest of the world does) without

noticing them particularly; but not without commending them to the

reader's best leisure, and begging him to give to each one of them more

of it than I have any hope he will bestow on me, or than he would bestow

half so well if he did.

But there are many others that come into bloom this month, some of which

we cannot pass unnoticed if we would. We shall meet with most of them in

this green Lane, and beside the paths through the meadows and corn-fields

as we proceed homeward. Conspicuous among them are the Centaury, with its

elegant cluster of small, pink, star-like flowers; the Ladies' Bed-straw,

with its rich yellow tufts; the Meadow-sweet--sweetest of all the

sweeteners of the Meadows; the Wood Betony, lifting up its handsome head

of rose-coloured blossoms; and, still in full perfection, and towering up

from among the low groundlings that usually surround it, the stately

Fox-glove.

Among the other plants that now become conspicuous, the Wild Teasal must

not be forgotten, if it be only on account of the use that one of the

Summer's prettiest denizens sometimes makes of it. The Wild Teasal

(which now puts on as much the appearance of a flower as its rugged

nature will let it) is that species of thistle which shoots up a strong

serrated stem, straight as an arrow, and beset on all sides by hard

sharp-pointed thorns, and bearing on its summit a hollow egg-shaped

head, also covered at all points with the same armour of threatening

thorns--as hard, as thickly set, and as sharp as a porcupine's quills.

Often within this fortress, impregnable to birds, bees, and even to

mischievous boys themselves, that beautiful Moth which flutters about so

gaily during the first weeks of Summer, on snow-white wings spotted all

over with black and yellow, takes up its final abode,--retiring thither

when weary of its desultory wanderings, and after having prepared for

the perpetuation of its ephemeral race, sleeping itself to death, to the

rocking lullaby of the breeze.

Now, too, if we pass near some gently lapsing water, we may chance to

meet with the splendid flowers of the Great Water Lily, floating on the

surface of the stream like some fairy vessel at anchor, and making

visible, as it ripples by it, the elsewhere imperceptible current.

Nothing can be more elegant than each of the three different states

under which this flower now appears;--the first, while it lies unopened

among its undulating leaves, like the Halcyon's egg within its floating

nest; next, when its snowy petals are but half expanded, and you are

almost tempted to wonder what beautiful bird it is that has just taken

its flight from such a sweet birth-place; and lastly, when the whole

flower floats confessed, and spreading wide upon the water its pointed

petals, offers its whole heart to the enamoured sun. There is I know

not what of _awful_, in the beauty of this flower. It is, to all other

flowers, what Mrs. Siddons is to all other women.

In the same water, congregating together towards the edge, and bowing

their black heads to the breeze, we shall now see those strange

anomalies in vegetation, the flowers, or fruit, or whatever else they

are to be called, of the Bullrush, the delight of village boys, when,

like their betters, they are disposed to "play at soldiers." And on the

bank, the handsome Iris hangs out its pale flag, as if to beg a truce of

the besieging sun.

Before entering the Garden, to luxuriate among the flocks of Flowers

that are waiting for us there, let us notice a few of the miscellaneous

objects that present themselves this month in the open country. Now,

then, cattle wade into shallow pools of warm water, and stand half the

day there stock still, in exact imitation of Cuyp's pictures.--Now,

breechesless little boys become amphibious,--daring each other to dive

off banks a foot high, to the bottom of water two feet deep.--Now,

country gentlemen who wander through new-cut Rye-fields, or across sunny

meadows, are first startled from their reveries by the rushing sound of

many wings, and straightway lay gunpowder plots against the peace of

partridges, and have visions redolent of double-barrelled guns.--Now,

another class of children, of a smaller growth than the above, go

through one of their preparatory lessons in the pleasant and profitable

art of lying, by persuading Lady-birds to "fly away home" from the tops

of their extended fingers, on the forged information that "their house

is on fire, their children at home."

Now, those most active and industrious of the feathered tribes, the

Swallows and House Martins, bring out their young broods into the

cherishing sunshine, and having taught them to provide for themselves,

they send them "about their business," of congregating on slate-roofed

houses and churches, and round the tops of belfry towers; while they

(the parents) proceed in their periodical duty of providing new flocks

of the same kind of "fugitive pieces," as regularly as the editors of a

Magazine.

Now may be observed that singular phenomenon which (like all other

phenomena) puzzles all those observers who never take the trouble of

observing. Whole meadows, lanes, and commons, are covered, for days

together, with myriads of young Frogs, no bigger than horse-beans,--

though there is no water in the immediate neighbourhood, where they are

likely to have been bred, and the ponds and places where they _are_

likely to breed are entirely empty of them. "Where _can_ they have come

from in this case, but from the clouds?" say the before-named observers.

Accordingly, from the clouds they _do_ come, the opinion of all such

searching inquirers; and I am by no means sure they will be at all

obliged to me for telling them, that the water in which these animals

are born is not their natural element, and that, on quitting their

Tad-pole state, they choose the first warm shower to _migrate_ from

their birth-place, in search of that food and home which cannot be found

_there_. The circumstance of their almost always appearing for the first

time after a warm shower, no doubt encourages the searchers after

mystery in assigning them a miraculous origin.

Now, the Bees (those patterns of all that is praiseworthy in domestic

and political economy) give practical lessons on the Principles of

Population, by expelling from the hive, _vi et armis_, all those

heretofore members of it who refuse to aid the commonweal by working

for their daily honey. When they need those services which none but the

Drones can perform, they let them live in idleness and feed luxuriously.

But as the good deeds of the latter are of that class which "in doing

pay themselves," those who benefit by them think that they owe the doers

no thanks, and therefore, when they no longer need them, send them

adrift, or if they will not go, sacrifice them without mercy or remorse.

And this--be it known to all whom it may concern (and those are not a

few)--this is the very essence of Natural Justice.

Now, as they are wandering across the meadows thinking of nothing less,

gleams of white among the green grass greet the eyes of bird-nesting

boys, who all at once dart upon the welcome prize, and draw out from its

hiding-place piece-meal what was once a Mushroom; and forthwith

mushrooming becomes the order of the day.--Now, the lowermost branches

of the Lime-tree are "musical with Bees," who eagerly beset its almost

unseen blossoms--richer in sweets than the sweetest inhabitants of the

garden.

Finally, now we occasionally have one of those sultry days which make

the house too hot to hold us, and force us to seek shelter in the open

air, which is hotter;--when the interior of the Blacksmith's shop looks

awful, and we expect the foaming porter pot to hiss, as the brawny

forger dips his fiery nose into it;--when the Birds sit open-mouthed

upon the bushes; and the Fishes fry in the shallow ponds; and the Sheep

and Cattle congregate together in the shade, and forget to eat;--when

pedestrians along dusty roads quarrel with their coats and waistcoats,

and cut sticks to carry them across their shoulders; and cottagers'

wives go about their work gown-less; and their daughters are anxious to

do the same, but that they have the fear of the Vicar before their

eyes;--when every thing seen beyond a piece of parched soil quivers

through the heated air; and when, finally, a snow-white Swan, floating

above its own image, upon a piece of clear cool water into which a

Weeping-Willow is dipping its green fingers, is a sight not to be turned

from suddenly.

But we must no longer delay to glance at the Garden, which is now fuller

of beauty than ever: for nearly all the flowers of last month still

continue in perfection, and for one that has disappeared, half a dozen

have started forward to supply its place.

Against the house, or overhanging the shaded arbour, among Shrubs, we

have the Jasmin, shooting out its stars of white light from among its

throng of slender leaves; and the white Clematis (well worthy of both

its other names, of Virgin's Bower, and Traveller's Joy) flinging its

wreaths of scented snow athwart the portico, and rivaling the Hawthorn

in sweetness; and the Syringa, sweeter still. Now, too, the large Lilies

lift up their lofty heads proudly, and do not seem to forget that they

once held the rank of Queens of the Garden;--the rich-scented white one

looking, in comparison with the red, what a handsome Countess does to a

handsome Cook-maid.

Among the less aspiring we have now several whose beauty almost makes us

forget their want of sweetness. Conspicuous among these are the

Convolvulus, whose elegant trumpet-shaped cups open their blue eyes to

greet the sun, and, at his going down, close them never to open again;

and the Nasturtium, as gaudy in its scarlet and gold as an Officer of

the Guards on a levee day; and the fine-cut Indian Pink; and the

profuse Larkspur, all flower, shooting up its many-coloured cones here

and there at random, or ranging them in rich companies, that rival the

Tulip-beds of the Spring.

In the Orchard and Fruit-Garden the hopes of the last month begin in

part to be realized, and in all to be confirmed. The elegant Currant,

red and white (the Grape of our northern latitudes), now hangs its

transparent bunches close about the parent stem, and looks through its

green embowering leaves most invitingly. But there you had best let it

hang as yet, till the Autumn has sweetened its wine with sunbeams: for

Autumn is your only honest wine-maker in this country; all others

sweeten with sugar-of-lead instead of sunshine.--The Gooseberry, too,

has gained its full growth, but had better be left where it is for

awhile, to mature its pleasant condiment. As for the Tarts into which it

is the custom to translate it during this and the last month,--they are

"pleasant but wrong."--Now, too, is in full perfection the most grateful

fruit that grows, and the most wholesome--the Strawberry. I grieve to be

obliged to make "odious comparisons" of this kind, between things that

are all alike healthful, where the partakers of them are living under

natural and healthful circumstances. But if Man _will_ live upon what

was not intended for him, he must be content to see what _was_ intended

for him lose its intended effect. The Strawberry is the only fruit in

which we may indulge to excess with impunity: accordingly I hereby give

all my readers (the young ones in particular) Mr. Abernethy's full

permission to commit a debauch of Strawberries once every week during

this month, always provided they can do it at the bed itself; for

otherwise they are taking an unfair advantage of nature, and must expect

that she will make reprisals on them.--Now, too, the Raspberry is

delicious, if gathered and eaten at its place of growth. There it is

fragrant and full of flavour, elsewhere flat and insipid.

The other fruits of this month are Apricot, one or two of the early

Apples, and if the season is forward a few Cherries. But of these, the

two latter belong by rights to the next month; so till then we leave

them. And as for Apricots, they look handsome enough at a distance,

against the wall; but they offer so barefaced an imitation of the

outward appearance of Peaches and Nectarines, without possessing any one

of their intrinsic merits, that I have a particular contempt for them,

and beg the reader to dismiss them from his good graces accordingly.

* * * * *

Of London in July--"_London_ in _July_?"--surely there can be no such

place! It sounds like a kind of contradiction in terms. But, alas! there

_is_ such a place, as yonder thick cloud of dust, and the blare of the

horn that issues from it, too surely indicate. And what is worse, we

must, in pursuance of our self-imposed duty, proceed thither without

delay. We cannot, therefore, do better (or worse) than mount the coming

vehicle (the motto of which at this time of the year ought to be "per me

si va nella citta, dolente,") and,

Half in a cloud of stifling road-dust lost,

get there as soon as we can, that we may the sooner get away again.

Of London in July, there is happily little to be said; but let that

little be said good humouredly; for London _is_ London, after all--ay,

even after having ridden fifty miles on the burning roof of the

Gloucester Heavy, to get at it. Now, then, London is entirely empty; so

much so that a person well practised in the art of walking its streets

might wager that he would make his way from St. Paul's to Charing Cross

(a distance of more than a mile) within forty minutes!

Now, the _Winter_ Theatres having just closed, the Summer ones "make hay

_while the sun shines_." At that in the Hay-market Mr. Liston acts the

part of Atlas,--supporting every thing (the heat included) with

inimitable coolness; while, in virtue of his attractions, the Managers

can afford annually to put in execution their benevolent and patriotic

plan, of permitting the principal _Barn-staple_ actors to practise upon

the patience of a London Pit with impunity.

At the English Opera-house the Managers, (Mr. Peake),--for fear the

public, amid the refreshing coolness of the Upper Boxes, should forget

that it is Summer time,--transfer the country into the confines of their

Saloon (having purchased it at and for half-price in Covent Garden

Market); and there, from six till eight, flowers of all hues look at

each other by lamp-light despondingly, and after that hour turn their

attention to the new accession of flowers, the Painted Ladies, which do

not till then begin blowing in this singular soil. In the mean time, on

the stage, Mr. Wrench (that easiest of actors with the hardest of names)

carries all before him, not excepting his arms and hands. I never see

Wrench, [who, by the bye, or by any other means that he can, ought by

all means to get rid of the roughening letter in his name, and call

himself Wench, Tench, Clench, Bench, or any other that may please him

and us better. Indeed I cannot in conscience urge him to adopt either of

the above, if he can possibly find another guiltless of that greatest of

all enormities in a name, the susceptibility of being punned upon; for

it is obvious that if he _should_ adopt either of the above, he must

not, on his first after appearance in the Green Room, hope to escape

from his punegyrical friend Mr. Peake, without being told, in the first

case, (Wench) that his place is not _there_ but in the _other_ Green

Room (the Saloon);--in the second, (Tench) that he need not have changed

his name, for that he was a sufficiently _odd fish_ before;--in the

third, (Clench) that he (Mr. P.) is greatly in want of a clever one for

the finale of his next farce, and begs to make use of _him_ on the

occasion;--and in the fourth, (Bench) that, belonging to a Royal

Company, he is neither more nor less than the _King's Bench_, and "as

such" must not be surprised if his theatrical friends fly to _him_ for

shelter and protection in their hour of need, in preference to his

name-sake over the water.--I beg the reader to remember, that the

punishment due to all these prospective puns belongs exclusively to Mr.

Peake; and on him let them be visited accordingly. Though I doubt not he

will intimate in extenuation, that they are quite _pun-ish-meant_ enough

in themselves.--But where was I?--oh]--I never see Wrench without

fearing that, some day or other, a gleam of common sense may by accident

miss its way to the brain of our winter managers, and they may bethink

them (for if one does, both will) of offering an engagement to this most

engaging of actors. But if they should, let me beseech him to turn (if

he has one) a deaf ear to their entreaties; for we had need have

something to look for at a Summer Theatre that cannot be had elsewhere.

I am not qualified to descend any lower than the Major of the Minor

Theatres, in regard to what is doing there at this season; though it

appears that Mr. Ducrow is still satisfying those who were not satisfied

of it before, that Horsemanship is one of the Fine Arts; and though the

Bills of the Coburg append sixteen instead of six notes of admiration to

Mr. Nobody's name. Being somewhat fastidious in the affair of

phraseology, the only mode in which I can explain my remissness in

regard to the above particular is, that, whereas at this season of the

year _Steam conveys us_ to all other places,--from the theatres

frequented by throngs of "rude mechanicals" it most effectually keeps us

away.

Now, on warm evenings after business hours, citizens of all ages grow

romantic; the single, wearing away their souls in sighing to the breezes

of Brixton Hill, and their soles in getting there; and the married,

sipping syllabub in the arbours of White Conduit House, or cooling

themselves with hot rolls and butter at the New River Head.

Now, too, moved by the same spirit of Romance, young patricians, who

have not yet been persuaded to banish themselves to the beauty of their

paternal groves, fling themselves into funnies, and fatigue their

_ennui_ to death, by rowing up the river to Mrs. Grange's garden, to eat

a handful of strawberries in a cup-full of cream.

Now, adventurous cockneys swim from the Sestos of the Strand stairs to

the Abydos of the coal-barge on the opposite shore, and believe that

they have been rivaling Lord Byron and Leander--not without wondering,

when they find themselves in safety, why the Lady for whom the latter

performed a similar feat is called the Hero of the story, instead of the

Heroine.

Finally,--now pains-and-pleasure taking citizens hire cozey cottages for

six weeks certain in the Curtain Road, and ask their friends to come and

see them "in the country."