AUGUST.

The Year has now reached the parallel to that brief, but perhaps best

period of human life, when the promises of youth are either fulfilled or

forgotten, and the fears and forethoughts connected with decline have

not yet grown strong enough to make themselves felt; and consequently

when we have nothing to do but look around us, and be happy. It has,

indeed, like a man at forty, turned the corner of its existence; but,

like him, it may still fancy itself young, because it does not begin to

feel itself getting old. And perhaps there is no period like this, for

encouraging and bringing to perfection that habit of tranquil enjoyment,

in which all true happiness must mainly consist: with _pleasure_ it has,

indeed, little to do; but with _happiness_ it is every thing.

August is that debateable ground of the year, which is situated exactly

upon the confines of Summer and Autumn; and it is difficult to say

which has the better claim to it. It is dressed in half the flowers of

the one, and half the fruits of the other; and it has a sky and a

temperature all its own, and which vie in beauty with those of the

Spring. May itself can offer nothing so sweet to the senses, so

enchanting to the imagination, and so soothing to the heart, as that

genial influence which arises from the sights, the sounds, and the

associations connected with an August evening in the Country, when the

occupations and pleasures of the day are done, and when all, even the

busiest, are fain to give way to that "wise passiveness," one hour of

which is rife with more real enjoyment than a whole season of revelry.

Those who will be wise (or foolish) enough to make comparisons between

the various kinds of pleasure of which the mind of man is capable, will

find that there is none (or but one) equal to that felt by a true lover

of Nature, when he looks forth upon her open face silently, at a season

like the present, and drinks in that still beauty which seems to emanate

from every thing he sees, till his whole senses are steeped in a sweet

forgetfulness, and he becomes unconscious of all but that _instinct of

good_ which is ever present with us, but which can so seldom make

itself felt amid that throng of thoughts which are ever busying and

besieging us, in our intercourse with the living world. The only other

feeling which equals this, in its intense quietude, and its satisfying

fulness, is one which is almost identical with it,--where the accepted

lover is gazing unobserved, and almost unconsciously, on the face of his

mistress, and tracing there sweet evidences of that mysterious union

which already exists between them. The great charm of Claude's pictures

consists in their power of generating, to a certain degree, the

description of feeling above alluded to; a feeling which no other

pictures produce in the slightest degree; and which even his produce

only enough of to either remind us of what we have experienced before,

or give us a foretaste of what Nature herself has in store for us. And I

only mention them here, in order that those who are accustomed to expend

themselves in admiration of the copies may be led to look at the

originals in the same spirit; when they will find, that the one is to

the other, what a thought is to a feeling, or what a beautiful mask is

to the beautiful living face from which it was modelled. Let the

professed enthusiasts to Claude look at Nature's pictures through the

same eyes, and with the same prepared feelings, as they look at his

(which few, if any of them have ever done), and they will find that they

have hitherto been content to _fancy_ what they now _feel_; and this

discovery will not derogate from the value of the said fancy, but will,

on the contrary, make it more effective by making it less vague. When

you hear people extravagant in their general praise of Claude's

Landscapes, you may shrewdly suspect that they have never experienced in

the presence of Nature herself those sensations which enabled Claude to

be what he was; and that, in admiring him, they have only been yielding

to involuntary yearnings after that Nature which they have hitherto

neglected to look upon. They have been worshipping the image, and

passing by the visible god.

The whole face of Nature has undergone, since last month, an obvious

change; obvious to those who delight to observe all her changes and

operations, but not sufficiently striking to insist on being seen

generally by those who can read no characters but such as are written in

a _text_ hand. If the general _colours_ of all the various departments

of natural scenery are not changed, their _hues_ are; and if there is

not yet observable the infinite variety of Autumn, there is as little

the extreme monotony of Summer. In one department, however, there _is_ a

general change, that cannot well remain unobserved. The rich and

unvarying green of the Corn-fields has entirely and almost suddenly

changed, to a still richer and more conspicuous gold colour; more

conspicuous on account of the contrast it now offers to the lines,

patches, and masses of green with which it every where lies in contact,

in the form of intersecting Hedge-rows, intervening Meadows, and

bounding masses of Forest. These latter are changed too; but in _hue_

alone, not in colour. They are all of them still green; but it is not

the fresh and tender green of the Spring, nor the full and satisfying,

though somewhat dull, green of the Summer; but many greens, that blend

all those belonging to the seasons just named, with others at once more

grave and more bright; and the charming variety and interchange of which

are peculiar to this delightful month, and are more beautiful in their

general effect than those of either of the preceding periods: just as a

truly beautiful woman is perhaps more beautiful at the period

immediately before that at which her charms begin to wane, than she

ever was before. Here, however, the comparison must end; for with the

year its incipient decay is the signal for it to put on more and more

beauties daily, till, when it reaches the period at which it is on the

point of sinking into the temporary death of Winter, it is more

beautiful in general appearance than ever.

But we must not anticipate. We may linger upon one spot, or step aside

from our path, or return upon our steps; but we must not anticipate; for

those who would duly enjoy and appreciate the Present and the Past, must

wait for the Future till it comes to them. The Future and the Present

are jealous of each other; and those who attempt to enjoy both at the

same time, will not be graciously received by either.

The general appearance of natural scenery is now much more varied in its

character than it has hitherto been. The Corn-fields are all redundant

with waving gold--gold of all hues--from the light yellow of the Oats

(those which still remain uncut), to the deep sunburnt glow of the red

Wheat. But the wide rich sweeps of these fields are now broken in upon,

here and there, by patches of the parched and withered looking Bean

crops; by occasional bits of newly ploughed land, where the Rye lately

stood; by the now darkening Turnips--dark, except where they are being

fed off by Sheep Flocks; and lastly by the still bright-green Meadows,

now studded every where with grazing cattle, the second crops of Grass

being already gathered in.

The Woods, as well as the single Timber Trees that occasionally start up

with such fine effect from out the Hedge-rows, or in the midst of

Meadows and Corn-fields, we shall now find sprinkled with what at first

looks like gleams of scattered sunshine lying among the leaves, but

what, on examination, we shall find to be the new foliage that has been

put forth since Midsummer, and which yet retains all the brilliant green

of the Spring. The effect of this new green, lying in sweeps and patches

upon the old, though little observed in general, is one of the most

beautiful and characteristic appearances of this season. In many cases,

when the sight of it is caught near at hand, on the sides of thick

Plantations, the effect of it is perfectly deceptive, and you wonder for

a moment how it is, that while the sun is shining so brightly _every

where_, it should shine so much _more_ brightly on those particular

spots.

We shall find those pretty wayside Shrubberies, the Hedge-rows, and the

Field-flower-borders that lie beneath and about them, less gay with new

green, and less fantastic with flowers, than they have lately been; but

they still vie with the Garden both in sweetness and in beauty. The new

flowers they put forth this month are but few. Among these are the

pretty little Meadow Scabious, with its small purple head standing away

from its leaves; the various Goosefoots, curious for their leaves,

feeling about like fingers for the fresh air; the Camomile, shooting up

its troops of little suns, with their yellow centres and white rays; and

a few more of lesser note. But, in addition to these, we have still many

which have already had their greeting from us, _or should have had_; but

really, when one comes every month, self-invited, to Nature's morning

levees, and meets there flocks of flowers, every one of which claims as

its single due a whole morning's attention, it must not be taken as

unkind or impolite by any of them, if, in endeavouring hastily to record

the company we met, for the benefit of those who were not there, we

should chance to forget some who may fancy themselves quite as worthy of

having their presence recorded, and their court dresses described, as

those who do figure in this Court Calendar of Nature. It is possible,

too, that we may have fallen into some slight errors in regard to the

places of residence of some of our fair flowery friends, and the

particular day on which they first chose to make their appearance at

Nature's court; for we are not among those reporters who take short-hand

notes, or any other, but such as write themselves in the tablet of our

memory. But if any lady _should_ feel herself aggrieved in either of the

above particulars, she has only to drop us a leaf to that effect,

stating, at the same time, her name and residence, and she may be

assured that we shall take the first opportunity of paying our personal

respects to her, and shall have little doubt of satisfying her that our

misconduct has arisen from any thing rather than a wilful neglect

towards her pretensions, or a want of taste in appreciating them. In the

mean time let us add, that, in addition to the new company which graces

this month's levee, the following are still punctual in their

attendance; namely, Woodbine, Woodruff, Meadow-sweet, and Wild Thyme;

(N. B. These ladies are still profuse in their use of perfumes); and,

among those who depend on their beauty alone, Eyebright, Pansie, the

lesser and greater Willow-herb, Daisy, two or three of the Orchises,

Hyacinth, several sisters of the Speedwell and Pimpernel families, and

the scentless Violet.

Now, after the middle of the month, commences that great rural

employment to which all the hopes of the farmer's year have been

tending; but which, unhappily, the mere labourer has come to regard with

as much indifference as he does any of those which have successively led

to it. This latter is not as it should be. But as we cannot hope to

alter, let us not stay to lament over it. On the contrary, let us

rejoice that at least Nature remains uninjured--that _she_ shows more

beautiful than ever at harvest time, whether Man chooses to be more

happy then or not. It is true Harvest-home has changed its moral

character, in the exact proportion that the people among whom it takes

place have changed _theirs_, in becoming, from an agricultural, a

mechanical and manufacturing nation; and we may soon expect to see the

produce of the earth gathered in and laid by for use, almost without

the intervention of those for whose use it is provided, and in supplying

whose wants it is chiefly consumed: for the rich, so far from being

"able to live by bread alone," would scarcely feel the loss if it were

wholly to fail them. But Nature is not to be changed by the devices

which man employs to change and deteriorate himself. She has willed that

the scenes attendant on the gathering in of her gifts shall be as

fraught with beauty as ever. And accordingly, Harvest time is as

delightful to look on to _us_, who are mere spectators of it, as it was

in the Golden Age, when the gatherers and the rejoicers were one. Now,

therefore, as then, the Fields are all alive with figures and groups,

that seem, in the eye of the artist, to be made for pictures--pictures

that he can see but one fault in; (which fault, by the bye, constitutes

their only beauty in the eye of the farmer;) namely, that they will not

stand still a moment, for him to paint them. He must therefore be

content, as we are, to keep them as studies in the storehouse of his

memory.

Here are a few of those studies, which he may practise upon till

doomsday, and will not then be able to produce half the effect from them

that will arise spontaneously on the imagination, at the mere mention

of the simplest words which can describe them:--The sunburnt Reapers,

entering the Field leisurely at early morning, with their reaphooks

resting on their right shoulders, and their beer-kegs swinging to their

left hands, while they pause for a while to look about them before they

begin their work.--The same, when they are scattered over the Field:

some stooping to the ground over the prostrate Corn, others lifting up

the heavy sheaves and supporting them against one another, while the

rest are plying their busy sickles, before which the brave crop seems to

retreat reluctantly, like a half-defeated army.--Again, the same

collected together into one group, and resting to refresh themselves,

while the lightening keg passes from one to another silently, and the

rude clasp-knife lifts the coarse meal to the ruddy lips.--Lastly, the

piled-up Wain, moving along heavily among the lessening sheaves, and

swaying from side to side as it moves; while a few, whose share of the

work is already done, lie about here and there in the shade, and watch

the near completion of it.

I would fain have to describe the boisterous and happy revelries that

used to ensue upon these scenes, and should do still. And what if they

were attended by mirth a little over-riotous, or a few broken crowns?

Better so, than the troops of broken spirits that now linger amidst the

overflowing plenty of the last Harvest-field, and begin to think where

they shall wander in search of their next week's bread.

But no more of this. Let us turn at once to a few of the other

occurrences that take place in the open Fields during this month. The

Singing Birds are, for the most part, so busy in educating and providing

for their young broods, that they have little time to practise their

professional duties; consequently this month is comparatively a silent

one in the Woods and Groves. There are some, however, whose happy hearts

will not let them be still. The most persevering of these is that poet

of the skies, the Lark. He still pours down a bright rain of melody

through the morning, the mid-day, and the evening skies, till the whole

air seems sparkling and alive with the light of his strains.--His

sweet-hearted relation, the Woodlark, also still warbles high up in the

warm evening air, and occasionally even at midnight--hovering at one

particular spot during each successive strain.--The Goldfinch, the

Yellowhammer, and the Green and Brown Linnet, those pretty flutterers

among the summer leaves,--as light hearted and restless as they,--still

keep whistling snatches of their old songs, between their quick

fairy-like flittings from bough to bough. As for the solitary Robin, his

delicate song may be heard all through the year, and is peculiarly

acceptable now in the neighbourhood of human dwellings--where no other

is heard, unless it be the common wren's.

By the middle of this month we shall lose sight entirely of that most

airy, active, and indefatigable of all the winged people,--the

Swift--Shakespeare's "temple-haunting Martlet." Unlike the rest of its

tribe, it breeds but once in the season; and its young having now

acquired much of their astonishing power of wing, young and old all

hurry away together--no one can tell whither. The sudden departure of

the above singular species of the Swallow tribe, at this very moment,

when every thing seems to conform together for their delight,--when the

winds (which they shun) are hushed--and the Summer (in which they

rejoice) is at its best--and the air (in which they feed) is laden with

dainties for them--and all the troubles and anxieties attendant on the

coming of their young broods are at an end, and they are wise enough not

to think of having more;--that, at the very moment when all these

favourable circumstances are combining together to make them happy, they

should suddenly, and without any assignable cause whatever, disappear,

and go no one knows whither, is one of those facts, the explanation of

which has hitherto baffled all our inquiring philosophizers, and will

continue to do so while the said inquirers continue to judge of all

things by analogies invented by their own boasted _reason_: as if reason

were given us to explain instinct! and as if a being which passes its

whole life on the wing--(for sleep is not a part of life, and the Swift,

during its waking hours, never sets foot on tree or ground--almost

realizing that fabled bird which has wings but no feet) were not likely

to be gifted with any senses but such as _we_ can trace the operations

of! The truth is, all that we can make of this mysterious departure is,

to accept it as an omen--the earliest, the most certain, and yet the

least attended to, because it happens in the midst of smiling

contradictions to it--that the departure of Summer herself is nigh at

hand.

It is not good to cull out the sad points of reflection which present

themselves, in the various subjects which come before us, in

contemplating the operations of Nature. But as little is it good,

studiously to avoid those points. Perhaps the only wise course is, to

let them suggest what they will, of sadness or of joy; and then, so to

receive and apply those suggestions, that even the sad ones themselves

may be made subservient to good. To me, this early departure, in the

very heart of our summer, of the most bird-like of all the birds that

visit us only for a season, always comes at first like an omen of evil,

that I cannot doubt, and yet will not believe. It might as well be told

me, that the being who sits beside me now, in all the pomp of health,

and all the lustre of loveliness, will leave me to-morrow, and go--like

the bird--I know not whither. And yet, if such a prediction _were_ made

to me, what should I do in regard to it, but (as one ought in the case

of the omen of departing summer) to _believe_ that it is true, and yet

_feel_ that it is false; and, acting upon the joint impulse thus

created, enjoy the blessing tenfold, while it remains mine, and leave

the lamentations for its loss till I can no longer feel the delight that

flows from its presence?

But, enough of philosophy--even of that which is intended to cure us of

philosophizing. Let us get into the air and the sunshine again; which

can bid us be happy in spite of all philosophy, and _will_ be obeyed

even by philosophers themselves,--who have long since found that they

have no resource left against those enemies to their art, but to fly

their presence, and shut themselves up in schools and studies.

The Swift, whose strange flight has for a moment led us astray from our

course, is the only one of its tribe that has yet made any preparations

towards departure: though the young broods of House-swallows and

House-martins are evidently _thinking_ of it, and congregating together

in great flocks, about the tops of old towers and belfries, to talk the

matter over, and wonder with one another what will happen to them in

their projected travels--if they _do_ travel. Their parents, however,

who are to lead them, are still employed in increasing their company,

and have just now brought out their second broods into the open air.

Now, on warm still evenings, we may sometimes see the whole air about us

speckled with another class of emigrants, who are not usually regarded

as such; namely, the flying Ants, whom their own offspring, or their

inclinations (for it is uncertain which), have expelled from their

birth-place, to found new colonies, and find new habitations, where they

can. It is a ticklish task to make people more knowing than they wish to

be, and one which, even if I were qualified for the office, I should be

very shy of undertaking. But when a race of comparatively foolish and

improvident little creatures have for ages enjoyed the credit of being

proverbial patterns of wisdom, prudence, and forethought, I cannot

refuse to assist in dispelling the delusion. Be it known, then, to the

elderly namesakes of the above, that when they bid their little nephews

and nieces "go to the Ant, and consider its ways," they can scarcely

offer them advice less likely to end, if followed, in teaching them to

"be wise:" for, in fact, one of those "ways" is, to sleep ("sluggards"

as they are!) all the winter through; another is, never to lay up a

single morsel of store even for a day, much less for a whole year, as

has been reported of them; and a third is, to do what they are in fact

doing at this very moment--namely, to come out in myriads from their

homes, and fill the air with that food (themselves) which serves to

fatten the _really_ wise, prudent, and industrious Swallows and Martins,

who are skimming through the air delightedly in search of it. It is

true, the Ants are active enough in providing for their immediate wants,

and artful enough in overcoming any obstacles to their immediate

pleasures. But all this, and more, the _other_ Aunts, who hold them up

as patterns, will find their little pupils sufficiently expert in,

without any assistance.

Now, we may observe that pretty pair of rural pictures (not, however,

_peculiar_ to this month); first, when the numerous Flock is driven to

fold, as the day declines,--its scattered members converging towards a

point as they enter the narrow opening of their nightly enclosure, which

they gradually fill and settle into, as a shallow stream runs into a bed

that has been prepared for it, and there settles into a still pool.--And

again, in the early morning, when the slender barrier that confines them

is removed, they crowd and hurry out at it,--gently intercepting each

other; and as they get free, pour forth their white fleeces over the

open field, as a lake that has broken its bank pours its waters over the

adjoining land: in each case, the bells and meek voices of the patient

people making music as they move, and the Shepherd standing carelessly

by (leaning on his crook, even as shepherds did in Arcady itself!) and

leaving the care of all to his half-reasoning dog.

As I have again got my pencil in hand, instead of my pen, let me not

forget to sketch a copy of that other pretty picture, at once so still

and yet so lively, which may be had this month for the price of looking

at, and than which Paul Potter himself could not have presented us with

a sweeter: and indeed, but that he was a mere imitator of Nature, one

might almost swear it to be his, not hers.--Fore-ground: on one side, a

little shallow pond, with two or three pollard willows stooping over it;

and on the other a low bank, before which stand as many more pollard

willows, with round trim heads set formally on their straight

pillar-like stems: between all these, the sunshine lying in bright

streaks on the green ground, and made distinguishable by the straight

shadows thrown by the thick stems of the trees. Middle distance: a moist

meadow, level as a line, and on it half a dozen cattle; three lying at

their ease, and "chewing the cud of sweet" (not "bitter") herbage--two

cropping the same--and one lifting up its grave matronly face, and

lowing out into the side distance; while, about the legs of all of them,

a little flock of Wagtails are glancing in and out merrily, picking up

their delicate meal of invisible insects; and upon the very back of one

of the ruminators, a pert Magpie has perched himself. Of the extreme

distance, half is occupied by dim-seen willows, of the same stunted

growth with those in front; and the rest shows indistinctly, and half

hidden by trees, a little village,--its church spire pointing its silent

finger straight upward, as if bidding us look at a sky scarcely less

calm and sweet than the scene which it canopies.--How says the

connoisseur? Is this a picture of Paul Potter's, or of Nature? But no

matter,--for they are almost the same. There is only just enough

difference between them to make us feel (as the possessor of twin

children does) that we are blessed with _two_ instead of _one_.

In the Plantation and Flower-garden we must hardly expect to find much

of novelty, after the profusion of last month. And in fact there are

very few flowers the first appearance of which can be said to be

absolutely _peculiar_ to this month; most of those hitherto unnamed

choosing to be the medium of a pleasant interchange between the two

months, according as seasons, and circumstances of soil and planting,

may dispose them. It must be admitted, however (though I am very loth,

even by implication, to dissever this month from absolute summer), that

many of the flowers which do come forward now are _autumn_ ones.

Conspicuous among those which first appear in this month, is the stately

Holyoak; a plant whose pretensions are not so generally admitted as they

ought to be, probably on account of its having, by some strange

accident, lost its character for _gentility_. Has this (in the present

day) dire misfortune happened to it, because it condescends to flower in

as much splendour and variety when leaning beside low cottage porches,

or spiring over broken and lichen-grown palings, as it does in the

gardens of the great? I hope not; for then those who contemn it must do

the same by the vaunted Rose, and the rich Carnation; for where do

_they_ blow better than in the daisy-bordered flower-beds of the poor?

The only plausible plea which I can discover, for the reasonableness of

banishing from our choice parterres this most magnificent of all their

inhabitants, is, that its aspiring and oriental splendour may put to

shame the less conspicuous beauties of Flora's court. I hope the latter

have not, through envy, been entering into a conspiracy to fix an ill

name upon the Holyoak, and thus stir up in the hearts of their admirers

a dislike to it, that nothing else is so likely to produce: for, give

even a flower "an ill name," and you may as well treat it like a dog at

once. In fact, I do not think that any thing short of calling it

_ungenteel_ could have displaced the Holyoak from that universal favour

with us which it always acquires during our youth, in virtue of its

being the only flower that we can distinguish in "garden scenes" on the

stage.

As the Holyoak is at present a less _petted_ flower than any other,

perhaps the Passion-flower (which blows this month) is, of all those

which bear the open air, the most so; and, I must say, with quite as

little reason. In fact, its virtue lies in its name; which it owes,

however, to its fantastical construction suggesting certain religious

associations, and not to any romantic or sentimental ones; which latter,

when connected with it, have grown out of its name, and not its name

out of them. If, however, it has little that is beautiful and

flower-like about it, it has something bizarre and recherchée, which is

well worth examining. But we examine it as we would a watch or a

compass, and not a flower; which is its great fault. It is to other

flowers, what a Blue-stocking is to other women.

Among the other flowers that appear now, the most conspicuous, and most

beautiful, is that one of the Campanulas which shoots up from its

cluster of low leaves one or more tall straight spires, clustered around

from heel to point with brilliant sky-blue stars, crowding as closely to

each other as those in the milky way,--till they look like one

continuous rod of blue, or like the sky-blue ribbons on the mane of a

Lord Mayor's coach-horse. These are the flowers that you see in pots,

trained into a fan-like shape, till they cover, with their brilliant

galaxy of stars, the whole window of the snug parlour where sits at her

work the wife of the village apothecary. Of course I speak of a not less

distance from town than a long day's journey: any nearer than that, all

flowers but exotics have long since been banished from parlour windows,

as highly ungenteel.

There are a few other very noticeable flowers, which begin to show

themselves to us late in this month; but as they by rights rank among

the autumn ones, and as I am not willing to admit that we have as yet

arrived even on the confines of that season, I must consider that they

have chosen to come before their time, and treat them accordingly.

In the Shrubbery, too, we shall find little of novelty. We will,

therefore, at once pass through it, and reach the Orchard and Fruit

Garden; merely observing as we go, that the Elder is beginning to cast a

tinge of autumnal purple on its profuse berries; that those of the

Rowan, or Mountain Ash, are on the point of putting on their scarlet

liveries, which they are to wear all the winter; and that the Purple

Clematis is heavy with its handsome flowers.

Perhaps the Fruit-Garden is never in a more favourable state for

observation than at present; for most of its produce is sufficiently

advanced to have put on all its beauty, while but little of it is in a

state to disturb: so that there it hangs in the sight of its satisfied

owner--at once a promise, and a fulfilment, without the attendant ills

of either.

The inferior fruit, indeed (so at least it is reckoned with us, though

in the East Indies a plate of Currants is sometimes placed in the centre

of the table, as a Pine-apple is here, and holds exactly the same

relative value in respect to the rest of the dessert), the Currants and

Gooseberries are now in perfection, and those epicures from the nursery,

who alone condescend to eat them in their natural state, may now be

turned loose among them with impunity. A few of the Apples, too, are now

asking to be plucked; namely, the pretty little, tender, and pale-faced

Jeannotin (vulgaricè _Gennettin_); the rude-shaped, but firm, sweet, and

rosy-cheeked Codling; and the cool, crisp, and refreshing

Nonsuch,--eating, when at its best, like a glass of Apple-ice; and with

a shape and make which entitles it to be called the very Apollo of

Apples.

The Cherries, too, have most of them acquired their "cherry-cheeks," and

are looking down temptation

"Unto the white upturned wond'ring eyes

Of _school-boys_, that fall back to gaze on them,"

as they hang over the garden-wall, next to the road.

As to the other fruits, they look almost as handsome and inviting as

ever they will. But we must be content to let them "enjoy the air they

breathe" for a month or so longer, if we expect them to do the same by

us.

* * * * *

Of London what shall we say, at this only one of its seasons when it has

nothing to say for itself? when even the most immoveable of its citizens

become migratory for at least a month, and permit their wives and

daughters to play the parts of mermaids on the shores of Margate, while

they themselves pore over the evening papers all the morning, and over

the morning ones all the evening?--when 'Change Alley makes a transfer

of half its (live) stock every Saturday to the Steine at Brighton, to be

returnable by Snow's coaches on Monday morning?--nay, when even the

lawyers' clerks themselves begin to grow romantic, and, neglecting their

accustomed evening haunts at the Cock in Fleet-street, Offley's, and the

Cider Cellar, permit themselves to be steamed down from Billingsgate to

Broadstairs, where they meditate moonlight sonnets to their absent

Seraphinas (not without an eye to half-a-guinea each in the magazines),

beginning with "Oh, come unto these yellow sands!"

What _can_ be said of the Town at a time like this? The truth is, I am

not disposed to quarrel with London (any more than I am with my "bread

and butter," and for a similar reason) at any season; so that the less I

say or think of it now the better. Suffice it, that London in August is

a species of nonentity, to all but those amateur architects who "go

partnerships" in candle-lit grottos at the corners of courts. But, _en

revanche_, it is to them a month that, like May to the chimney-sweepers,

"only comes once a year."