Frost.
January 23rd.--At noon to-day I and my white greyhound, Mayflower,
set out for a walk into a very beautiful world,--a sort of silent
fairyland,--a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost. There
had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its covers with one
sheet of pure and uniform white, and just time enough since the snow had
fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load, and clothed
with a delicate coating of rime. The atmosphere was deliciously calm;
soft, even mild, in spite of the thermometer; no perceptible air, but
a stillness that might almost be felt, the sky, rather gray than blue,
throwing out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our village,
and the rimy trees that rise above them, and the sun shining dimly as
through a veil, giving a pale fair light, like the moon, only brighter.
There was a silence, too, that might become the moon, as we stood at our
little gate looking up the quiet street; a Sabbath-like pause of work
and play, rare on a work-day; nothing was audible but the pleasant
hum of frost, that low monotonous sound, which is perhaps the nearest
approach that life and nature can make to absolute silence. The very
waggons as they come down the hill along the beaten track of crisp
yellowish frost-dust, glide along like shadows; even May's bounding
footsteps, at her height of glee and of speed, fall like snow upon snow.
But we shall have noise enough presently: May has stopped at Lizzy's
door; and Lizzy, as she sat on the window-sill with her bright rosy
face laughing through the casement, has seen her and disappeared. She
is coming. No! The key is turning in the door, and sounds of evil omen
issue through the keyhole--sturdy 'let me outs,' and 'I will goes,'
mixed with shrill cries on May and on me from Lizzy, piercing through
a low continuous harangue, of which the prominent parts are apologies,
chilblains, sliding, broken bones, lollypops, rods, and gingerbread,
from Lizzy's careful mother. 'Don't scratch the door, May! Don't roar
so, my Lizzy! We'll call for you as we come back.' 'I'll go now! Let
me out! I will go!' are the last words of Miss Lizzy. Mem. Not to spoil
that child--if I can help it. But I do think her mother might have let
the poor little soul walk with us to-day. Nothing worse for children
than coddling. Nothing better for chilblains than exercise. Besides, I
don't believe she has any--and as to breaking her bones in sliding, I
don't suppose there's a slide on the common. These murmuring cogitations
have brought us up the hill, and half-way across the light and airy
common, with its bright expanse of snow and its clusters of cottages,
whose turf fires send such wreaths of smoke sailing up the air, and
diffuse such aromatic fragrance around. And now comes the delightful
sound of childish voices, ringing with glee and merriment almost from
beneath our feet. Ah, Lizzy, your mother was right! They are shouting
from that deep irregular pool, all glass now, where, on two long,
smooth, liny slides, half a dozen ragged urchins are slipping along in
tottering triumph. Half a dozen steps bring us to the bank right above
them. May can hardly resist the temptation of joining her friends, for
most of the varlets are of her acquaintance, especially the rogue who
leads the slide,--he with the brimless hat, whose bronzed complexion and
white flaxen hair, reversing the usual lights and shadows of the human
countenance, give so strange and foreign a look to his flat and comic
features. This hobgoblin, Jack Rapley by name, is May's great crony; and
she stands on the brink of the steep, irregular descent, her black eyes
fixed full upon him, as if she intended him the favour of jumping on his
head. She does: she is down, and upon him; but Jack Rapley is not easily
to be knocked off his feet. He saw her coming, and in the moment of
her leap sprung dexterously off the slide on the rough ice, steadying
himself by the shoulder of the next in the file, which unlucky follower,
thus unexpectedly checked in his career, fell plump backwards, knocking
down the rest of the line like a nest of card-houses. There is no harm
done; but there they lie, roaring, kicking, sprawling, in every attitude
of comic distress, whilst Jack Rapley and Mayflower, sole authors of
this calamity, stand apart from the throng, fondling, and coquetting,
and complimenting each other, and very visibly laughing, May in
her black eyes, Jack in his wide, close-shut mouth, and his whole
monkey-face, at their comrades' mischances. I think, Miss May, you may
as well come up again, and leave Master Rapley to fight your battles.
He'll get out of the scrape. He is a rustic wit--a sort of Robin
Goodfellow--the sauciest, idlest, cleverest, best-natured boy in the
parish; always foremost in mischief, and always ready to do a good turn.
The sages of our village predict sad things of Jack Rapley, so that I am
sometimes a little ashamed to confess, before wise people, that I have
a lurking predilection for him (in common with other naughty ones), and
that I like to hear him talk to May almost as well as she does. 'Come,
May!' and up she springs, as light as a bird. The road is gay now; carts
and post-chaises, and girls in red cloaks, and, afar off, looking almost
like a toy, the coach. It meets us fast and soon. How much happier the
walkers look than the riders--especially the frost-bitten gentleman,
and the shivering lady with the invisible face, sole passengers of that
commodious machine! Hooded, veiled, and bonneted, as she is, one sees
from her attitude how miserable she would look uncovered.
Another pond, and another noise of children. More sliding? Oh no! This
is a sport of higher pretension. Our good neighbour, the lieutenant,
skating, and his own pretty little boys, and two or three other
four-year-old elves, standing on the brink in an ecstasy of joy and
wonder! Oh what happy spectators! And what a happy performer! They
admiring, he admired, with an ardour and sincerity never excited by all
the quadrilles and the spread-eagles of the Seine and the Serpentine. He
really skates well though, and I am glad I came this way; for, with all
the father's feelings sitting gaily at his heart, it must still gratify
the pride of skill to have one spectator at that solitary pond who has
seen skating before.
Now we have reached the trees,--the beautiful trees! never so beautiful
as to-day. Imagine the effect of a straight and regular double avenue of
oaks, nearly a mile long, arching overhead, and closing into perspective
like the roof and columns of a cathedral, every tree and branch
incrusted with the bright and delicate congelation of hoar-frost, white
and pure as snow, delicate and defined as carved ivory. How beautiful it
is, how uniform, how various, how filling, how satiating to the eye and
to the mind--above all, how melancholy! There is a thrilling awfulness,
an intense feeling of simple power in that naked and colourless beauty,
which falls on the earth like the thoughts of death--death pure, and
glorious, and smiling,--but still death. Sculpture has always the same
effect on my imagination, and painting never. Colour is life.--We are
now at the end of this magnificent avenue, and at the top of a steep
eminence commanding a wide view over four counties--a landscape of snow.
A deep lane leads abruptly down the hill; a mere narrow cart-track,
sinking between high banks clothed with fern and furze and low broom,
crowned with luxuriant hedgerows, and famous for their summer smell
of thyme. How lovely these banks are now--the tall weeds and the gorse
fixed and stiffened in the hoar-frost, which fringes round the bright
prickly holly, the pendent foliage of the bramble, and the deep orange
leaves of the pollard oaks! Oh, this is rime in its loveliest form! And
there is still a berry here and there on the holly, 'blushing in its
natural coral' through the delicate tracery, still a stray hip or haw
for the birds, who abound here always. The poor birds, how tame they
are, how sadly tame! There is the beautiful and rare crested wren, 'that
shadow of a bird,' as White of Selborne calls it, perched in the middle
of the hedge, nestling as it were amongst the cold bare boughs, seeking,
poor pretty thing, for the warmth it will not find. And there, farther
on, just under the bank, by the slender runlet, which still trickles
between its transparent fantastic margin of thin ice, as if it were a
thing of life,--there, with a swift, scudding motion, flits, in short
low flights, the gorgeous kingfisher, its magnificent plumage of scarlet
and blue flashing in the sun, like the glories of some tropical bird.
He is come for water to this little spring by the hillside,--water which
even his long bill and slender head can hardly reach, so nearly do the
fantastic forms of those garland-like icy margins meet over the tiny
stream beneath. It is rarely that one sees the shy beauty so close or
so long; and it is pleasant to see him in the grace and beauty of his
natural liberty, the only way to look at a bird. We used, before we
lived in a street, to fix a little board outside the parlour window, and
cover it with bread crumbs in the hard weather. It was quite delightful
to see the pretty things come and feed, to conquer their shyness, and
do away their mistrust. First came the more social tribes, 'the robin
red-breast and the wren,' cautiously, suspiciously, picking up a crumb
on the wing, with the little keen bright eye fixed on the window; then
they would stop for two pecks; then stay till they were satisfied. The
shyer birds, tamed by their example, came next; and at last one saucy
fellow of a blackbird--a sad glutton, he would clear the board in two
minutes,--used to tap his yellow bill against the window for more. How
we loved the fearless confidence of that fine, frank-hearted creature!
And surely he loved us. I wonder the practice is not more general. 'May!
May! naughty May!' She has frightened away the kingfisher; and now, in
her coaxing penitence, she is covering me with snow. 'Come, pretty May!
it is time to go home.'
Thaw.
January 28th.--We have had rain, and snow, and frost, and rain again
four days of absolute confinement. Now it is a thaw and a flood; but
our light gravelly soil, and country boots, and country hardihood, will
carry us through. What a dripping, comfortless day it is! just like
the last days of November: no sun, no sky, gray or blue; one low,
overhanging, dark, dismal cloud, like London smoke; Mayflower is out
coursing too, and Lizzy gone to school. Never mind. Up the hill again!
Walk we must. Oh what a watery world to look back upon! Thames, Kennet,
Loddon--all overflowed; our famous town, inland once, turned into a
sort of Venice; C. park converted into an island; and the long range of
meadows from B. to W. one huge unnatural lake, with trees growing out
of it. Oh what a watery world!--I will look at it no longer. I will
walk on. The road is alive again. Noise is reborn. Waggons creak, horses
splash, carts rattle, and pattens paddle through the dirt with more than
their usual clink. The common has its old fine tints of green and brown,
and its old variety of inhabitants, horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and
donkeys. The ponds are unfrozen, except where some melancholy piece
of melting ice floats sullenly on the water; and cackling geese and
gabbling ducks have replaced the lieutenant and Jack Rapley. The avenue
is chill and dark, the hedges are dripping, the lanes knee-deep, and all
nature is in a state of 'dissolution and thaw.'