June 25th.--What a glowing glorious day! Summer in its richest prime,
noon in its most sparkling brightness, little white clouds dappling
the deep blue sky, and the sun, now partially veiled, and now bursting
through them with an intensity of light! It would not do to walk to-day,
professedly to walk,--we should be frightened at the very sound! and yet
it is probable that we may be beguiled into a pretty long stroll before
we return home. We are going to drive to the old house at Aberleigh, to
spend the morning under the shade of those balmy firs, and amongst those
luxuriant rose trees, and by the side of that brimming Loddon river. 'Do
not expect us before six o'clock,' said I, as I left the house; 'Six at
soonest!' added my charming companion; and off we drove in our little
pony chaise, drawn by our old mare, and with the good humoured urchin,
Henry's successor, a sort of younger Scrub, who takes care of horse and
chaise, and cow and garden, for our charioteer.
My comrade in this homely equipage was a young lady of high family
and higher endowments, to whom the novelty of the thing, and her own
naturalness of character and simplicity of taste, gave an unspeakable
enjoyment. She danced the little chaise up and down as she got into it,
and laughed for very glee like a child, Lizzy herself could not have
been more delighted. She praised the horse and the driver, and the roads
and the scenery, and gave herself fully up to the enchantment of a rural
excursion in the sweetest weather of this sweet season. I enjoyed all
this too; for the road was pleasant to every sense, winding through
narrow lanes, under high elms, and between hedges garlanded with
woodbine and rose trees, whilst the air was scented with the delicious
fragrance of blossomed beans. I enjoyed it all,--but, I believe, my
principal pleasure was derived from my companion herself.
Emily I. is a person whom it is a privilege to know. She is quite like
a creation of the older poets, and might pass for one of Shakspeare's
or Fletcher's women stepped into life; just as tender, as playful, as
gentle, and as kind. She is clever too, and has all the knowledge and
accomplishments that a carefully-conducted education, acting on a mind
of singular clearness and ductility, matured and improved by the very
best company, can bestow. But one never thinks of her acquirements. It
is the charming artless character, the bewitching sweetness of manner,
the real and universal sympathy, the quick taste and the ardent feeling,
that one loves in Emily. She is Irish by birth, and has in perfection
the melting voice and soft caressing accent by which her fair
countrywomen are distinguished. Moreover she is pretty--I think her
beautiful, and so do all who have heard as well as seen her,--but
pretty, very pretty, all the world must confess; and perhaps that is a
distinction more enviable, because less envied, than the 'palmy state'
of beauty. Her prettiness is of the prettiest kind--that of which the
chief character is youthfulness. A short but pleasing figure, all
grace and symmetry, a fair blooming face, beaming with intelligence
and good-humour; the prettiest little feet and the whitest hands in the
world;--such is Emily I.
She resides with her maternal grandmother, a venerable old lady,
slightly shaken with the palsy; and when together (and they are so
fondly attached to each other that they are seldom parted), it is one of
the loveliest combinations of youth and age ever witnessed. There is
no seeing them without feeling an increase of respect and affection for
both grandmother and granddaughter--always one of the tenderest and most
beautiful of natural connections--as Richardson knew when he made such
exquisite use of it in his matchless book. I fancy that grandmamma
Shirley must have been just such another venerable lady as Mrs. S., and
our sweet Emily--Oh no! Harriet Byron is not half good enough for her!
There is nothing like her in the whole seven volumes.
But here we are at the bridge! Here we must alight! 'This is the Loddon,
Emily. Is it not a beautiful river? rising level with its banks, so
clear, and smooth, and peaceful, giving back the verdant landscape
and the bright blue sky, and bearing on its pellucid stream the snowy
water-lily, the purest of flowers, which sits enthroned on its own cool
leaves, looking chastity itself, like the lady in Comus. That queenly
flower becomes the water, and so do the stately swans who are sailing so
majestically down the stream, like those who
"'On St. Mary's lake
Float double, swan and shadow."
We must dismount here, and leave Richard to take care of our equipage
under the shade of these trees, whilst we walk up to the house:--See,
there it is! We must cross this stile; there is no other way now.'
And crossing the stile we were immediately in what had been a drive
round a spacious park, and still retained something of the character,
though the park itself had long been broken into arable fields,--and in
full view of the Great House, a beautiful structure of James the First's
time, whose glassless windows and dilapidated doors form a melancholy
contrast with the strength and entireness of the rich and massive front.
The story of that ruin--for such it is--is always to me singularly
affecting. It is that of the decay of an ancient and distinguished
family, gradually reduced from the highest wealth and station to actual
poverty. The house and park, and a small estate around it, were entailed
on a distant cousin, and could not be alienated; and the late owner,
the last of his name and lineage, after long struggling with debt and
difficulty, farming his own lands, and clinging to his magnificent home
with a love of place almost as tenacious as that of the younger Foscari,
was at last forced to abandon it, retired to a paltry lodging in a
paltry town, and died there about twenty years ago, broken-hearted.
His successor, bound by no ties of association to the spot, and rightly
judging the residence to be much too large for the diminished estate,
immediately sold the superb fixtures, and would have entirely taken down
the house, if, on making the attempt, the masonry had not been found
so solid that the materials were not worth the labour. A great part,
however, of one side is laid open, and the splendid chambers, with their
carving and gilding, are exposed to the wind and rain--sad memorials
of past grandeur! The grounds have been left in a merciful neglect; the
park, indeed, is broken up, the lawn mown twice a year like a common
hayfield, the grotto mouldering into ruin, and the fishponds choked
with rushes and aquatic plants; but the shrubs and flowering trees are
undestroyed, and have grown into a magnificence of size and wildness of
beauty, such as we may imagine them to attain in their native forests.
Nothing can exceed their luxuriance, especially in the spring, when
the lilac, and laburnum, and double-cherry put forth their gorgeous
blossoms. There is a sweet sadness in the sight of such floweriness
amidst such desolation; it seems the triumph of nature over the
destructive power of man. The whole place, in that season more
particularly, is full of a soft and soothing melancholy, reminding me, I
scarcely know why, of some of the descriptions of natural scenery in the
novels of Charlotte Smith, which I read when a girl, and which, perhaps,
for that reason hang on my memory.
But here we are, in the smooth grassy ride, on the top of a steep turfy
slope descending to the river, crowned with enormous firs and limes of
equal growth, looking across the winding waters into a sweet peaceful
landscape of quiet meadows, shut in by distant woods. What a fragrance
is in the air from the balmy fir trees and the blossomed limes! What an
intensity of odour! And what a murmur of bees in the lime trees! What a
coil those little winged people make over our heads! And what a pleasant
sound it is! the pleasantest of busy sounds, that which comes associated
with all that is good and beautiful--industry and forecast, and sunshine
and flowers. Surely these lime trees might store a hundred hives; the
very odour is of a honeyed richness, cloying, satiating.
Emily exclaimed in admiration as we stood under the deep, strong,
leafy shadow, and still more when honeysuckles trailed their untrimmed
profusion in our path, and roses, really trees, almost intercepted our
passage.
'On, Emily! farther yet! Force your way by that jessamine--it will
yield; I will take care of this stubborn white rose bough.'--'Take care
of yourself! Pray take care,' said my fairest friend; 'let me hold back
the branches.'--After we had won our way through the strait, at some
expense of veils and flounces, she stopped to contemplate and admire
the tall, graceful shrub, whose long thorny stems, spreading in every
direction, had opposed our progress, and now waved their delicate
clusters over our heads. 'Did I ever think,' exclaimed she, 'of standing
under the shadow of a white rose tree! What an exquisite fragrance! And
what a beautiful flower! so pale, and white, and tender, and the petals
thin and smooth as silk! What rose is it?'--'Don't you know? Did you
never see it before? It is rare now, I believe, and seems rarer than it
is, because it only blossoms in very hot summers; but this, Emily, is
the musk rose,--that very musk rose of which Titania talks, and which is
worthy of Shakspeare and of her. Is it not?--No! do not smell to it; it
is less sweet so than other roses; but one cluster in a vase, or even
that bunch in your bosom, will perfume a large room, as it does the
summer air.'--'Oh! we will take twenty clusters,' said Emily. 'I wish
grandmamma were here! She talks so often of a musk rose tree that grew
against one end of her father's house. I wish she were here to see
this!'
Echoing her wish, and well laden with musk roses, planted perhaps in
the days of Shakspeare, we reached the steps that led to a square
summer-house or banqueting-room, overhanging the river: the under part
was a boat-house, whose projecting roof, as well as the walls and the
very top of the little tower, was covered with ivy and woodbine, and
surmounted by tufted barberries, bird cherries, acacias, covered with
their snowy chains, and other pendent and flowering trees. Beyond rose
two poplars of unrivalled magnitude, towering like stately columns over
the dark tall firs, and giving a sort of pillared and architectural
grandeur to the scene.
We were now close to the mansion; but it looked sad and desolate, and
the entrance, choked with brambles and nettles, seemed almost to repel
our steps. The summer-house, the beautiful summer-house, was free and
open, and inviting, commanding from the unglazed windows, which hung
high above the water, a reach of the river terminated by a rustic mill.
There we sat, emptying our little basket of fruit and country cakes,
till Emily was seized with a desire of viewing, from the other side of
the Loddon, the scenery which had so much enchanted her. 'I must,' said
she, 'take a sketch of the ivied boat-house, and of this sweet room, and
this pleasant window;--grandmamma would never be able to walk from the
road to see the place itself, but she must see its likeness.' So forth
we sallied, not forgetting the dear musk roses.
We had no way of reaching the desired spot but by retracing our steps a
mile, during the heat of the hottest hour of the day, and then following
the course of the river to an equal distance on the other side; nor
had we any materials for sketching, except the rumpled paper which had
contained our repast, and a pencil without a point which I happened to
have about me. But these small difficulties are pleasures to gay and
happy youth. Regardless of such obstacles, the sweet Emily bounded on
like a fawn, and I followed delighting in her delight. The sun went in,
and the walk was delicious; a reviving coolness seemed to breathe over
the water, wafting the balmy scent of the firs and limes; we found a
point of view presenting the boat-house, the water, the poplars, and the
mill, in a most felicitous combination; the little straw fruit basket
made a capital table; and refreshed and sharpened and pointed by our
trusty lacquey's excellent knife (your country boy is never without
a good knife, it is his prime treasure), the pencil did double
duty;--first in the skilful hands of Emily, whose faithful and spirited
sketch does equal honour to the scene and to the artist, and then in the
humbler office of attempting a faint transcript of my own impressions in
the following sonnet:--
It was an hour of calmest noon, at day
Of ripest summer: o'er the deep blue sky
White speckled clouds came sailing peacefully,
Half-shrouding in a chequer'd veil the ray
Of the sun, too ardent else,--what time we lay
By the smooth Loddon, opposite the high
Steep bank, which as a coronet gloriously
Wore its rich crest of firs and lime trees, gay
With their pale tassels; while from out a bower
Of ivy (where those column'd poplars rear
Their heads) the ruin'd boat-house, like a tower,
Flung its deep shadow on the waters clear.
My Emily! forget not that calm hour,
Nor that fair scene, by thee made doubly dear!