A glorious afternoon it is, the hottest of midsummer, with not a shadow
in the dazzling blue of the heavens. Who could sit at a desk, with
the white butterflies flickering in and out at the open window, the
sweet breath of the clove-pinks filling the air, and the faint gurgle
of the river coming up from the glen below? The gardener has long ago
left off weeding the lawn borders, and betaken himself to the cool
planting-house; Jug the spaniel lies panting out there, with lolling
tongue, in the shadow under the rhododendrons; and the leaves of the
aspens themselves seem tremulous with the heat. It will be pleasanter
to go up through the wood to the end of the lane, to sit under the
edge of the trees there on the trunk of silver birch that serves for a
cattle-gate, and enjoy something of the southern _dolce far niente_,
with a pocket copy of gentle Allan Ramsay to finger through.
Altogether quiet the spot is, with the wood behind, and the flowery
fields sloping away in front. Not a murmur comes here from the city,
whose smoke rises, a murky cloud, far off in the valley below. The
streets there will be stifling to-day amid the hot reekings of asphalt
pavements, the sifting particles of burning dust, and the incessant
roar of traffic. Here, above the fields, the air is sweet with the
scent of clover; the stillness is only broken by the faint pipe of a
yellowhammer sometimes in the depth of the wood; and the blue heavens
shed their peace upon the heart. Nothing but the faintest breath of air
is moving, just enough to stir gently the deep grasses of the hayfield,
and to touch cheek and lip now and again with the soft warm sigh of the
sweetbrier in the hedge. Gleaming flies, green and yellow, with gauzy
wings, float like jewels in the sunshine; a shadow for a moment touches
the page as a stray rook drifts silently overhead; and on the edge of
the great yellow daisy that flames over there like a topaz among the
corn, a blue butterfly lazily opens and shuts its wings.
This is the silent month, they say, because the birds have nested and
foregone the twitterings of their courting-time; but from the lark up
aloft, a quivering black speck in the sky, there is falling a perfect
rill of melody. What is he exulting about, the little black speck? Is
it for sheer gladsomeness in the happy sunshine, or is it because there
is a little helpless brood of callow laverocks in a nest somewhere
below among the clover? Glad little heart! sing thy song out while the
blue sky smiles above thee. Thou hast forgotten the pinching of the
winter cold, and why should thy rapturous hour be saddened by taking
thought for the dark things of the morrow. Under the hedge close by, an
occasional rustle of dry leaves and an admonitory cluck betray a brood
of chickens surreptitiously brought into existence by some lawless and
absconding hen; and on a twig a little way off, a young sparrow with
fluttering wings gapes its yellow beak for the attentions of a proud
and sprightly parent.
In the distance, from the bottom of the next meadow, comes the faint
whir of a mowing-machine. It and the reapers are out of sight; but on
the level beyond, the ryegrass lies in long white lines winnowing in
the sun. Well may that harvest be the first to be gathered, for it is
the share that falls to the faithful dumb friends of man. Meanwhile,
the farm horses left at liberty in the grass-field at hand are
evidently, like many honest souls of another genus who have worked hard
all their lives, quite at a loss what to do with their late-acquired
leisure.
On the dyke-top here, the clover, with great ball-blooms of rich pink,
is growing beside the purple-toothed vetch and the small yellow stars
of another unknown flower. In the hedge, among the heavy-scented
privet blossoms, are flowers of pink wild-rose delicate as the bloom
of a girl’s cheek, with full pouting buds red as lips that would be
kissed. White brier-roses there are, too, as large as crown pieces;
and great velvety humble-bees are busy botanising among their stamens.
The bees prefer the newly opened ones, however, whose hearts are still
a rich golden yellow. Below, among the woodland grasses, the white
dome-clusters of the dim-leaved yarrow are flowering amid a miniature
forest of green mare’s-tails and the downy stalks of hemlock. Gardeners
are only now beginning to see the beauty of the yarrow for deep
borders, as they are beginning to see the beauty of the foxglove and
the glory of the broom. Over there in the side of the wood-ditch are
springing delicate tufts of spleenwort; and already the flower-fronds
of the hard-fern are rising from the nest of their dark-spread
fellows. The graceful heart-shaped nettle leaf appears there too,
with its purple stem, beside the tall magenta-coloured flowers of the
bastard-thistle.
A pleasant retreat, indeed, is the spot; and through the tangled
wood-depth, of a moonlight night, might be expected to come the revel
court of Titania. Is not that one of her furry steeds, with velvet ears
erect and bright wide eyes, cropping the green blade in the grassy
lane path? Her sleek chorister, too, the blackbird, has forgotten
to be timid as he hops across the ruts there, waiting doubtless for
her coming. Whirr! What a rush of wings! It is a flight of starlings
disturbed from the grass-field below; for these birds bring their young
out to the fields this month in flocks of hundreds to feed. Round and
round they wheel in the air, as if delighting in their power of wing,
before finally settling on the grassy knoll a hundred yards away.
A sunny knoll that is, where the birds feed undisturbed to-day--a small
point in the landscape; yet it has a page of history to itself. On
its summit once stood a Scottish queen, surrounded by a little group
of nobles, watching, a mile to the north, the die of her fate being
cast, the arbiter of life or death. Two armies lay before her. Far off
about the little village in the bosom of yonder hill she saw two dark
masses gathered, with a battery line of guns between them. Those were
her enemies; and one of the horsemen behind them--it was only a mile
away--she knew was her own half-brother. Nearer, on the lower rising
ground, which the railway cuts through now, she saw her own troops
gathering, a larger force, but without the advantage of position.
And the queen watched and waited; it was about nine o’clock of the
morning. Presently, a cloud of smoke sprang out between the armies, and
immediately was heard the roar of cannon. The duel of the artillery
had begun. During half an hour little could be seen for the smoke,
and there was a constant explosion of ordnance. It must have been an
anxious time. Suddenly, however, the firing ceased, the smoke rolled
away, and the battlefield could be made out. The queen’s cavalry had
formed into line, had charged, and were driving the enemy’s horse
before them. Then a tear sprang to the queen’s eye as she saw her
vanguard leave the hill, cross the open ground among the furze, and,
with their gallant leader at their head, rush to storm the village.
They disappeared in the narrow lane, where the new church stands now
in the hollow of the hill, and there could only be heard faintly
their shout as they closed with their opponents, and the shot-reports
of the enemy’s hagbutters firing at them from the hedge-gardens and
the village roofs. How was the day going? See! the enemy’s wing was
wavering, was giving way. Fight on, brave fellows! brave vanguard!
press them hard. A few moments longer, and the day is yours.
But look! A horseman gallops to the other wing of the enemy, where the
Regent is riding. It stirs: it moves down upon the village. Ah, where
now is the queen’s reserve. Why does it remain inactive and aloof?
Are its rival leaders quarrelling over petty precedence, or is there
treachery in its ranks? The battle closes again about the narrow lane.
The vanguard is attacked on either flank--it is overborne--it gives
way. See! they are broken; they pour back out of the lane. Wounded,
weaponless, they are fleeing, and with a yell their foes are upon
them, cutting them down. But the reserve is moving at last; it may
bring help; it may yet retrieve the hour. Ah, cowards! it breaks and
scatters. The day is lost. Away! then, away, poor hapless queen! Ply
whip and spur for thy life. Neither here nor anywhere in all thy
fathers’ kingdom of Scotland is there safe tarrying-place for thee now.
And may Heaven help thee in the hour of need, for thou wilt find small
help in man or woman!
The starlings are feeding this afternoon on the Court Knowe, the
hillock there, undisturbed; and it is three hundred and twenty-eight
years since the stricken queen rode away through the hollow of the
hills where the green corn is growing. The suburbs of the city are
spreading even over the battlefield itself. But ever and again, upon a
summer day, there comes a pilgrim to stand a while in pitying silence
on the little knoll under the trees, and to recall something of these
“old, unhappy, far-off things,” as he reads upon the stone there the
royal monogram, and the date, May 13, 1568.