low down, and overrun with creeping ivy higher. Green thorn bushes
filled the chinks and made a wall to the well, and the long narrow
hart's-tongue streaked the face of the cliff. Behind the thick thorns
hid the course of the streamlet, in front rose the solid rock, upon the
right hand the sward came to the edge--it shook every now and then as
the horses in the shade of the elms stamped their feet--on the left
hand the ears of wheat peered over the verge. A rocky cell in
concentrated silence of green things. Now and again a finch, a
starling, or a sparrow would come meaning to drink--athirst from the
meadow or the cornfield--and start and almost entangle their wings in
the bushes, so completely astonished that any one should be there. The
spring rises in a hollow under the rock imperceptibly, and without
bubble or sound. The fine sand of the shallow basin is undisturbed--no
tiny water-volcano pushes up a dome of particles. Nor is there any
crevice in the stone, but the basin is always full and always running
over. As it slips from the brim a gleam of sunshine falls through the
boughs and meets it. To this cell I used to come once now and then on a
summer's day, tempted, perhaps, like the finches, by the sweet cool
water, but drawn also by a feeling that could not be analysed.
Stooping, I lifted the water in the hollow of my hand--carefully, lest
the sand might be disturbed--and the sunlight gleamed on it as it
slipped through ray fingers. Alone in the green-roofed cave, alone with
the sunlight and the pure water, there was a sense of something more
than these. The water was more to me than water, and the sun than sun.
The gleaming rays on the water in my palm held me for a moment, the
touch of the water gave me something from itself. A moment, and the
gleam was gone, the water flowing away, but I had had them. Beside the
physical water and physical light I had received from them their
beauty; they had communicated to me this silent mystery. The pure and
beautiful water, the pure, clear, and beautiful light, each had given
me something of their truth.
So many times I came to it, toiling up the long and shadowless bill in
the burning sunshine, often carrying a vessel to take some of it home
with me. There was a brook, indeed but this was different, it was the
spring; it was taken home as a beautiful flower might be brought. It is
not the physical water, it is the sense or feeling that it conveys. Nor
is it the physical sunshine; it is the sense of inexpressible beauty
which it brings with it. Of such I still drink, and hope to do so still
deeper.
CLEMATIS LANE
Wild clematis grew so thickly on one side of the narrow lane that the
hedge seemed made of it. Trailing over the low bushes, the leaves hid
the hawthorn and bramble, so that the hedge was covered with clematis
leaf and flower. The innumerable pale flowers gave out a faint odour,
and coloured the sides of the highway. Rising up the hazel rods and
taller hawthorn, the tendrils hung downwards and suspended the flowers
overhead. Across the field, where a hill rose and was dotted with
bushes--these bushes, too, were concealed by clematis, and though the
flowers were so pale, their numbers tinted the slope. A cropped
nut-tree hedge, again, low, but five or six yards thick, was bound
together by the bines of the same creeping plant, twisting in and out,
and holding it together. No care or art could have led it over the
branches in so graceful a manner; the lane was festooned for the
triumphal progress of the waggons laden with corn. Here and there, on
the dry bank over which the clematis projected like an eave, there
stood tall campanulas, their blue bells as large as the fingerstall of
a foxglove. The slender purple spires of the climbing vetch were lifted
above the low hushes to which it clung; there were ferns deeper in the
hedge, and yellow bedstraw by the gateways. A few blackberries were
ripe, but the clematis seemed to have overcome the brambles, and spoilt
their yield. Nuts, reddened at the tip, were visible on the higher
hazel boughs; they were ripe, but difficult to get at.
Leaving the lane by a waggon track--a gipsy track through a
copse--there were large bunches of pale-red berries hanging from the
wayfaring trees, or wild viburnum, and green and red berries of bryony
wreathed among the branches. The bryony leaves had turned, some were
pale buff already. Among the many berries of autumn those of the
wayfaring tree may be known by their flattened shape, as if the sides
had been pressed in like a flask. The bushes were not high enough for
shadow, and the harvest sun was hot between them. The track led past
the foot of a steep headland of the Downs, which could not be left
without an ascent. Dry and slippery, the short grass gave no hold to
the feet, and it was necessary to step in the holes cut through the
turf for the purpose. Pushed forward from the main line of the Downs,
the buff headland projected into the Weald, as headlands on the
southern side of the range project into the sea. Towards the summit the
brow came out somewhat, and even the rude steps in the turf were not
much assistance in climbing this almost perpendicular wall of sward.
Above the brow the ascent became easy; these brows raised steeper than
the general slope are often found on the higher hills. A circular
entrenchment encloses the summit, but the rampart has much sunk, and is
in places levelled. Here it was pleasant to look back upon the beech
woods at the foot of the great Downs, and far over the endless fields
of the Weald or plain. Thirty fields could be counted in succession,
one after the other, like irregular chess-squares, some corn, some
grass, and these only extended to the first undulation, where the woods
hid the fields behind them. But beyond these, in reality, succeeded
another series of fields to the second undulation, and still a third
series to the farthest undulation visible. Yet farther there was a
faint line of hills, a dark cloud-like bank in the extreme distance. To
the right and to the left were similar views. Reapers were at work in
the wheat below, but already much of the corn had been carried, and the
hum of a threshing engine came up from the ricks. A woodpecker called
loudly in the beech wood; a "wish-wish" in the air overhead was caused
by the swift motion of a wood-pigeon passing from "holt" to "hurst,"
from copse to copse. On the dry short turf of the hill-top even the
shadow of a swallow was visible as he flew but a few yards high.
In a little hollow where the rougher grasses grew longer a blue
butterfly fluttered and could not get out. He was entangled with his
own wings, he could not guide himself between the grass tops; his wings
fluttered and carried him back again. The grass was like a net to him,
and there he fluttered till the wind lifted him out, and gave him the
freedom of the hills. One small green orchis stood in the grass, alone;
the harebells were many. It is curious that, if gathered, in a few
hours (if pressed between paper) they become a deeper blue than when
growing. Another butterfly went over, large and velvety, flying head to
the wind, but unable to make way against it, and so carried sidelong
across the current. From the summit of the hill he drifted out into the
air five hundred feet above the flowers of the plain. Perhaps it was a
peacock; for there was a peacock-butterfly in Clematis Lane. The
harebells swung, and the dry tips of the grass bent to the wind which
came over the hills from the sea, but from which the sun had dried the
sea-moisture, leaving it twice refined--once by the passage above a
hundred miles of wave and foam and again by the grasses and the hills,
which forced the current to a higher level, where the sunbeams dried
it. Twice refined, the air was strong and pure, sweet like the scent of
a flower. If the air at the sea-beach is good, that of the hills above
the sea is at least twice as good, and twice as strengthening. It
possesses all the virtue of the sea air without the moisture which
ultimately loosens the joints, and seems to penetrate to the very
nerves. Those who desire air and quick recovery should go to the hills,
where the wind has a scent of the sunbeams.
In the short time since ascending the slope the definition of the view
has changed. At first it was clear indeed, and no one would have
supposed there was any mist. But now suddenly every hill stands out
sharp and definite; the scattered hawthorn bushes are distinct; the
hills look higher than before. From about the woods an impalpable
bluish mistiness that was there just now has been blown away. The
yellow squares of stubble--just cleared--far below are whiter and look
drier. I think it is the air that tints everything. This fresh stratum
now sweeping over has altered the appearance of the country and given
me a new scene. The invisible air, as if charged with colour, has
spread another tone broadly over the landscape. Omitting no detail, it
has worked out afresh every little bough of the scattered hawthorn
bushes, and made each twig distinct. It is the air that tints
everything.
While I have been thinking, a flock of sheep has stolen quietly into
the space enclosed by the entrenchment. With the iron head of his crook
placed against his breast, and the handle aslant to the ground, the
shepherd leans against it, and looks down upon the reapers. He is a
young man, and has a bright intelligent expression on his features.
Alone with his sheep so many hours, he is glad of some one to talk to,
and points out to me the various places in view. The copses that cover
the slopes of the hills he calls "holts"; there are three or four
within a short distance. His crook is not a Pyecombe crook (for the
best crooks used to be made at Pyecombe, a little Down hamlet), but he
has another, which was made from a Pyecombe pattern. The village
craftsman, whose shepherd's crooks were sought for all along the South
Downs, is no more, and he has left no one able to carry on his work. He
had an apprentice, but the apprentice has taken to another craft, and
cannot make crooks. The Pyecombe crook has a curve or semicircle, and
then opens straight; the straight part starts at a tangent from the
semicircle. How difficult it is to describe so simple a matter as a
shepherd's crook! In some way or other this Pyecombe form is found more
effective for capturing sheep, but it is not so easy to make. The crook
he held in his hand opened with an elongated curve. It appeared very
small beside the ordinary crooks; this, he said, was an advantage, as
it would hold a lamb. Another he showed me had the ordinary hook; this
was bought at Brighton. The curve was too big, and a sheep could get
its leg out; besides which, the iron was soft, and when a sheep was
caught the iron bent and enlarged, and so let the sheep go. The handles
were of hazel: one handle was straight, smooth, and the best in
appearance--but he said it was weak; the other handle, which was
crooked and rough-looking, was twice as strong. They used hazel rods
for handles--ash rods were apt to "fly," i.e. break.
Wages were now fifteen shillings a week. The "farm hands"--elsewhere
labourers--had fifteen shillings a week, and paid one shilling and
sixpence a week for their cottages. The new cottages that had been
built were two shillings and sixpence a week. They liked the old
cottages best, not only because they were cheaper, but because they had
larger gardens attached. It seemed that the men were fairly satisfied
with their earnings; just then, of course, they were receiving much
more for harvest work, such as tying up after the reaping machine at
seven shillings and sixpence per acre. Clothes were the heaviest item
of expenditure, especially where there was a family and the children
were not old enough to earn anything. Except that he said "wid" for
with--"wid" this, instead of with this--he scarcely mispronounced a
word, speaking as distinctly and expressing himself as clearly as any
one could possibly do. The briskness of manner, quick apprehension, and
directness of answer showed a well-trained mind. The Sussex shepherd on
this lonely hill was quite the equal of any man in his rank of life,
and superior in politeness to many who move in more civilised places.
He left me to fetch some wattles, called flakes in other counties; a
stronger sort of hurdles. Most of the reaping is now done by machine,
still there were men cutting wheat by hand at the foot of the hill.
They call their reaphooks swaphooks, or swophooks, and are of opinion
that although the machine answers well and clears the ground quickly
when the corn stands up, if it is beaten down the swaphook is
preferable. The swaphook is the same as the fagging-hook of other
districts. Every hawthorn bush now bears its red berries, or haws;
these are called "hog-hazels." In the west they are called "peggles."
"Sweel" is an odd Sussex word, meaning to singe linen. People who live
towards the hills (which are near the coast) say that places farther
inland are more "uperds "--up the country--up towards Tunbridge, for
instance.
The grasshoppers sang merrily round me as I sat on the sward; the warm
sun and cloudless sky and the dry turf pleased them. Though cloudless,
the wind rendered the warmth pleasant, so that the sunbeams, from which
there was no shade, were not oppressive. The grasshoppers sang, the
wind swept through the grass and swung the harebells, the "drowsy hum"
of the threshing engine rose up from the plain; the low slumberous
melody of harvest time floated in the air. An hour had gone by
imperceptibly before I descended the slope to Clematis Lane. Out in the
stubble where the wheat had just been cut, down amongst the dry short
stalks of straw, were the light-blue petals of the grey field veronica.
Almost the very first of field flowers in the earliest days of spring,
when the rain drives over the furrow, and hail may hap at any time,
here it was blooming again in the midst of the harvest. Two scenes
could scarcely be more dissimilar than the wet and stormy hours of the
early year, and the dry, hot time of harvest; the pale blue veronica,
with one white petal, flourished in both, true and faithful. The gates
beside the lane were not gates at all, but double draw-bars framed
together, so that the gate did not open on a hinge, but had to be drawn
out of the mortices. Looking over one of these grey and lichened
draw-bars in a hazel hedge there were the shocks of wheat standing
within the field, and on them a flock of rooks helping themselves
freely.
Lower in the valley, where there was water, the tall willow-herbs stood
up high as the hedges. On the banks of a pool water-plantains had sent
up stalks a yard high, branched, and each branch bearing its
three-petalled flower. In a copse near the stems of cow-parsnip stood
quite seven feet, drawn up by the willow bushes--these great plants are
some of the largest that grow in the country. Goatsbeard grew by the
wayside; it is like the dandelion, but has dark spots in the centre of
the disc, and the flower shuts at noon. The wild carrots were forming
their "birds' nests"--so soon as the flowering is over the umbel closes
into the shape of a cup or bird's nest. The flower of the wild carrot
is white; it is made up of numerous small separate florets on an umbel,
and in the centre of these tiny florets is a deep crimson one. Getting
down towards the sea and the houses now I found a shrub of henbane by
the dusty road, dusty itself, grey-green, and draggled; I call it a
shrub, though a plant because of its shrub-like look. The flowers were
over--they are a peculiar colour, dark and green veined and red, there
is no exact term for it, but you may know the plant by the leaves,
which, if crushed, smell like those of the black currant. This is one
of the old English medicinal plants still in use. The figs were
ripening fast in an orchard; the fig trees are frequently grown between
apple trees, which shelter them, and some of the fruit was enclosed in
muslin bags to protect it. The fig orchards along the coast suggest
thoughts of Italy and the ancient Roman galleys which crossed the sea
to the Sussex ports. There is a curious statement in a classic author,
to the effect that a letter written by Julius Caesar, when in Britain,
on the Kalends of September, reached Rome on the fourth day before the
Kalends of October, showing how long a letter was being carried from
the South Coast to the centre of Italy, nineteen centuries ago.
NATURE NEAR BRIGHTON
"As wild as a hawk" is a proverbial comparison, but kestrels venture
into the outskirts of Brighton, and even right over the town. Not long
since one was observed hovering above a field which divides part of
Brighton from Hove. The bird had hardly settled himself and obtained
his balance, when three or four rooks who were passing deliberately
changed their course to attack him. Moving with greater swiftness, the
kestrel escaped their angry but clumsy assaults; still they drove him
from the spot, and followed him eastwards over the town till out of
sight--now wheeling round, and now doing their utmost to rise higher
and get the advantage of him. Kestrels appear rather numerous in this
vicinity. Those who have driven round Brighton and Hove must have
noticed the large stables which have been erected for the convenience
of gentlemen residing in streets where stabling at the rear of the
house is impracticable. Early in the year a kestrel began to haunt one
of these large establishments, notwithstanding that it was much
frequented, carriages driving in and out constantly, hunters taken to
and fro, and in despite of the neighbourhood being built over with
villas. There was a piece of waste ground by the building where, on a
little tree, the hawk perched day after clay. Then, beating round, he
hovered over the gardens of the district, often above the public roads
and over a large tennis lawn. His farthest sweep seemed to be to the
Sussex County Cricket field and then back again. Day after day he went
his rounds for weeks together, through the stormy times of the early
months, passing several times a day, almost as regularly as the
postman. He showed no fear, hovering close to the people in the roads
or working in their gardens. All his motions could be observed with
facility--the mode of hovering, which he accomplished easily, whether
there was a gale or a perfect calm; indeed, his ways could be noted as
well as if it had been by the side of the wildest copse. One morning he
perched on a chimney; the house was not occupied, but the next to it
was, and there were builders' workmen engaged on the opposite side of
the road; so that the wild hawk, if unmolested, would soon become
comparatively tame. When the season became less rigorous, and the
breeding time approached, the kestrel was seen no more; having flown
for the copses between the Downs or in the Weald.
The power of hovering is not so wonderful as that of soaring, which the
hawks possess, but which is also exhibited by seagulls. On a March
morning two gulls came up from the sea, and as they neared the Downs
began to soar. It was necessary to fix the gaze on one, as the eyes
cannot follow two soaring birds at once. This gull, having spread his
wings wide, swept up the dean, or valley, with great speed, and,
turning a large circle, rose level with the hill. Round again he came,
rising spirally--a spiral with a diameter varying from a furlong to a
quarter of a mile, sometimes wider--and was now high overhead. Turn
succeeded turn, up, up, and this without a single movement of the
wings, which were held extended and rigid. The edge of the wing on the
outer side was inclined to the horizon--one wing elevated, the other
depressed--as the bird leaned inwards like a train going round a curve.
The plane of the wings glided up the air as, with no apparent
diminution of speed from friction, the bird swiftly ascended. Fourteen
times the bird swept round, never so much as moving his wings, till now
the gaze could no longer distinguish his manner of progress. The white
body was still perceptible, but the wings were indistinct. Up to that
height the gull had not assisted his ascent by flapping, or striking
the air in any way. The original impulse, and some hitherto unexplained
elasticity or property of air, had sufficed to raise him, in apparent
defiance of the retardation of friction, and of the drag of
gravitation. This power of soaring is the most wonderful of the various
problems of flight being accomplished without effort; and yet,
according to our preconceived ideas, there must be force somewhere to
cause motion. There was a moderate air moving at the time, but it must
be remembered that if a wind assists one way it retards the other.
[Footnote: See the paper on "Birds Climbing the Air"] Hawks can
certainly soar in the calmest weather.
One day I saw a weasel cross a road in Hove, close to a terrace of
houses.
It is curious that a seagull can generally be observed opposite the
Aquarium; when there is no seagull elsewhere along the whole Brighton
front there is often one there. Young gulls occasionally alight on the
roof, or are blown there. Once now and then a porpoise may be seen
sunning himself off a groyne; barely dipping himself, and rolling about
at the surface, the water shines like oil as it slips off his back.
The Brighton rooks are house birds, like sparrows, and perch on the
roofs or chimneys--there are generally some on the roof of the Eglise
Reformee Francaise, a church situated in a much-frequented part. It is
amusing to see a black rook perched on a red tile chimney, with the
smoke coming up around him, and darkening with soot his dingy plumage.
They take every scrap thrown out, like sparrows, and peck bones if they
find them. The builders in Brighton appear to have somewhat overshot
the mark, to judge from the number of empty houses, and, indeed, it is
currently reported that it will be five years before the building
speculation recovers itself. Upon these empty houses, the hoardings,
and scaffold-poles, the rooks perch exactly as if they were trees in a
hedgerow, waiting with comic gravity to pounce on anything in the
gardens or on the lawns. They are quite aware when it is Sunday--on
week-days they keep at a fair distance from workmen; on Sundays they
drop down in places where at other times they do not dare to venture,
so that a glove might be thrown out of window among them. In winter and
spring there are rooks everywhere; as summer advances, most leave the
town for the fields.
A marked sign of spring in Brighton is the return of the wheatears;
they suddenly appear in the waste places by the houses in the first few
days of April. Wheatears often run a considerable distance on the sward
very swiftly, usually stopping on some raised spot of the turf.
Meadow-pipits are another spring bird here; any one going up the Dyke
Road in early spring will observe a little brown bird singing in the
air much like a lark, but more feebly. He only rises to a certain
height, and then descends in a slanting direction, singing, to the
ground. The meadow-pipit is, apparently, uncertain where he shall come
down, wandering and irregular on his course. Many of them finish their
song in the gardens of the Convent of the Sacred Heart, which seem to
be a refuge to birds. At least, the thrushes sing there
sweetly--yellowhammers, too--on the high wall. There is another resort
of birds, opposite the Convent, on the Stanford Estate, on which
persons are warned not to shoot or net small birds. A little shrubbery
there in April and May is full of thrushes, blackbirds, and various
finches, happily singing, and busy at their nests. Here the birds sing
both sides of the highway, despite the reproach that Brighton is bare
of trees; they pass from the shrubbery to and from the Convent gardens.