were more frequently seen. Brighton is still a bird-catching centre,
and before the new close season commences acres of ground are covered
with the nets of the bird-catchers. Pity they could not be confined a
little while in the same manner as they confine their miserable
feathery victims (in cages just to fit the bird, say six inches square)
in cells where movement or rest would be alike impossible. Yet
goldfinches are still to be seen close to the town; they are fond of
the seeds which they find wherever there is a waste place, and on the
slopes of unfinished roads. Each unoccupied house, and many occupied,
has its brood of starlings; a starling the other day was taking insects
from the surface of a sheep pond on the hill, flying out to the middle
of the pond and snatching the insects from the water During the long
weeks of rain and stormy weather in the spring of 1883, the Downs
looked dreary indeed; open, unsheltered, the grass so short as scarcely
to be called grass wet and slippery. But a few glimpses of sunshine
soon brought a change. Where the furze bushes had been cut down, the
stems of furze began to shoot, looking at a little distance like moss
on the ground. Among these there were broad violet patches--scentless
violets, nothing to gather, but pleasant to see--colouring the earth.
Presently the gorse flowered, miles of it, and the willow wrens sang
plaintively among it. The brightest bird on the Downs was then the
stonechat. Perched on a dead thistle, his blackest of black heads, the
white streak by his neck, and the brilliance of his colouring
contrasted with the yellow gorse around. In the hedges on the northern
slopes of the Downs, towards the Weald, or plain, the wayfaring tree
grows in large shrubs, blooming among the thorns.
The banks by Brighton in early spring are purple with the flowers of
ground ivy, which flowers with exceptional freedom. One bank, or waste
spot, that was observed was first of all perfectly purple with ground
ivy; by degrees these flowers faded, and the spot became a beautiful
blue with veronica, or bird's-eye; then, again, these disappeared, and
up came the larger daisies on stalks a foot high, whose discs touched
each other from end to end of the bank. Here was a succession of
flowers as if designed, one taking the other's place. Meantime the
trifolium appeared like blood spilt among the grass.
The thin, chalky soil of Sussex is singularly favourable to poppies and
charlock--the one scarlet, the other a sharp yellow; they cover acres.
Wild pansies flowered on the hillside fallows, high up among the wind,
where the notes of the cuckoo came faint from the wood in the Weald
beneath. The wind threw back the ringing notes, but every now and then,
as the breeze ebbed, they came, having travelled a full mile against
the current of air. There is no bird with so powerful a voice as the
cuckoo; his cry can be heard almost as far as a clarion. The wild
pansies were very thick--little yellow petals streaked with black
lines. In a western county the cottagers call them "Loving Idols,"
which may perhaps be a distortion of the name they bore in
Shakespeare's time--"Love in Idleness." It appears as if the rabbits on
the chalk are of a rather greyish hue, perceptibly less sandy in colour
than those living in meadows on low ground. Though Brighton is bare of
trees, there is a large wood at a short distance. It is principally of
beech. In this particular wood there is a singular absence of the jays
which elsewhere make so much noise. Early in the spring there did not
seem a jay in it. They make their appearance in the nesting season and
are then trapped. A thrush's nest with eggs in it having been found, a
little platform of sticks is built before the nest and a trap placed on
it. The jay is so fond of eggs he cannot resist these; he alights on
the platform in front of the nest, and is so captured. The bait of an
egg will generally succeed in drawing a jay to his destruction. A good
deal of poaching goes on about Brighton at Christmas time, when the
coverts are full of game.
The Downs as they trend along the coast now recede and now approach,
now sink in deans, then rise abruptly, topped with copses which, like
Lancing Clump, are visible many miles both at sea and on land. Between
them and the beach there lies a rich alluvial belt, narrow and flat,
much of which appears to have been reclaimed by drainage from the
condition of marsh, and which, in fact, presents a close similitude to
the fens. Here, in the dykes, the aquatic grasses reach a great height,
and the flowering rush grows. It is said that this land is sought after
among agriculturists, and that those who occupy it have escaped better
than the majority from the pressure of bad seasons. Somewhat away from
the present coast-line, where the hills begin--perhaps the sea came as
far inland once--may be found ancient places, still ports, with
histories running back into the mythic period. Passing through such a
place on a sunny day in the earlier part of the year, the extreme quiet
and air of silence were singularly opposite to the restlessness of the
great watering-place near. It was but a few steps out into the wooded
country. Yellow wallflowers grew along the high wall, and flowered
against the sky; swallows flew to and fro the warm space sheltered from
the wind, beneath them. In the lane a blackbird was so occupied among
the arums at the roots of the trees that he did not stir till actually
obliged. Blackbirds and thrushes are fond of searching about where the
arums grow thickest. In the park a clump of tall aspens gleamed like
silk in the sunshine. The calls of moorhens came up from a lake in a
deep valley near, beeches grow down the steep slope to the edge of the
water, and the wind which rippled it drew in a strong draught up the
hill. From that height the glance saw to the bottom of the clear water,
to which the waves and the wind gave a translucent green. The valley
winds northward, curving like a brook, and in the trough a narrow green
band of dark grass follows the windings, a pathlike ribbon as deeply
coloured as a fairy ring, and showing between the slopes of pale turf.
On this side are copses of beech, and on that of fir; the fir copses
are encircled by a loose hedge of box, fading and yellowish, while the
larch tops were filled with sweet and tender green. Like the masts and
yards of a ship, which are gradually hidden as the sails are set, so
these green sails unfurling concealed the tall masts and taper branches
of the fir. Afar the great hills were bare, wind-swept and dry. The
glass-green river wound along the plain, and the sea bloomed blue under
the sun, blue by the distant shore, darkening like a level cloud where
a dim ship marked the horizon. A blue sky requires greensward and green
woods--the sward is pale and the woods are slow; the cuckoo calls for
his leaves.
Farther along the edge of the valley the beeches thicken, and the turf
is covered by the shrunken leaves of last year. Empty hulls of
beechmast crunch under foot, the brown beech leaves have drifted a foot
deep against the trunk of a felled tree. Beech leaves lie at rest in
the cover of furze, sheltered from the wind; suddenly a little cloud of
earth rises like dust as a startled cock pheasant scrambles on his
wings with a scream. A hen follows, and rises steadily in a long-drawn
slanting line till near the tops of the beeches, then rockets sharp up
over the highest branches, and descends in a wide sweeping curve along
the valley. In the glade among the beeches the furze has grown straight
up ten feet high, like, sapling trees, and flowers at the top, golden
bloom on a dry pole. There are more pheasants in the furze, so that,
not to disturb them, it is best to walk round and not enter it. Every
now and then there is a curious, half-finished note among the
trees--yuc, yuc. This great hawthorn has a twisted stem; the wood winds
round itself in a spiral. The bole of a beech in the sunshine h spotted
like a trout by the separate shadows of its first young leaves. Tall
bushes--almost trees--of blackthorn are in full white flower; the dark,
leafless boughs make it appear the whiter. Among the blackthorn several
tits are busy, searching about on the twigs, and pecking into the
petals; calling loudly as they do so. A willow-wren is peering into the
bloom too, but silent for the moment. The blackthorn is much lichened,
the lichen which is built into the domed nest of the long-tailed
titmouse. Yuc--yuc, again. Stalks of spurge, thickening towards the
top, and then surrounded with leaves, and above these dull yellow-green
flowers, grow in shrub-like bunches in more open ground. Among the
shrunken leaves on the turf here and there are the white flowers of the
barren strawberry. A green woodpecker starts from a tree, and can be
watched between the trunks as he flies; his bright colour marks him.
Presently, on rounding some furze, he rises again, this time from the
ground, and goes over the open glade; flying, the green woodpecker
appears a larger bird than would be supposed if seen when still. He has
been among the beeches all the time, and it was his "Yuc, yuc" which we
heard. Where the woodpecker is heard and seen, there the woods are
woods and wild--a sense of wildness accompanies his presence.
Across the valley the straight shadows of firs rise up the slope, all
drawn in the same direction, parallel on the sward. Far in a hollow of
the rounded hill a herd of deer are resting; the plain lies beneath
them, and beyond it the sea. Though they rest in a hollow the green
hill is open above and below them; they do not dread the rifle, but if
they did they would be safe there. Returning again through the woods,
there are some bucks lying on a pleasant sunny slope. Almost too idle
to rise, they arch their backs, and stretch their legs, as much as to
say, Why trouble us? The wind rushes through the trees, and draws from
them strange sounds, now a groan, now almost a shriek, as the boughs
grind against each other and wear the bark away. From a maple a twisted
ivy basket hangs filled with twigs, leaves, and tree dust, big as three
rooks' nests. Only recently a fine white-tailed eagle was soaring over
the woods, he may have followed the line of the sea down from the
Hebrides. Up from the sea comes the wind, drawing swifter between the
beech trunks, resting a little in the sunny glades, On again into the
woods. The glass-green river yonder coloured by the wind runs on
seaward, there are thin masts of ships visible at its mouth miles away,
the wind whistles in their shrouds; beyond the blue by the shore, far,
far distant on the level cloud, the dim ship has sailed along the
horizon. It dries the pale grass, and rustles the restless shrunken
leaves on the ground; it dries the grey lichen on the beech trunks; it
swings the fledglings in the rooks' nests, and carries the ringdove on
a speedier wing. Blackbirds whistle all around, the woods are full of
them; willow-wrens plaintively sing in the trees; other birds call--the
dry wind mingles their notes. It is a hungry wind--it makes a wanderer
as hungry as Robin Hood; it drives him back to the houses, and there by
a doorstep lies a heap of buck's-horns thrown down like an armful of
wood.
SEA, SKY, AND DOWN
In the cloudless January sky the sun at noonday appears high above the
southern horizon, and there is a broad band of sky between it and the
line of the sea. This sense of the sun's elevation is caused by the
level plain of water, which affords no contrast. Inland the hills rise
up, and even at midday the sun in winter does not seem much above their
ridges. But here by the shore the sun hangs high, and does not look as
if he descended so low in his winter curve. There is little wind, and
the wavelets swing gently rather than roll, illumined both in their
hollows and on their crests with a film of silver. Three or four miles
away a vessel at anchor occasionally sways, and at each movement
flashes a bright gleam from her wet side like a mirror. White gulls
hawk to and fro by the strand, darting on floating fragments and rising
again; their plumage is snowy white in the sunshine. Brown nets lie on
the pebbles; brown nets are stretched from the mastheads of the smacks
to the sea-wall; brown and deeply wrinkled sails are hoisted to dry in
the sun and air. The broad red streaks on the smacks' sides stand out
distinctly among the general pitchy hues of gunwales and great coils of
rope. Men in dull yellow tan frocks are busy round about among them,
some mending nets some stooping over a boat turned bottom upwards, upon
which a patch is being placed. It needs at least three or four men to
manage this patch properly. These tan frocks vary from a dull yellow to
a copperish red colour. A golden vane high overhead points to the
westward, and the dolphin, with open mouth, faces the light breeze.
Under the groynes there is shadow as in summer; once and again the sea
runs up and breaks on the beach, and the foam, white as the whitest
milk, hisses as it subsides among the pebbles; it effervesces and
bubbles at the brim of the cup of the sea. Farther along the chalk
cliffs stand up clear and sharp, the green sea beneath, and the blue
sky above them. There is a light and colour everywhere, the least
fragment of colour is brought out, even the worn red tiles washed
smooth by the tides and rolled over and over among the pebbles, the sea
gleams, and there is everything of summer but the heat. Reflected in
the plate-glass windows of the street the sea occupies the shop front,
covering over the golden bracelets and jewellery with a moving picture
of the silvery waves. The day is lengthened by the light, and dark
winter driven away, till, the sun's curve approaching the horizon,
misty vapours begin to thicken in the atmosphere where they had not
been suspected. The tide is out, and for miles the foam runs in on the
level sands, forming a long succession of graceful curves marked with a
white edge.
As the sun sinks, the wet sands are washed with a brownish yellow, the
colour of ripe wheat if it could be supposed liquid. The sunset, which
has begun with pale hues, flushes over a rich violet, soon again
overlaid with orange, and succeeded in its turn by a deep red glow--a
glow which looks the deeper the more it is gazed at, like a petal of
peony. There are no fair faces in the street now, they are all
brunettes, fair complexions and dark skins are alike tinted by the
sunset; they are all swarthy. On the sea a dull redness reaches away
and is lost in the vapour on the horizon; eastwards great vapours,
tinged rosy, stand up high in the sky, and seem to drift inland,
carrying the sunset with them; presently the atmosphere round the
houses is filled with a threatening light, like a great fire reflected
over the housetops. It fades, and there is nothing left but a dark
cloud at the western horizon, tinted blood-red along its upper edge.
Next morning the sun rises, a ball of orange amid streaks of scarlet.
But sometimes the sunset takes other order than this, and after the
orange there appears a rayed scarlet crown, such as one sees on old
coins--rays of scarlet shoot upward from a common centre above where
the sun went down. Sometimes, instead of these brilliant hues, there is
the most delicate shading of pearly greys and nameless silver tints,
such tints as might be imagined were the clouds like feathers, the art
of which is to let the under hue shine through the upper layer of the
plumage. Though not so gaudy or at first so striking, these
pearl-greys, and silvers, and delicate interweaving of tints are really
as wonderful, being graduated and laid on with a touch no camel's hair
can approach. Sometimes, again, the sunset shows a burnished sky, like
the surface of old copper burnt or oxidised--the copper tinted with
rose, or with rose and violet. During the prevalence of the scarlet and
orange hues, the moon, then young, shining at the edge of the sunset,
appeared faintly green and people remarked how curious a green moon
looked on a blue sky, for it was just where the sunset vapour melted
into the upper sky. At the same moment the gas-lamps burned green--rows
and rows of pale green lights. As the sunset faded both the moon and
gas-lamps took their proper hue; hence it appeared as if the change of
colour were due to contrast. The gas-lamps had looked greenish several
evenings before the new moon shone, and in their case there can be no
doubt the tint was contrast merely. One night, some hours after sunset,
and long after the last trace of it had disappeared, the moon was
sailing through light white clouds, which only partly concealed her,
and was surrounded by the ordinary prismatic halo. But outside this
halo there was a green circle, a broad green band, very distinct--a
pale emerald green. Beautiful and interesting as these sunsets have
been, I cannot subscribe to the opinion that they surpass all that have
been observed; for I distinctly remember sunsets equally brilliant, and
some even more so, which occurred not so very long ago. To those who
are in the habit of observing out-of-door phenomena a beautiful sunset
is by no means uncommon.
Sometimes the sea disappears under the haze of the winter's day: it is
fine, but hazy, and from the hills, looking southwards, the sea seems
gone, till, the sun breaking out, two or three horizontal streaks
reflected suddenly reveal its surface. Another time the reflection of
the sun's rays takes the form of a gigantic and exaggerated hour-glass;
by the shore the reflection widens out, narrows as it recedes to a mere
path, and again at the horizon widens and fills a mile or more. Then at
the horizon the lighted sea seems raised above the general level. Rain
is approaching, and then by the beach the sea becomes yellowish, beyond
that green, and a hard blue at the horizon; there is one lovely streak
of green on the right; in front a broad spot of sunlight where the
clouds have parted. The wind sings, and a schooner is working rapidly
out to windward for more room. During changeable weather the sky
between the clouds occasionally takes a pale yellow hue, like that of
the tinted paper used for drawing. This colour is opaque, and evidently
depends upon the presence of thin vapour. It is seen when the wind is
in the act of changing its direction, and the clouds, arrested in their
march, are thrown out of rank. That which was the side becomes the rear
of the cloud, and is banked up by the sudden pressure. Clouds coming in
from the sea are met with a land wind, and so diverted. The effect of
mist on the sea in the dark winter days is to increase distances, so
that a ship at four or five miles appears hull down, and her shadowy
sails move in vapour almost as thick as the canvas. At evening there is
no visible sunset, but presently the whole sky, dull and gloomy, is
suffused with a redness, not more in one part than another, but over
the entire heavens. So in the clouded mornings, a deep red hue fills
the whole dome.
But if the sun rises clear, the rays light up the yellow sand of the
quarries inland, the dark brown ploughed fields, and the black copses
where many a bud is sleeping and waiting for the spring. A haze lies
about the Downs and softens their smooth outline as in summer, if you
can but face the bleak wind which never rests up there. The outline
starts on the left hand fairly distinguished against the sky. As it
sweeps round, it sinks, and is lost in the bluish haze; gradually it
rises again, and is visible on the right, where the woods stand
leafless on the ridge. Or the vapour settles down thicker, and the vast
expanse becomes gloomy in broad day. The formless hills loom round
about, the roads and marks of civilisation seem blotted out, it may be
some absolute desert for aught that appears. An immense hollow filled
with mist lies underneath. Presently the wind drifts the earth-cloud
along, and there by a dark copse are three or four horsemen eagerly
seeking a way through the plantation. They are two miles distant, but
as plainly visible as if you could touch them. By-and-by one finds a
path, and in single file the troop rides into the wood. On the other
side there is a long stretch of open ploughed field, and about the
middle of it little white dots close together, sweeping along as if the
wind drove them. Horsemen are galloping on the turf at the edge of the
arable, which is doubtless heavy going. The troop that has worked
through the wood labours hard to overtake; the vapour follows again,
and horsemen and hounds are lost in the abyss.
On a ridge closer at hand, and above the mist, stand two conical wheat
ricks sharply defined--all that a draughtsman could seize on. Still,
even in winter there is about the hills the charm of outline, and the
uncertain haze produces some of the effects of summer, but it is
impossible to stay and admire, the penetrating wind will permit of
nothing except hard exercise. Looking back now and then, the distant
hollows are sometimes visible and sometimes filled; great curtains of
mist sweep along illumined by the sunlight above them; the woods are
now brown, now dark, and now faintly blue, as the light changes. Over
the range-and down in the valley where the hursts or woods are
situated, surrounded by meads and cornfields, there are other notes of
colour to be found. In the leafless branches of the oak sometimes the
sunshine plays on the bark of the smaller boughs, and causes a sense of
light and colour among them. The slender boughs of the birch, too,
reflect the sunshine as if polished. Beech leaves still adhere to the
lower branches, spots of bright brown among the grey and ash tint of
the underwood. If a woodpecker passes, his green plumage gleams the
more from the absence of the abundant foliage which partly conceals
even him in summer. The light-coloured wood-pigeons show distinctly
against the dark firs; the golden crest of the tiny wren is to be seen
in the furze or bramble.
All broader effects of colour must in winter be looked for in the
atmosphere, as the light changes, as the mist passes, as the north wind
brings down a blackness, or the gust dries up the furrow; as the colour
of the air alters, for it is certain that the air is often full of
colour. To the atmosphere we must look for all broader effects. Specks
of detail may be sometimes discerned, one or two in a walk, as the
white breasts of the lapwings on the dark ploughed ridges; yellow
oat-straw by the farm, still retaining the golden tint of summer; if
fortunate, a blue kingfisher by the brook, and always dew flashing
emerald and ruby.
JANUARY IN THE SUSSEX WOODS
The lost leaves measure our years; they are gone as the days are gone,
and the bare branches silently speak of a new year, slowly advancing to
its buds, its foliage, and fruit. Deciduous trees associate with human
life as this yew never can. Clothed in its yellowish-green needles, its
tarnished green, it knows no hope or sorrow; it is indifferent to
winter, and does not look forward to summer. With their annual loss of
leaves, and renewal, oak and elm and ash and beech seem to stand by us
and to share our thoughts. There is no wind at the edge of the wood,
and the few flakes of snow that fall from the overcast sky flutter as
they drop, now one side higher and then the other, as the leaves did in
the still hours of autumn. The delicacy of the outer boughs of the
great trees visible against the dark background of cloud is as
beautiful in its own way as the massed foliage of summer. Each slender
bough is drawn out to a line; line follows line as shade grows under
the pencil, but each of these lines is separate. Great boles of beech,
heavy timber at the foot, thus end at their summits in the lightest and
most elegant pencilling. Where the birches are tall, sometimes the
number and closeness of these bare sprays causes a thickening almost as
if there were leaves there. The leaves, in fact, when they come,
conceal the finish of the trees; they give colour, but they hide the
beautiful structure under them. Each tree at a distance is recognisable
by its particular lines; the ash, for instance, grows with its own
marked curve.
Some flakes of snow have remained on this bough of spruce, pure white
on dull green. Sparingly dispersed, the snow can be seen falling far
ahead between the trunks; indeed, the white dots appear to increase the
distance the eye can penetrate; it sees farther because there is
something to catch the glance. Nothing seems left for food in the woods
for bird or animal. Some ivy berries and black privet berries remain, a
few haws may be found; for the rest, it is gone; the squirrels have had
the nuts, the acorns were taken by the jays, rooks, and pheasants.
Bushels of acorns, too, were collected by hand as food for the fallow
deer in the park. A great fieldfare rises, like a lesser pigeon;
fieldfares often haunt the verge of woods, while the redwing thrushes
go out into the meadows. It can scarcely be doubted that both these
birds come over to escape the keener cold of the winters in Norway, or
that the same cause drives the blackbirds hither. In spring we listen
to Norwegian songs--the blackbird and the thrush that please us so
much, if not themselves of Scandinavian birth, have had a Scandinavian
origin. Any one walking about woods like these in January can
understand how, where there are large flocks of birds, they must find
the pressure of numbers through the insufficiency of food. They go then
to seek a warmer climate and more to eat; more particularly probably
for sustenance.