rites, and usages of earlier days, we occasionally regret that fashions
by gradual neglect have passed away, and can never be revived, to give
that feeling of pleasure which a natural growth seemed to have inspired.
Some, though probably of pagan origin, were innocent and harmless
practices; the maypole, with all its flowery wreaths, so often
surrounded by the dance and the song, is now but seldom seen, where we
have known it, especially in the lace-making counties, the evening and
almost sole recreation, after long hours of unhealthy occupation, for
happy groups of
“Those pale maids who weave their threads with bone;”
and it gave these poor villagers a transient glow of health, seen then
alone; but it is gone with the rest, and we grieve to think how little
remains that poverty and innocence can partake of. Others were of
monkish introduction, yet seemed to keep in remembrance the revolutions
of seasons and events, which, though recorded elsewhere, had become the
types of written things. Yet one of them in the irritation of the moment
I have at times wished, selfishly enough perhaps, consigned to oblivion
with monks and monkish deeds. “Christmassing,” as we call it, the
decorating our churches, houses, and market meats with evergreens, is
yet retained among us; and we growers of such things annually contribute
more than we wish for the demand of the towns. Sprays and sprigs may be
connived at, but this year I lost most of my beautiful young holly-
trees, the cherished nurslings of my hedge-rows. The holly[69] though
indigenous with us, is a very slow growing tree, and certainly the most
ornamental of our native foresters. Its fine foliage shining in vigor
and health, mingling with its brilliant coral beads, gives us the
cheering aspect of a summer’s verdure when all besides is desolation and
decay. It is not only grateful to the eye, but gives us pleasure, when
we contemplate the food it will afford our poor hedgefaring birds, when
all but its berries and those of the ivy are consumed; and we are
careful to preserve these gay youths of promise, when we trim our
fences: but no sooner do they become young trees, in splendid beauty,
than the merciless hatchet, in some December’s night, lops off their
heads, leaving a naked unsightly stake to point out our loss; and we
grieve and are vexed, for they never acquire again comparative beauty.
These young heads, that we have been robbed of, are in especial request
to form a bush, dependent from the centre of the kitchen or the
servants’ hall, which in this season of license and festivity becomes a
station for extra liberty, as every female passing under it, becomes
subject to the salutation of her male companion. This centre bush is
often the object of particular decoration, being surrounded by the
translucent berries of the mistletoe, and those of the ivy, dipped in
blue and white starch. But at this season I have noticed one remarkable
decoration among the natives of the principality. A large white turnip
is stuck as full as possible of black oats, so as to hide almost the
substance in which they are set, and sometimes having compartments of
white oats; and being placed upon a candlestick, or some other
elevation, on the mantle-tree, presents an extraordinary hedgehog-like
appearance. The first adoption of this purely rural fancy, and its
designation, I am perfectly unacquainted with; but, when it is well
executed, it requires attentive examination to detect the device.
We are no votarists of fortune here, nor do we trouble ourselves
concerning predestinate ordinations, or like subtilties; but when we
notice passing events, we lament the ills and are pleased with the good
luck of a neighbor: and a little turn happened lately to a parishioner,
which in former times, when events were viewed under aspects different
from those by which we now regard them, might have occasioned more
wonderment and comment than it did. An industrious laboring man had been
some time unemployed, and having sought an engagement at all those
places most likely to have afforded it, but without success, sat himself
down upon a bank in one of our potato-fields, carelessly twisting a
straw, and ruminating what his next resource might be; when casting his
eyes to the ground, he discovered, immediately between his feet, a
guinea! a guinea perfect in all its requisites! The finding of such a
coin, at such a time, was no common occurrence; but by what casualty did
the money come there? The frequenters of our fields, breakers of stone,
and delvers of the soil, inhabiters of the tenement and the cot, have no
superfluous gold to drop unheeded in their progress, and one should have
supposed that the various operations which the field had undergone in
the potato culture, would have brought to view any coin of that size and
lustre. Upon looking at the land, however, much of our perplexity was
removed by observing that the ground had been in part manured by
scrapings from our turnpike road, rendering it highly probable that this
golden stranger had been dropped by some traveller, not missed by him,
or lost in the mire, this mortar from the road possibly so coating it
about, as to secrete it for a time some heavy rain dissolving the clod,
and bringing it to view. This, I am sensible, is an incident little
deserving of narration, but has been done from two motives: we village
historians meet with but few important events to detail from the annals
of our district; we have no gazettes, few public records or official
documents to embellish our pages, and if we will write, must be content
with such small matters as present themselves; and to point out how
frequently very mysterious circumstances may be elucidated, and appear
as consistent events by an unbiassed examination. We may not be able
always satisfactorily to see why a tide of good fortune should flow at
the desire of one, and ebb from the wishes of another; yet many of the
occurrences of human life are perhaps not so extraordinary as they are
made to appear by the suppression of facts, or our ignorance of
circumstances.
The effects of atmospheric changes upon vegetation have been noticed in
the rudest ages: even the simplest people have remarked their influence
on the appetites of their cattle, so that to “eat like a rabbit before
rain” has become proverbial, from the common observance of the fact: but
the influence of the electric fluid upon the common herbage has not
been, perhaps, so generally perceived. My men complain to-day that they
cannot mow, that they “cannot any how make a hand of it,” as the grass
hangs about the blade of the scythe, and is become tough and woolly;
heavy rains are falling to the southward, and thunder rolls around us;
this indicates the electric state of the air, and points out the
influence that atmospheric temperature and condition have upon organized
and unorganized bodies, though from their nature not always manifested,
all terrestrial substances being replete with electric matter. In the
case here mentioned, it appears probable that the state of the air
induced a temporary degree of moisture to arise from the earth, or to be
given out by the air, and that this moisture conducted the electric
fluid to the vegetation of the field. Experiments prove that electric
matter discharged into a vegetable withers and destroys it; and it
appeared to me at the time, but I am no electrician, that an inferior or
natural portion of this fluid, such as was then circulating around, had
influenced my grass in a lower degree, so as not to wither, but to cause
it to flag, and become tough, or, as they call it in some counties, to
“wilt;”[70] the farina of the grass appeared damper than is usual, by
its hanging about the blades of the scythes more than it commonly does;
the stone removed it, as the men whetted them, just at the edge, but
they were soon clogged again. As the thunder cleared away, the
impediments became less obvious, and by degrees the difficulties ceased.
The observance of local facts, though unimportant in themselves, may at
times elucidate perplexities, or strengthen conclusions.
That purely rural, little noticed, and indeed local occurrence, called
by the country people “hummings in the air,” is annually to be heard in
one or two fields near my dwelling. About the middle of the day, perhaps
from twelve o’clock till two, on a few calm, sultry days, in July, we
occasionally hear, when in particular places, the humming of apparently
a large swarm of bees. It is generally in some spacious, open spot, that
this murmuring first arrests our attention. As we move onward the sound
becomes fainter, and by degrees is no longer audible. That this sound
proceeds from a collection of bees, or some such insects, high in the
air, there can be no doubt; yet the musicians are invisible. At these
times a solitary insect or so may be observed here and there, occupied
in its usual employ, but this creature takes no part in our aërial
orchestra. We investigators, who endeavor to find a reason and a cause
for all things, are a little puzzled sometimes in our pursuits, like
other people; and, perhaps, would have but little success in attempting
an elucidation of this occurrence, which, with those circles in our
pastures and on our lawns, that produce such crops of fungi (agaricus
oreades), and are called by the common name, for want of a better or
more significant one, of “fairy rings,”[71] we will leave as we find
them, an _odium physiologicum_.
1827.—The winds of this autumn have been violent and distressing, but of
all variable things, we know of none more so than our seasons and
temperatures, produced probably by causes and combinations of which we
have no comprehension, or power of foreseeing, “for these things come
not by observation; we cannot say, Lo here! or Lo there!” What can be
more extraordinary, or inexplicable by table or computation, than the
sudden visitation, in the midst of storms and frosts, of such a day of
brightness and warmth as we sometimes witness, cheering the aspect of
all things,—a portrait of summer, brought from we know not what region,
in a framework of winter. All these things assuredly have their effects
upon the products of the earth, and by their means upon the creatures
that are nourished by them, carrying on that imperceptible line of
influences and intelligences that is maintained throughout nature. We
know that vegetation and the atmosphere are in a constant state of
barter and exchange, receiving and modifying; and possibly, from the
unseen effects of a frosty morning, a fall of snow, or a few hours’
temperature of the air, a fruitful or an unproductive season may arise.
We notice the effects of spring changes, because vegetation has so far
advanced as to render influences manifest; but we cannot perceive the
injuries of benefits accruing to a hidden circulation from particular
events. Every person who has been conversant with cattle, must have
remarked how uncertain their progress in improvement has been; that the
abundant provision of one year did not prove equally nutritive with the
scanty product of some other: this fact originates probably from the
effects of atmospheric impulse, either directly upon vegetation, or upon
the soil which produced the food collaterally, or upon both
collectively. In a wet season, water appears to nourish plants, or to
supply their requirements principally: in a dry one, nutriment must be
obtained from the soil by means of the fibre of the root, and hence
particles are imbibed chemically different; a dry or a drained soil,
producing short and scanty herbage, will frequently improve the
condition of cattle more than an adjoining meadow having a profusion of
food, though probably no chemical analysis could indicate the
difference. These periodical winds again, violent and distressing as
they often prove, are yet unquestionably essential in the economy of
nature: our two seasons, in which these commotions of the air most
usually become manifest, are about the equinoxes of autumn and spring,
periods which in many respects have a similarity with each other. In the
autumn of our year, the foliage of trees and plants, &c., putrefy and
decay; marshes and dull waters, clogged by their own products, stagnate,
and discharge large portions of hydrogen, carbonic gas, &c., injurious
and even fatal to animal existence: in summer all these baneful
exhalations are neutralized and rendered wholesome by the vast
quantities of oxygen, or vital air, discharged from vegetable foliage:
but these agents of benefit, by the autumn, are no more—consequently the
discharge of oxygen is suspended, but the production of unhealthy air
increased by the additional decomposition of the season. To counteract
this, is probably the business of the storms of wind and rain prevailing
at this season, which, by agitating and dissipating the noxious airs,
introduce fresh currents, and render the fluid we breathe salubrious.
The same may be advanced in regard to spring: the whole decay of winter,
having no neutralizing body to render it wholesome, requires some great
influencing power to remove it. But all this is reasoning without actual
evidence; a discursive license, from the fallibility of human judgment
not often to be indulged in: yet we can so rarely perceive the purport
of the movements of nature, that our conceptions, vague as they may be,
are almost all that remain to us.
We have here so few operations of nature deserving mention, that I must
not omit to notice a rather uncommon appearance in some of our clay-
lands, which the surrounding parishes do not present. The soil of a few
fields seems to cover for some depth a rock of coarse limestone, which
we never burn for use. In a direction bearing nearly east and west, in a
line pointing to the Severn, a number of sinkings and pits are
observable, like abandoned shafts, or the commencement of mines. They
are called by the country people “whirly pits.” In some instances the
bottoms of them are not visible, owing to the tortuous irregularity of
the passages; in other cases they are only deep hollows, covered with
turf. These sinkings are evidently occasioned by the lowering of the
surface in consequence of the removal of the support beneath. Where the
under parts have been entirely displaced, the upper have fallen in, and
formed a chasm; where only partially removed, deep, turfy hollows are
formed. These removals have been occasioned, probably, by a stream of
water running far beneath, and washing away the support; and in part by
the superfluous water from the ditches and watercourses above draining
into the fissures of the rock, and so gradually mining or wearing away a
passage; for they are now frequently the receivers of all the running
water from the land, which seems naturally to drain into them, and
apparently has been so conducted for a long course of years. Some of
them present dark and frightful chasms, and bushes and brambles are
encouraged to grow about them, to prevent cattle from falling into the
pits. Many a fox, when hard pressed, has been known to make for these
“whirly pits,” as his last resource; and, secreting himself in some of
the under cavities, has escaped from the pursuit of his enemies above. I
once saw one of these animals dead at the bottom. Whether he perished
from being unable to return up the crags after one of these retreats, or
by any other means, I know not.
In particular years we are much troubled here by the luxuriant growth of
a cryptogamous plant, which I believe to be the lichen fascicularis of
Linnæus: it may always be found even in the dryest summers, but being in
those seasons shrivelled up, is in no way troublesome, nor indeed
noticed, unless sought for. This lichen covers the walks of shrubberies
at times in shady places, and paths in the kitchen garden, appearing
like a dull olivaceous crust, most observable about October or November,
and the spring months; but in the summer of 1828, the unusual moisture
of that season was so favorable to its growth, that even in August we
could not walk in safety in those places where it abounded, our feet
sliding along upon the gelatinous, slippery foliage and tubercles. Upon
the walks of our culinary gardens we sprinkle coal ashes, and this
enables us for some time to pass along with tolerable safety; but in the
end it so fosters the growth of this lichen, and small mosses, which
retain moisture as a sponge, that the evil we endeavor to remove is by
the autumn increased: where gravel is not obtainable, paring off the
crest of the walk is the only effectual remedy, and this ultimately we
are necessitated to resort to. It is notable that such a very
insignificant product, this hardly discernible plant, should endanger
limb and life, and by circumstances become so formidable to us “lords of
the creation,” as to force us to devise contrivances to counteract its
injurious tendencies.
There are times when we suffer here greatly by the withering and searing
up as it were of the leaves of our vegetation, which we attribute
generally to an early morning’s frost. That late spring frosts do
occasion such injuries, and that noxious blasts, from causes which we
cannot divine, occasion infinite annual mischief, if not destruction, to
our wall fruit, is most manifest; yet there is great reason to suspect
that a large portion of the injuries which we ascribe to blights,
blasts, and frosts, are occasioned by saline sprays brought by strong
western or south-western gales from King-road in the Bristol Channel,
eight or ten miles distant, or from even more remote waters, and swept
over the adjoining country where the wind passes. This saline wind has
often been suspected by me as the evil agent that accomplishes most of
our blightings here; and on November the 3d, 1825, these suspicions were
corroborated—for on this and the preceding days we had strong gales from
the water, in consequence of which such windows as were situate to the
west and south-west were skimmed over with a light saline scurf, the
brass-work of the doors was corroded and turned green, painted works of
all kinds were salt to the tongue, as was every thing that could
condense the moisture; and the leaves of the shrubs in the hedge-rows,
and of trees, all turned brown, and were crisped up. A row of large elms
in particular, that fronted the gale, received its full influence; the
whole of the windward side, then in full foliage, became perfectly brown
and seared, and the leaves shortly afterwards parted from their sprays
and left them bare, while the other and sheltered side of the trees
preserved its green foliage very slightly influenced by the spray that
burned up the other. No period of the leafy season is exempt from these
pernicious effects, more or less, if the wind be sufficiently violent
and blowing from the water. Portions of the country distant from the
shores often seem more influenced by these salt sprays than others more
near, the wind lifting up the saline moisture, bearing it aloft to
remote parts, and dropping it as it travels over the land or meets with
impediments.
Our apples in some years are more inclined to become spotted than in
others, from causes not quite obvious, as moist summers do not occasion
it more decidedly than dry. Particular sorts are more subject to these
dark markings than others. The russet, though a rough-coated fruit,
seems exempt from spots; whereas some of the smooth-rinded ones,
especially the pearmain, are invariably disfigured with them. These
marks appear to be an æcidium, which we frequently find to be perfectly
matured, the centre occupied with minute, powdery capsules, having burst
through their epidermis, or covering, which hangs in fragments round the
margin. This æcidium[73] apparently derives its nutriment from the
apple; for immediately round the verge of the spot the skin becomes
wrinkled in consequence of the juices being drawn off by the fungus. In
most cases the presence of plants of this nature is symptomatic of
decay; but in this instance we find an exception to a pretty general
effect, for the decay of the apple does not always commence at the spot,
which does not even apparently contribute to it—for the whole fruit will
shrivel up in time by the escape of its juices, without any decay by
mortification. Though we are not able always to ascertain the purposes
of nature, yet this little cryptogamous plant affords a strong example
of her universal tendency to produce, and every vegetable substance
seems to afford a soil for her productions. We have even an agaric, with
a bulbous root and downy pileus,[72] that will spring from the smooth
summit of another (agaricus caseus), which has a uniform footstalk,
though not of common occurrence. Thus a plant, that itself arises from
decay, is found to constitute a soil for another; and the termination of
this chain of efficiency is hidden from us.
[Illustration:
_Agaricus Surrectus._
]
But the leaves of many vegetables often become singularly spotted during
some parts of the summer, and such spots have not certainly been
effected by the growth of cryptogamous plants, natural decay, or the
punctures of insects, the usual agents in these cases. A very
indifferent observer of these things, in strolling round his garden,
must have remarked how uniformly and singularly the foliage of some of
the varieties of the strawberry are spotted, and corroded as it were
into little holes; whereas other kinds have seldom any of these marks
visible on them. I have fancied that these spottings were occasioned by
the influence of solar heat, a shower of rain falls, small drops collect
and remain upon the leaf of the plant; the sun then darts out,
converting all these globules of rain into so many little lenses,
converging the rays, and scorching or burning a hole at the focus. This
conjecture has been rather strengthened by observing, that upon certain
sorts, the hautboy, alpine, &c., the rain when it falls uniformly wets
the leaves, yet they do not become spotted; but the smooth leaves of
others, roseberry, caledonian, upon which it stands in drops, always
become marked and perforated: but whatever may be the real cause of
these spottings, if the foliage be touched, by way of an experiment,
with the point of a heated wire, after a few days they will present an
appearance very similar to what is naturally effected.
There seems to be a curious analogy in their functions between the roots
of plants and the moving parent of animated beings, a similar obligation
being required from them both of providing for those dependent on them,
and both will exert their energies in fulfilment of this ordained
mandate: the roots of plants wander up and down in every direction,
seeking for sustenance; and we frequently see trees, growing on rocks,
extending their roots like sensitive beings, searching for moisture; if
this is not obtained sufficiently, a sickly foliage and impoverished
growth point out the condition of the plant.
[Illustration: An old black-and-white engraved illustration of a
leafless tree stump with long, exposed roots spreading outward like
tentacles, twisting across rocky ground and rubble, with a stark,
desolate landscape in the background.]