nutriment may be instanced by the following rude drawing of an ash,—a
tree which, in consequence of the profusion of its seed, we find more
often scattered in wild and singular places than any other not
propagated by the agency of birds, or conveyed by the winds. This one
had originally been rooted in the earth, upon the top of a wall, but
nourishment being required beyond what was supplied by the precarious
moisture of the scanty soil, its roots proceeded downwards, winding
their way through the crevices of the stones into the earth beneath, and
remained apparently incorporated with the masonry; the materials of this
wall being wanted for an adjoining work, were so pulled out, as to leave
the tree with all its roots detached, much as represented, with all its
vegetative powers uninjured: the root B had stretched itself along the
top of the wall, but how far it had extended in perfection, is
uncertain, being broken away when I saw it first. The wood of the ash,
when burned in a green state,
will emit a fragrance like that which proceeds from the violet or
mezerion, and this it will diffuse in particular states of the air to a
considerable distance, a property that, I believe, is not observable in
any other British wood: it is in the country only that we can be
sensible of this, and it is particularly to be perceived in passing
through a village when the cottagers are lighting their fires, or by a
farm-house, when this wood, fresh cloven or newly lopped off, is
burning;—as the wood dries, this sweet smell is in a great measure
exhaled with the moisture, for in this state we are not sensible of any
odor arising from it different from other woods.
THE YEAR 1825.
We are naturally solicitous to look back upon seasons remarkable for
atmospheric phenomena, and compare their results with those passing
before us, though we may be fully sensible that no conclusions can
safely be drawn from them,—a variety of circumstances not known, or not
comprehended, combining to produce results beyond our means of
calculation. There have been times when such recollections brought no
pleasure with them, by displaying the injuries and sufferings that
hurricanes and floods have occasioned; and thus we who were witnesses of
the distress occasioned by the lamentable rains of 1793, and the several
successive years, when every wheat-sheaf presented a turf of verdant
vegetation, cannot recollect it without sorrow, or ever forget that
famine in our land. Yet it is amusing, on some occasions, to note the
extremes of weather that our island has experienced; for though in
general our seasons pass away without any very considerable
dissimilitude, still we have known periods of great irregularity,
drought or moisture, cold or heat. The freezing of great rivers, with
the roasting of animals and passage of carriages upon the ice, our
calendars and diaries relate; but instances of an opposite temperature,
affording less striking events, are not so fully detailed as might be
wished. The winter of 1661 appears to have been remarkable for its
mildness; and it is rather curious that, in the century following, the
winter of 1761 should have been equally notable for the mildness of its
temperature. The winter of 1795 seems to have partaken of none of the
severity usual to the season; and the summer of 1765 was remarkable for
its heat and dryness, and all vegetation being influenced by their
effects, brought forth fruits and flowers in unusual perfection.
But perhaps the year 1825, taking all its circumstances, is the most
extraordinary to be found in our annals. The winter of 1824–5 had been
mild and wet; the ensuing spring dry, but with keen winds and frosty
mornings, which greatly injured the fine blossoms that appeared on our
fruit trees; and the continued and profuse nightly fall of the honey-dew
was quite unusual: the leaves of the oak, the cherry, and the plum, were
constantly smeared and dropping with this clammy liquor, which, falling
from the foliage on the ground, blackened it as if some dark fluid had
been spilled upon it: the leaves of most of our stone fruits curled up,
covered with aphides, and became deciduous; and their young shoots were
destroyed by the punctures of these insects that clustered on them. This
honey-dew continued to fall till about the middle of July, affording an
abundant supply of food to multitudes of bees, moths, and other insects
which swarmed about the trees. We rarely begin cutting our grass before
the first week in July; but in consequence of the heat of June in this
year, it was so drawn up, that much hay was made and carried by the 20th
of June, which commonly is not accomplished till August. Our crops on
good ground were considered as fair, though in general the chilling
season of May had occasioned a deficiency; but all our clover crops and
artificial grasses were harvested in the finest order, producing good-
sized ricks and mows; yet their bulk was delusive, the provender cutting
out light and strawy. The heat and drought continued, with very partial
and slight showers of rain, all June and July; nor had we any thing like
serviceable rain till the second of August. In consequence our grass
lands were burned up, and our fields parched, presenting deep fissures
in all parts. The heat was unusually distressing all day; and evening
brought us little or no relief, as every wall radiated throughout the
night the heat it had imbibed from the torrid sun of the day. Our
bedroom windows were kept constantly open, all apprehension from damps
and night airs, which at other times were of the first consideration,
being disregarded; a cooler temperature, however obtained, was alone
required; and we lingered below, unwilling to encounter the tossings and
restlessness that our heated beds occasioned. Our wainscots cracked,
furniture contracted and gaped with seams; a sandal-wood box, which had
been in use for upwards of twenty years in dry rooms, shrunk and warped
out of all form; a capsule of the sandbox tree (hura crepitans), which
had remained in repose over a shelf above the fire-place for an unknown
length of time, now first experienced an excess of dryness, and exploded
in every direction; door frames contracted, window sashes became fixed
and immovable. These are trifles to relate, but yet they mark the very
unusual dryness of the atmosphere.
Monday and Tuesday, July 18th and 19th, will long be remembered as the
acme of our suffering, the thermometer standing in the shade of a
passage communicating immediately with the outer air, in an open
situation, at 82° of Fahrenheit. A few yards nearer the air, on which
the sun shone, it rose to 93°, without any influence from reflection or
other causes. In towns, and more confined places, it is said, the heat
was much greater. The current of air now felt like that near the mouth
of an oven, heavy and oppressive, and occasioning more unpleasant
sensations than such a temperature usually creates; animals became
distressed, the young rooks of the season entered our gardens, and
approached our doors, as in severe frosts, with open bills, panting for
a cooler element; horses dropped exhausted on the roads; many of the
public conveyances, which usually travelled by day, waited till night,
to save the cattle from the overpowering influence of the sun. The
leaves of our apple and filbert trees, in dry situations, withered up
large forest trees, especially the elm, had their leaves so scorched by
the sun, that they fell from their sprays as in autumn, rustling along
the ground; the larch became perfectly deciduous. In our gardens, the
havoc occasioned by the heat was very manifest. The fruit of the
gooseberry, burnt up before maturity, hung shrivelled upon the leafless
bushes; the strawberry and raspberry quite withered away; the stalk of
the early potato was perfectly destroyed, and the tubers near the
surface in many places became roasted and sodden by the heat, few
obtaining their natural size, and sold at this period in the Bristol
market at twenty-four shillings the sack. A few choice plants were saved
by watering them daily; but in general the exhalation from the foliage,
by reason of the heat of the earth, was greater than the root could
supply, the green parts withering as if seared by a frost.
On the 20th of July, some farmers began to cut their wheat; and by the
25th reaping had generally commenced. Our bean crop presented, perhaps,
an unprecedented instance of early ripeness, being usually mowed in
September; but this year it was universally ripe, indeed more perfectly
so than the wheat, by the 1st of August. The crop, however, proved a
defective one: water became scarce, and the herbage of the fields
afforded so little nutriment, that the cows nearly lost their milk,
eight or ten being milked into a pail that four should have filled; and
one week, from July the 18th to the 24th, butter could not be made to
harden, but remained a soft oleaginous mass.
This extreme heat had a favorable influence on many of our exotic
plants, enabling several to perfect their seed, which do not usually in
our climate; such as nightstocks, erodiums, heliotrope, groundsels,
cape-asters, and such green-house plants vegetating in the open air.
With me all the polyanthus tribe, especially the double varieties,
suffered greatly; lovers of the cold and moisture of a northern climate,
in this tropic heat, they became so parched as never properly to recover
their verdure, and in the ensuing spring I missed these gay and pleasing
flowers in my borders.
It was a sad destructive season for the poor butterflies, and no sooner
did a specimen appear upon the wing, than the swallow and all the fly-
catching tribe snapped them up, rendered eager and vigilant from the
scarcity of insect food. Even that active and circumspect creature the
hummingbird sphinx could not always, with every exertion of its agility,
escape their pursuit.
Early in August rains fell, and continued seasonably until September;
and their effect upon our scorched vegetation, from the general heat of
the earth and the air, was extremely rapid. The larch, and other trees
which had shed their leaves, now put forth their tender green foliage as
in spring; and by the end of September the universal verdure of the
country, and profusion of feed in the pastures, was so perfectly unlike
what we had been accustomed to in common years, as to be astonishing.
Even as low in the year as the 11th of October, there was no appearance
of any change in the foliage, except a slight tinge upon the leaves of
the maple; and this day was so brilliant, that the cattle were reposing
in the shade, the thermometer varying from 66° to 68° F., and the
general warmth to our feelings was greater than that indicated by the
instrument. October the 20th, the weather changed, some sleety rain
fell, and the hills were sprinkled with snow, the thermometer falling to
40°, and all our hirundines, which had been sporting about us up to this
period, departed: yet still vegetation continued in all its vigor, and
on the 1st of November dog-roses hung like little garlands in the
hedges; the cornel bushes (cornus sanguinea) were in full bloom; and
corn-roses (rosa arvensis) were decorating our hedges in a profusion
equal to that of a common August. November 4th there were slight ice and
partial snow, with various alternations undeserving of notice, but the
weather was generally fair and mild until Christmas.
All these preceding heats and rapid changes had, I think, a manifest
influence upon our constitutions. Violent catarrhs, and lingering,
unremitting coughs, prevailed among all classes, both before and after
Christmas, to a degree that I never remember; and children were
afflicted with measles almost universally. Early in January a violent
wind was succeeded by a severe frost, and in some places by a deep snow;
but, after about ten days’ duration, a very gentle thaw removed all
this, and the remainder of our winter was mild and agreeable,
introducing what might be called an early spring, dry and propitious for
every agricultural purpose. The trees that refoliaged so vigorously in
autumn seemed in no way weakened by this unusual exertion, but produced
their accustomed proportion of leaves, and the sprays of every bush and
tree, ripened and matured by the last summer’s sun, displayed a
profusion, an accumulation of blossom, that gave the fairest promise of
abundance of fruit, and every product of the earth.
* * * * *
That the death of any creature should be required by the naturalist, to
perfect his examination, or arrange it in his collection, (and without a
collection the investigation of any branch of natural history can be but
partially undertaken), may be regretted; but still the epithet of “cruel
employ” must not be attached to this pursuit. We do not destroy in
wantonness, or unnecessarily; and that life, of which it is expedient to
deprive a creature, is taken by the most speedy, and in the least
painful manner known. Some of our methods, if speedy, are at the same
time injurious, such as hot water, the stifling-box, &c.; and some, that
are not painful, such as stupefaction by spirits, ether, &c., and
suffocation by carbonate of ammonia, are occasionally not effectual. But
there is one process, which I believe to be neither painful nor
injurious, yet decisive, and communicative with pleasure; I mean the
prussic acid. This fluid may be imbibed by the insect without producing
any particular effect; but, if brought to act upon the spinal cord, or
what at least is analogous to that part of a vertebrate animal, whatever
it may be called, and which seems to be the most vital part of the
creation, instant death ensues. A crow-quill must be shaped into a
point, like a rather long pen, this point dipped into the prussic acid,
and an incision made with it immediately beneath the head into the
middle of the shoulders of the creature, so as to permit the fluid it
contains to enter into the body of the insect. Immediately after this,
in every instance in which I have tried it, a privation of sensation
appears to take place, the corporeal action of the creature ceasing, a
feeble tremulous motion of the antennæ being alone perceptible; and
these parts seem to be the last fortress that is abandoned by sensation,
as they are the primary principle of sensibility when life is perfect:
extinction of animation ensues, not a mere suspension, but an
annihilation of every power, muscular and vital. As one example of the
decisive effects of this fluid, I shall instance the common wasp, a
creature so remarkably tenacious of sensation, or so long retaining a
muscular power, that it may remain, as every one knows, for days crushed
in the window, an apparently dead insect, yet upon pressing the head,
the sting will be so protruded as to give a very sensible pain to the
finger it should meet with; but upon the prussic acid being injected
into this creature as above, when in full vigor, in the course of less
than half a minute a loss of vitality ensues, the action of the muscular
fibre ceases altogether, and no pressure can incite it again into
action. The sudden effect of this liquor is not so generally known as
from humanity and expediency might be wished. Who first devised the
experiment I am ignorant; but any repetition of means whereby a
necessary end can be obtained by the least painful and brief infliction,
will hardly be considered as superfluous.
This subject naturally introduces the preservation of the creatures
after their death, and the young entomologist is not perhaps sensible
from experience of the injury some species of insects will effect in the
selected specimens of others of this race, and may lament, when too
late, the separation of the wings, limbs, and bodies of his collection
by these tiny depredators (ptinus fur, acararus destructor). Mr.
Waterton’s recipe for preventing this evil, I have used rather
extensively and believe it to be a very effectual, and generally an
innocuous preservative; but as this gentleman has not given us the exact
proportions of his mixture, it may not be useless to observe, that if
one part of corrosive sublimate be dissolved in eight parts of good
spirit of wine, and the under side of the insect touched with a camel’s-
hair pencil, dipped in the liquor, so as to let it lightly pervade every
part of the creature, which it readily does, it will, I apprehend,
prevent any future injury from insects. A larger portion of the
sublimate will leave an unsightly whiteness upon the creature when the
specimen becomes dry. The under side of the board, on which the insects
are fixed, should be warmed a little by the fire after the application,
that the superfluous moisture may fly off, before finally closing the
case. If this be omitted, the inner surface of the glass will sometimes
become partially obscured by the fume arising from the mixture. The
experienced entomologist needs not a notice like this; but the young
collector probably will not regard it as unnecessary information, and
may be spared by it from both mortification and regret. I have known
insects commence their serious operations before the collections of the
summer could be arranged in their permanent cases.
In noticing above, that this solution is generally harmless, it is
requisite that mention should be made of the few instances in which it
has been observed to be injurious. I have applied it to many specimens
of foreign and British insects, and commonly observed no indication of
its having been used, when the creatures had become dry. But to confine
our attentions to English specimens, when the solution is made stronger
than recommended, it will, after a time, injure the fine yellow of the
sulphur butterfly (papilio rhamni), by turning parts of it brown and
dirty; but even in its reduced state it has a manifest effect upon the
colors of two of our moths, the Dartford emerald (phalæna lucidata), and
what is commonly called the green housewife moth (phalæna vernaria)
changing their plumage, in several places, to a red buffy hue, when at
the same time the beautiful green wings of the small oak-moth (phalæna
viridana) are in no way altered by it. But notwithstanding these
circumstances, it will, I apprehend, be considered as a very useful
preservative, and save many specimens from destruction which other means
usually fail of effecting.
There are not many of our rural practices, that deserve more the
disapprobation of the landed proprietor than that of pollarding
trees.[74] “It is an evil under the sun, and common among men.” Here it
is universal. This system of cutting off the heads of the young trees in
the hedge-rows is resorted to by the farmer for the purpose of forcing
them, thus deprived of their leaders, to throw out collateral shoots,
serving for stakes for the fences, and for firewood. The purposes are
effected; but of all hopes of timber, or profit to the proprietor, there
is an end. No trees suffer more in this respect than the ash.
Prohibitions against mangling trees, in agreements, are usual; but, with
some exceptions in regard to oak, little attention seems paid to the
covenant, as is obvious on the most cursory view of the country in any
direction; whereas the ash is not a less valuable tree, from its
thriving more universally in all situations, and becoming saleable in a
shorter period. One or two generations must pass before an oak should be
felled; but the ash becomes useful wood while its more respected
companion is but a sapling. These prohibitions should not simply be
engrossed on the parchment, but the agent ought strictly to notice any
infringement; and young ash trees should be more especially guarded
because they are the most likely to suffer, from their producing the
greatest quantity of lop in the shortest time. The injury done by this
practice to the present landlord and his successors is beyond
estimation, as the numbers destroyed, and the vigor of their growth,
must be first known; but there is not a farm of any extent from which
hundreds of ash trees might not have been felled, had their growth been
permitted, making an annual return; whereas nothing can be obtained now
or hereafter for the proprietor, and only a few stakes and bavins for
the farmer.[75] It is by no means an uncommon thing, to observe every
ash tree in a hedge reduced to stumps by successive pollardings. Many a
landlord would shudder at the thought of breaking up an old productive
sward, and not regard the topping of an ash; whereas this latter act is
infinitely more injurious, ultimately, than the former. The land may,
and will probably, recover, but the tree is lost for ever, as to any
profitable purposes for the owner. The farmer might perhaps tell the
agent when he remonstrated, that he must have firewood, and hedging
stuff; but the wants of the former have decreased by the facility of
obtaining other fuel, and neither is to be supplied by the landlord at
such a ruinous subversion of present and future benefit. I am not so
silly as to enlarge upon the beauty of what has been called “picturesque
farming;” but when we cast our eyes over the country, and see such rows
of dark, club-headed posts, we cannot but remark upon the unsightly
character they present, and consider it neither laudable to deform our
beautiful country by the connivance, nor proper attention to individual
profit to allow the continuation of it. The ash, after this mutilation,
in a few years become flattened at the summit, moisture lodges in it,
and decay commences, the central parts gradually mouldering away, though
for many years the sap wood will throw out vigorous shoots for the
hatchet. The goat moth now too commences its mordications, and the end
is not distant. But the wood of the ash appears in every stage subject
to injury; when in a dry state the weevils mine holes through it; when
covered by its bark, it gives harbor to an infinite variety of insects,
which are the appointed agents for the removal of the timber: the ashen
bar of a stile, or a post, we may generally observe to be regularly
scored by rude lines diverging from a central stem, like a trained
fruit-tree, by the meanderings of a little insect (ips niger, &c.),
being the passages of the creatures feeding on the wood.
There is one race of trees, the willow, very common about us, that is so
universally subject to this pollarding, for the purpose of providing
stakes and hurdles for the farm, that probably few persons have ever
seen a willow tree. At any rate a sight of one grown unmutilated from
the root is a rare occurrence. The few that I have seen constituted
trees of great beauty; but as the willow, from the nature of its wood,
can never be valuable as a timber tree, perhaps by topping it we obtain
its best services. In the county of Gloucester there are several
remarkable trees of different species now growing, but I am not
acquainted with any greater natural curiosity of this sort than an
uncommonly fine willow tree in the meadows on the right of the Spa-house
at Gloucester. There are two of them; the species I forget, but one tree
is so healthy and finely grown, that it deserves every attention, and
should be preserved as a unique specimen, an example of what magnitude
this despised race may attain when suffered to proceed in its own
unrestrained vigor.