With the incoming of spring there is an outgoing from town, or a wish to
do so. We all love what nature proffers to our enjoyment. Now--the
humble tenant of the lofty attic in the metropolis, cultivates a few
flowers in garden pots, within the ridge of the parapet that bounds the
eye from all things but sky and clouds; and when he can, walks with his
wife in search of fields where grass grows and cattle feed. Now--the
better conditioned take a trip a few miles beyond the suburbs, and all
manifest hopes or wishes for prolonged enjoyment of the country in the
approaching summer. Now--ready furnished cottages and lodgings, which
have been “to let” throughout the winter in the villages near the
metropolis, find admirers, and some of them find occupiers. Now--the
good wife reminds her good man--“My dear it’s very hard, after so many
years not to be able to afford a little comfort at last--we can’t, you
know, live in this way for ever. What a charming day this is. Let us see
and get a little place just a little way from town against the fine
weather comes; the walk there and back will do _you_ good; it will do us
_all_ good; and the expense won’t be miss’d in the long run.” Now the
thoughtful and thrifty, and the unthoughtful and the unthrifty, of
certain and uncertain income, begin to plan or scheme where to go “after
parliament’s up,” or in what neighbourhood, or on what site, to hire or
build a house suitable to their real or imaginary wants. Now, in other
words, “all the world” in London is thinking how or where “to go out of
town by and bye.”
I who a country life admire,
And ne’er of rural prospects tire,
Salute my friend who loves the town,
And hates to see a country clown.
Tho’ we almost congenial be,
In this howe’er we disagree;
You’re fond of bustle, din, and smoke,
And things that always me provoke,
Whilst I clear rivulets extol,
That o’er their pebbly channels roll,
Rude mossy rocks that nodding stand;
Rich corn that’s waving o’er the land,
Thick shady groves where zephyrs play
And cool the sultry heat of day;
I’m fond of every rustic sport,
And hate--detest a venal court.
Whene’er I quit the noisy town,
And to my rural spot get down,
I find myself quite at my ease,
And can do whatsoe’er I please;
Sometimes I study, sometimes ride,
Or stroll along the river’s side,
Or saunter through some fertile mead,
Where lowing herds in plenty feed;
Or rest upon a bank of flowers,
And pass, ’midst innocence, my hours.
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