Wanderer through the wilds of air!
Freely as an angel fair
Thou dost leave the solid earth,
Man is bound to from his birth
Scarce a cubit from the grass
Springs the foot of lightest lass--
_Thou_ upon a cloud can'st leap,
And o'er broadest rivers sweep,
Climb up heaven's steepest height,
Fluttering, twinkling, in the light,
Soaring, singing, till, sweet bird,
Thou art neither seen nor heard,
Lost in azure fields afar
Like a distance hidden star,
That alone for angels bright
Breathes its music, sheds its light
Warbler of the morning's mirth!
When the gray mists rise from earth,
And the round dews on each spray
Glitter in the golden ray,
And thy wild notes, sweet though high,
Fill the wide cerulean, sky,
Is there human heart or brain
Can resist thy merry strain?
But not always soaring high,
Making man up turn his eye
Just to learn what shape of love,
Raineth music from above,--
All the sunny cloudlets fair
Floating on the azure air,
All the glories of the sky
Thou leavest unreluctantly,
Silently with happy breast
To drop into thy lowly nest.
Though the frame of man must be
Bound to earth, the soul is free,
But that freedom oft doth bring
Discontent and sorrowing.
Oh! that from each waking vision,
Gorgeous vista, gleam Elysian,
From ambition's dizzy height,
And from hope's illusive light,
Man, like thee, glad lark, could brook
Upon a low green spot to look,
And with home affections blest
Sink into as calm a nest! D.L.R.
I brought from England to India two English skylarks. I thought they
would help to remind me of English meadows and keep alive many agreeable
home-associations. In crossing the desert they were carefully lashed on
the top of one of the vans, and in spite of the dreadful jolting and the
heat of the sun they sang the whole way until night-fall. It was
pleasant to hear English larks from rich clover fields singing so
joyously in the sandy waste. In crossing some fields between Cairo and
the Pyramids I was surprized and delighted with the songs of Egyptian
skylarks. Their notes were much the same as those of the English lark.
The lark of Bengal is about the size of a sparrow and has a poor weak
note. At this moment a lark from Caubul (larger than an English lark) is
doing his best to cheer me with his music. This noble bird, though so
far from his native fields, and shut up in his narrow prison, pours
forth his rapturous melody in an almost unbroken stream from dawn to
sunset. He allows no change of season to abate his minstrelsy, to any
observable degree, and seems equally happy and musical all the year
round. I have had him nearly two years, and though of course he must
moult his feathers yearly, I have not observed the change of plumage,
nor have I noticed that he has sung less at one period of the year than
another. One of my two English larks was stolen the very day I landed in
India, and the other soon died. The loss of an English lark is not to be
replaced in Calcutta, though almost every week, canaries, linnets,
gold-finches and bull-finches are sold at public auctions here.
But I must return to my main subject.--The ancients used to keep the
great Feast of the goddess Flora on the 28th of April. It lasted till
the 3rd of May. The Floral Games of antiquity were unhappily debased by
indecent exhibitions; but they were not entirely devoid of better
characteristics.[048] Ovid describing the goddess Flora says that "while
she was speaking she breathed forth vernal roses from her mouth." The
same poet has represented her in her garden with the Florae gathering
flowers and the Graces making garlands of them. The British borrowed the
idea of this festival from the Romans. Some of our Kings and Queens used
'_to go a Maying_,' and to have feasts of wine and venison in the open
meadows or under the good green-wood. Prior says:
Let one great day
To celebrate sports and floral play
Be set aside.
But few people, in England, in these times, distinguish May-day from the
initial day of any other month of the twelve. I am old enough to
remember _Jack-in-the-Green_. Nor have I forgotten the cheerful
clatter--the brush-and-shovel music--of our little British
negroes--"innocent blacknesses," as Lamb calls them--the
chimney-sweepers,--a class now almost _swept away_ themselves by
_machinery_. One May-morning in the streets of London these
tinsel-decorated merry-makers with their sooty cheeks and black lips
lined with red, and staring eyes whose white seemed whiter still by
contrast with the darkness of their cases, and their ivory teeth kept
sound and brilliant with the professional powder, besieged George Selwyn
and his arm-in-arm companion, Lord Pembroke, for May-day boxes. Selwyn
making them a low bow, said, very solemnly "I have often heard of _the
sovereignty of the people_, and I suppose you are some of the young
princes in court mourning."
My Native readers in Bengal can form no conception of the delight with
which the British people at home still hail the spring of the year, or
the deep interest which they take in all "the Seasons and their change";
though they have dropped some of the oldest and most romantic of the
ceremonies once connected with them. If there were an annual fall of the
leaf in the groves of India, instead of an eternal summer, the natives
would discover how much the charms of the vegetable world are enhanced
by these vicissitudes, and how even winter itself can be made
delightful. My brother exiles will remember as long as life is in them,
how exquisite, in dear old England, is the enjoyment of a brisk morning
walk in the clear frosty air, and how cheering and cosy is the social
evening fire! Though a cold day in Calcutta is not exactly like a cold
day in London, it sometimes revives the remembrance of it. An Indian
winter, if winter it may be called, is indeed far less agreeable than a
winter in England, but it is not wholly without its pleasures. It is, at
all events, a grateful change--a welcome relief and refreshment after a
sultry summer or a _muggy_ rainy season.
An Englishman, however, must always prefer the keener but more wholesome
frigidity of his own clime. There, the external gloom and bleakness of a
severe winter day enhance our in-door comforts, and we do not miss sunny
skies when greeted with sunny looks. If we then see no blooming flowers,
we see blooming faces. But as we have few domestic enjoyments in this
country--no social snugness,--no sweet seclusion--and as our houses are
as open as bird-cages,--and as we almost live in public and in the open
air--we have little comfort when compelled, with an enfeebled frame and
a morbidly sensitive cuticle, to remain at home on what an Anglo-Indian
Invalid calls a cold day, with an easterly wind whistling through every
room.[049] In our dear native country each season has its peculiar moral
or physical attractions. It is not easy to say which is the most
agreeable--its summer or its winter. Perhaps I must decide in favor of
the first. The memory of many a smiling summer day still flashes upon my
soul. If the whole of human life were like a fine English day in June,
we should cease to wish for "another and a better world." It is often
from dawn to sunset one revel of delight. How pleasantly, from the first
break of day, have I lain wide awake and traced the approach of the
breakfast hour by the increasing notes of birds and the advancing
sun-light on my curtains! A summer feeling, at such a time, would make my
heart dance within me, as I thought of the long, cheerful day to be
enjoyed, and planned some rural walk, or rustic entertainment. The ills
that flesh is heir to, if they occurred for a moment, appeared like idle
visions. They were inconceivable as real things. As I heard the lark
singing in "a glorious privacy of light," and saw the boughs of the
green and gold laburnum waving at my window, and had my fancy filled
with images of natural beauty, I felt a glow of fresh life in my veins,
and my soul was inebriated with joy. It is difficult, amidst such
exhilarating influences, to entertain those melancholy ideas which
sometimes crowd upon, us, and appear so natural, at a less happy hour.
Even actual misfortune comes in a questionable shape, when our physical
constitution is in perfect health, and the flowers are in full bloom,
and the skies are blue, and the streams are glittering in the sun. So
powerfully does the light of external nature sometimes act upon the
moral system, that a sweet sensation steals gradually over the heart,
even when we think we have reason to be sorrowful, and while we almost
accuse ourselves of a want of feeling. The fretful hypochondriac would
do well to bear this fact in mind, and not take it for granted that all
are cold and selfish who fail to sympathize with his fantastic cares. He
should remember that men are sometimes so buoyed up by the sense of
corporeal power, and a communion with nature in her cheerful moods, that
things connected with their own personal interests, and which at other
times might irritate and wound their feelings, pass by them like the
idle wind which they regard not. He himself must have had his intervals
of comparative happiness, in which the causes of his present grief would
have appeared trivial and absurd. He should not, then, expect persons
whose blood is warm in their veins, and whose eyes are open to the
blessed sun in heaven, to think more of the apparent causes of his
sorrow than he would himself, were his mind and body in a healthful
state.
With what a light heart and eager appetite did I enter the little
breakfast parlour of which the glass-doors opened upon a bright green
lawn, variegated with small beds of flowers! The table was spread with
dewy and delicious fruits from our own garden, and gathered by fair and
friendly hands. Beautiful and luscious as were these garden dainties,
they were of small account in comparison with the fresh cheeks and
cherry lips that so frankly accepted the wonted early greeting. Alas!
how that circle of early friends is now divided, and what a change has
since come over the spirit of our dreams! Yet still I cherish boyish
feelings, and the past is sometimes present. As I give an imaginary kiss
to an "old familiar face," and catch myself almost unconsciously, yet
literally, returning imaginary smiles, my heart is as fresh and fervid
as of yore.
A lapse of fifteen years, and a distance of fifteen thousand miles, and
the glare of a tropical sky and the presence of foreign faces, need not
make an Indian Exile quite forgetful of home-delights. Parted friends
may still share the light of love as severed clouds are equally kindled
by the same sun. No number of miles or days can change or separate
faithful spirits or annihilate early associations. That strange
magician, Fancy, who supplies so many corporeal deficiencies and
overcomes so many physical obstructions, and mocks at space and time,
enables us to pass in the twinkling of an eye over the dreary waste of
waters that separates the exile from the scenes and companions of his
youth. He treads again his native shore. He sits by the hospitable
hearth and listens to the ringing laugh of children. He exchanges
cordial greetings with the "old familiar faces." There is a resurrection
of the dead, and a return of vanished years. He abandons himself to the
sweet illusion, and again
Lives over each scene, and is what he beholds.
I must not be too egotistically garrulous in print, or I would now
attempt to describe the various ways in which I have spent a summer's
day in England. I would dilate upon my noon-day loiterings amidst wild
ruins, and thick forests, and on the shaded banks of rivers--the pic-nic
parties--the gipsy prophecies--the twilight homeward walk--the social
tea-drinking, and, the last scene of all, the "rosy dreams and slumbers
light," induced by wholesome exercise and placid thoughts.[050] But
perhaps these few simple allusions are sufficient to awaken a train of
kindred associations in the reader's mind, and he will thank me for
those words and images that are like the keys of memory, and "open all
her cells with easy force."
If a summer's day be thus rife with pleasure, scarcely less so is a day
in winter, though with some little drawbacks, that give, by contrast, a
zest to its enjoyments. It is difficult to leave the warm morning bed
and brave the external air. The fireless grate and frosted windows may
well make the stoutest shudder. But when we have once screwed our
courage to the sticking place, and with a single jerk of the clothes,
and a brisk jump from the bed, have commenced the operations of the
toilet, the battle is nearly over. The teeth chatter for a while, and
the limbs shiver, and we do not feel particularly comfortable while
breaking the ice in our jugs, and performing our cold ablutions amidst
the sharp, glass-like fragments, and wiping our faces with a frozen
towel. But these petty evils are quickly vanquished, and as we rush out
of the house, and tread briskly and firmly on the hard ringing earth,
and breathe our visible breath in the clear air, our strength and
self-importance miraculously increase, and the whole frame begins to glow.
The warmth and vigour thus acquired are inexpressibly delightful. As we
re-enter the house, we are proud of our intrepidity and vigour, and pity
the effeminacy of our less enterprising friends, who, though huddled
together round the fire, like flies upon a sunny wall, still complain of
cold, and instead of the bloom of health and animation, exhibit pale and
pinched and discolored features, and hands cold, rigid, and of a deadly
hue. Those who rise with spirit on a winter morning, and stir and thrill
themselves with early exercise, are indifferent to the cold for the rest
of the day, and feel a confidence in their corporeal energies, and a
lightness of heart that are experienced at no other season.
But even the timid and luxurious are not without their pleasures. As the
shades of evening draw in, the parlour twilight--the closed
curtains--and the cheerful fire--make home a little paradise to all.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in
_Cowper_.
The warm and cold seasons of India have no charms like those of England,
but yet people who are guiltless of what Milton so finely calls "a
sullenness against nature," and who are willing, in a spirit of true
philosophy and piety, to extract good from every thing, may save
themselves from wretchedness even in this land of exile. While I am
writing this paragraph, a bird in my room, (not the Caubul songster that
I have already alluded to, but a fine little English linnet,) who is as
much a foreigner here as I am, is pouring out his soul in a flood of
song. His notes ring with joy. He pines not for his native meadows--he
cares not for his wiry bars--he envies not the little denizens of air
that sometimes flutter past my window, nor imagines, for a moment, that
they come to mock him with their freedom. He is contented with his
present enjoyments, because they are utterly undisturbed by idle
comparisons with those experienced in the past or anticipated in the
future. He has no thankless repinings and no vain desires. Is intellect
or reason then so fatal, though sublime a gift that we cannot possess it
without the poisonous alloy of care? Must grief and ingratitude
inevitably find entrance into the heart, in proportion to the loftiness
and number of our mental endowments? Are we to seek for happiness in
ignorance? To these questions the reply is obvious. Every good quality
may be abused, and the greatest, most; and he who perversely employs his
powers of thought and imagination to a wrong purpose deserves the misery
that he gains. Were we honestly to deduct from the ills of life all
those of our own creation, how trifling, in the majority of cases, the
amount that would remain! We seem to invite and encourage sorrow, while
happiness is, as it were, forced upon us against our will. It is
wonderful how some men pertinaciously cling to care, and argue
themselves into a dissatisfaction with their lot. Thus it is really a
matter of little moment whether fortune smile or frown, for it is in
vain to look for superior felicity amongst those who have more
"appliances and means to boot," than their fellow-men. Wealth, rank, and
reputation, do not secure their possessors from the misery of
discontent.
As happiness then depends upon the right direction and employment of our
faculties, and not on worldly goods or mere localities, our countrymen
might be cheerful enough, even in this foreign land, if they would only
accustom themselves to a proper train of thinking, and be ready on every
occasion to look on the brighter side of all things.[051] In reverting
to home-scenes we should regard them for their intrinsic charms, and not
turn them into a source of disquiet by mournfully comparing them with
those around us. India, let Englishmen murmur as they will, has some
attractions, enjoyments and advantages. No Englishman is here in danger
of dying of starvation as some of our poets have done in the
inhospitable streets of London. The comparatively princely and generous
style in which we live in this country, the frank and familiar tone of
our little society, and the general mildness of the climate, (excepting
a few months of a too sultry summer) can hardly be denied by the most
determined malcontent. The weather is indeed too often a great deal
warmer than we like it; but if "the excessive heat" did not form a
convenient subject for complaint and conversation, it is perhaps
doubtful if it would so often be thought of or alluded to. But admit the
objection. What climate is without its peculiar evils? In the cold
season a walk in India either in the morning or the evening is often
extremely pleasant in pleasant company, and I am glad to see many
sensible people paying the climate the compliment of treating it like
that of England. It is now fashionable to use our limbs in the ordinary
way, and the "Garden of Eden"[052] has become a favorite promenade,
particularly on the evenings when a band from the Fort fills the air
with a cheerful harmony and throws a fresher life upon the scene. It is
not to be denied that besides the mere exercise, pedestrians at home
have great advantages over those who are too indolent or aristocratic to
leave their equipages, because they can cut across green and quiet
fields, enter rural by-ways, and enjoy a thousand little patches of
lovely scenery that are secrets to the high-road traveller. But still
the Calcutta pedestrian has also his gratifications. He can enjoy no
exclusive prospects, but he beholds upon an Indian river a forest of
British masts--the noble shipping of the Queen of the Sea--and has a
fine panoramic view of this City of Palaces erected by his countrymen on
a foreign shore;--and if he is fond of children, he must be delighted
with the numberless pretty and happy little faces--the fair forms of
Saxon men and women in miniature--that crowd about him on the green
sward;--he must be charmed with their innocent prattle, their quick and
graceful movements, and their winning ways, that awaken a tone of tender
sentiment in his heart, and rekindle many sweet associations.