JUNE.

Summer is come—come, but not to stay; at least, not at the commencement of this month. And how should it, unless we expect that the seasons will be kind enough to conform to the devices of man, and suffer themselves to be called by what name and at what period he pleases? He must die and leave them a legacy (instead of they him) before there will be any show of justice in this. Till then the beginning of June will continue to be the latter end of May, by rights; as it was according to the old style. And, among a thousand changes, in what one has the old style been improved upon by the new? Assuredly not in that of substituting the utile for the dulce, in any eyes but those of almanack makers. Let all lovers of Spring, therefore, be fully persuaded that, for the first fortnight in June, they are living in May; and then, all the sweet truths that I had to tell of the latter month, are equally applicable to half the present. We shall thus be gaining instead of losing, after all, by the impertinence of any breath, but that of Heaven, attempting to force Spring into Summer, even in name alone.

Spring, therefore, may now be considered as employed in completing her toilet, and, for the first weeks of this month, putting on those last finishing touches which an accomplished beauty never trusts to any hand but her own. In the woods and groves also, she is still clothing some of her noblest and proudest attendants with their new annual attire. The oak until now has been nearly bare; and, of whatever age, has been looking old all the Winter and Spring, on account of its crumpled branches and wrinkled rind. Now, of whatever age, it looks young, in virtue of its new green, lighter than all the rest of the grove. Now, also, the stately Walnut (standing singly or in pairs in the fore-court of ancient manor-houses; or in the home corner of the pretty park-like paddock at the back of some modern Italian villa, whose white dome it saw rise beneath it the other day, and mistakes for a mushroom), puts forth its smooth leaves slowly, as “sage grave men” do their thoughts; and which over-caution reconciles one to the beating it receives in the autumn, as the best means of at once compassing its present fruit, and making it bear more; as its said prototypes in animated nature are obliged to have their brains cudgelled, before any good can be got from them.

Among the ornamental trees, the only one that is not as yet clothed in all its beauty is, the most beautiful of all—the white Acacia. Its trim taper leaves are but just spreading themselves forth to welcome the coming summer sun; as those pretty female fingers which they resemble are spread involuntarily at the approach of the accepted lover.

The Mulberry, too, which in this country never sees itself unprovided with a smooth-shaven carpet of green turf beneath it, on which to drop (without injuring) its tender fruit, is only now rousing itself from its late repose. Its appearance is at present as poverty-stricken, in comparison with most of its well-dressed companions, as six weeks hence it will be rich, full, and umbrageous.

These are the chief appearances of the early part of this month which appertain exclusively to the Spring. Let us now (however reluctantly) take a final leave of that lovely and love-making season, and at once step forward into the glowing presence of Summer—contenting ourselves, however, to touch the hem of her rich garments, and not attempting to look into her heart, till she lays that open to us herself next month: for whatever school-boys calendar-makers may say to the contrary, Midsummer never happens in England till July.

The most appropriate spots in which first to watch the footsteps of Summer are amid “the pomp of Groves, and garniture of Fields.” There let us seek her, then.

To saunter, at mid June, beneath the shade of some old forest, situated in the neighbourhood of a great town, so that paths are worn through it, and you can make your way with ease in any direction, gives one the idea of being transferred, by some strange magic, from the surface of the earth to the bottom of the sea! (I say it gives one this idea; for I cannot answer for more, in matters of so arbitrary a nature as the association of ideas). Over head, and round about, you hear the sighing, the whispering, or the roaring (as the wind pleases) of a thousand billows; and looking upward, you see the light of heaven transmitted faintly, as if through a mass of green waters. Hither and thither, as you move along, strange forms flit swiftly about you, which may, for any thing you can see or hear to the contrary, be exclusive natives of the new world in which your fancy chooses to find itself: they may be fishes, if that pleases; for they are as mute as such, and glide through the liquid element as swiftly. Now and then, indeed, one of larger growth, and less lubricated movements, lumbers up from beside your path, and cluttering noisily away to a little distance, may chance to scare for a moment your sub-marine reverie. Your palate too may perhaps here step in, and try to persuade you that the cause of interruption was not a fish but a pheasant. But in fact, if your fancy is one of those which are disposed to “listen to reason,” it will not be able to lead you into spots of the above kind without your gun in your hand,—one report of which will put all fancies to flight in a moment, as well as every thing else that has wings. To return, therefore, to our walk,—what do all these strange objects look like, that stand silently about us in the dim twilight, some spiring straight up, and tapering as they ascend, till they lose themselves in the green waters above—some shattered and splintered, leaning against each other for support, or lying heavily on the floor on which we walk—some half buried in that floor, as if they had lain dead there for ages, and become incorporate with it; what do all these seem, but wrecks and fragments of some mighty vessel, that has sunk down here from above, and lain weltering and wasting away, till these are all that is left of it! Even the floor itself on which we stand, and the vegetation it puts forth, are unlike those of any other portion of the earth’s surface, and may well recall, by their strange appearance in the half light, the fancies that have come upon us when we have read or dreamt of those gifted beings, who, like Ladurlad in Kehama, could walk on the floor of the sea, without waiting, as the visitors at Watering-places are obliged to do, for the tide to go out.

“But why,” exclaims the reasonable reader, “detain us, at a time of year like this, among fancies and associations, when facts and realities a thousand times more lovely are waiting to be recorded?” He is right, and I bow to the reproof; only I must escape at once from the old Forest into which I had inadvertently wandered; for there I shall not be able to remain a moment fancy-free.

Stepping forth, then, into the open fields, what a bright pageant of Summer beauty is spread out before us! We are standing, you perceive, on a little eminence, every point of which presents some particular offering of the season, and from which we can also look abroad upon those which require a more distant and general gaze. Everywhere about our feet flocks of Wild-Flowers

We must not stay to pluck and particularize them; for most of them have already had their greeting from us in the two preceding months; and though they insist on repeating themselves during this, they must not expect us to do the same, to the exclusion of others whose claims are newer and not less noticeable. That we may duly attend to these latter, let us pass along beside this flourishing Hedge-row, that skirts the Wood from which we have just emerged.

The first novelty of the Season that greets us here is perhaps the sweetest, the freshest, and fairest of all, and the only one that could supply an adequate substitute for the Hawthorn bloom which it has superseded. Need the Eglantine be named? the “sweet-leaved Eglantine;” the “rain-scented Eglantine;” Eglantine—to which the Sun himself pays homage, by “counting his dewy rosary” on it every morning; Eglantine—which Chaucer, and even Shakespeare—but hold—let me again insist on the Poets not being permitted to set their feet even within the porticos of these pleasant papers; for if once they do, good bye to the control of the rightful owner! I did but invite Mr. Wordsworth in, two months ago, as the reader may remember, just to say a few words in favour of the Daisy, in pure gratitude for his having made it a sort of sin to tread on one,—and lo! there was no getting him out again, till he had poured forth two or three pages full of stanzas, touching that one “wee, modest, crimson-tipped Flower!” Besides, what need have we for the aid of Poets (I mean the Poets, so called par excellence) when in the actual presence of that Nature which made them such, and can make us such too, if any thing can. In fact, whatsoever the Poets themselves may insinuate to the contrary, to read poetry in the presence of Nature is a kind of impiety: it is like reading the commentators on Shakespeare, and skipping the text; for you cannot attend to both; to say nothing of Nature’s book being a vade mecum that can make “every man his own poet” for the time being; and there is, after all, no poetry like that which we create for ourselves. Away, then, with the Poets by profession—at least till the winter comes, and we want them.

Begging pardon of the Eglantine for having permitted any thing—even her own likeness in the Poets’ looking-glass—to turn our attention from her real self,—look with what infinite grace she scatters her sweet coronals here and there among her bending branches; or hangs them, half-concealed, among the heavy blossoms of the Woodbine that lifts itself so boldly above her, after having first clung to her for support; or permits them to peep out here and there close to the ground, and almost hidden by the rank weeds below; or holds out a whole arch-way of them, swaying backward and forward in the breeze, as if praying of the passers hand to pluck them. Let who will praise the Hawthorn—now it is no more! The Wild Rose is the Queen of Forest Flowers, if it be only because she is as unlike a Queen as the absence of every thing courtly can make her.

The Woodbine deserves to be held next in favour during this month; though more on account of its intellectual than its personal beauty. All the air is faint with its rich sweetness; and the delicate breath of its lovely rival is lost in the luscious odours which it exhales.

These are the only scented Wild Flowers that we shall now meet with in any profusion; for though the Violet may still be found by looking for, its breath has lost much of its spring power. But if we are content with mere beauty, this month is perhaps more profuse of it than any other, even in that department of Nature which we are now examining—namely, the Fields and Woods. The rich hedge-row from which we have just been plucking the Eglantine and the Wild Honeysuckle is fringed all along its borders, and festooned in every part, with gay clusters, some of which appeared for the first time last month, and continue through this, and with numerous others which now first come forth. Most conspicuous among the latter are the brilliant Hound’s tongue; the striped and variegated Convolvulus; the Wild Scabious, pale and scentless sister of the rich garden one; the Ox-eye, or Great White Daisy, looking, with its yellow centre surrounded by white beams, like the miniature original of the Sun on country sign-posts; the Mallow, that supplies the little children with cheeses; and two or three of the almost animated Orchises, particularly the Bee-Orchis,—which escapes being rifled of its sweets by that general plunderer who gives his name to it, by always seeming to be pre-occupied.

Before quitting the little elevation on which we have commenced our observations, we must take a brief general glance at the various masses of objects that it brings within our view. The Woods and Groves, and the single Forest Trees that rise here and there from out the bounding Hedge-rows, are now in full foliage; all, however, presenting a somewhat sombre, because monotonous, hue, wanting all the tender newness of the Spring, and all the rich variety of the Autumn. And this is the more observable, because the numerous plots of cultivated land, divided from each other by the hedge-rows, and looking, at this distance, like beds in a garden divided by box, are nearly all still invested with the same green mantle; for the Wheat, the Oats, the Barley, and even the early Rye, though now in full flower, have not yet become tinged with their harvest hues. They are all alike green; and the only change that can be seen in their appearance is that caused by the different lights into which each is thrown, as the wind passes over them. The patches of purple or of white Clover that intervene here and there, and are now in flower, offer striking exceptions to the above, and at the same time load the air with their sweetness. Nothing can be more rich and beautiful in its effect on a distant prospect at this season, than a great patch of purple Clover lying apparently motionless on a sunny upland, encompassed by a whole sea of green Corn, waving and shifting about it at every breath that blows.

Before quitting this Wood-side, let us observe that the hitherto full concert of the singing birds is now beginning to falter, and fall short. We shall do well to make the most of it now; for in two or three weeks it will almost entirely cease till the Autumn. I mean that it will cease as a full concert; for we shall have single songsters all through the Summer at intervals; and those some of the sweetest and best. The best of all, indeed, the Nightingale, we have now lost. It is never to be heard for more than two months in this country, and never at all after the young are hatched, which happens about this time. So that the youths and maidens who now go in pairs to the Wood-side, on warm nights, to listen for its song (hoping they may not hear it), are well content to hear each other’s voice instead.

We have still, however, some of the finest of the second class of songsters left; for the Nightingale, like Catalani, is a class by itself. The mere chorus-singers of the Grove are also beginning to be silent; so that the jubilate that has been chanting for the last month is now over. But the Stephenses, the Trees, the Patons, and the Poveys, are still with us, under the forms of the Woodlark, the Skylark, the Blackcap, and the Goldfinch. And the first-named of these, now that it no longer fears the rivalry of the unrivalled, not seldom, on warm nights, sings at intervals all night long, poised at one spot high up in the soft moonlit air.

We have still another pleasant little singer, the Field Cricket, whose clear shrill voice the warm weather has now matured to its full strength, and who must not be forgotten, though he has but one song to offer us all his life long, and that one consisting but of one note; for it is a note of joy, and will not be heard without engendering its like. You may hear him in wayside banks, where the Sun falls hot, shrilling out his loud cry into the still air all day long, as he sits at the mouth of his cell; and if you chance to be passing by the same spot at midnight, you may hear it then too.

We must now make our way towards home, noticing a few of the remaining marks of mid-June as we pass along. Now, then, in covert Copses, or on the skirts of dark Woods, the Foxglove rears its one splendid spire of speckled flowers from the centre of its cone of dull, down-hanging leaves.—Now, scarlet Poppies peer up here and there in bright companies among the green shafts of the Corn, and scatter beauty over the mischief they do.—Now, Bees and little boys banquet on the honey-laden flowers of the white Hedge-nettle.—Now, the Brooms put forth their gold and silver blossoms on hitherto barren Heaths, and change them into beauteous gardens.—Now, whole fields of Peas send out their winged blossoms, which look like flocks of purple and white butterflies basking in the sun.—Now, too, the Bean, which has little or no perceptible scent when gathered and smelt to singly, growing together in fields breathes forth the most enchanting odour,—only to be come at, however, by the wind, which bears and spreads it half over the adjacent plains.

Now, also, we meet with several new objects among the animated part of the creation, a few only of which we must stay to notice.—Now, the Grasshopper vaults merrily in the meadows, leaping over the tops of their mountains (the molehills), and fancying himself a bird.—Now, the great Dragon-flies shoot with their shining wings through the air, as if bearing some fairy to its distant bower; or hover, apparently motion and motiveless, as if they had forgotten their way, or were waiting to look at some invisible direction-post. We had best not inquire too curiously into their employment at those moments, lest we should find that they are only stopping to take a bait, consisting of some beautiful invisible that had just began to enjoy its age of half an hour.—Now, lastly, as the Sun declines, may be seen, emerging from the surface of shallow streams, and lying there for a while till its wings are dried for flight, the (misnamed) May-fly. Escaping, after a protracted struggle of half a minute, from its watery birth-place, it flutters restlessly, up and down, up and down, over the same spot, during its whole era of a summer evening; and at last dies, as the last dying streaks of day are leaving the western horizon. And yet, who shall say that in that space of time it has not undergone all the vicissitudes of a long and eventful life? That it has not felt all the freshness of youth, all the vigour of maturity, all the weakness and satiety of old age, and all the pangs of death itself? In short, who shall satisfy us that any essential difference exists between its four hours and our fourscore years?

Before entering the home inclosure, we must pay due honour to the two grand husbandry occupations of this month; the Hay-harvest, and the Sheep-shearing.

The Hay-harvest, besides filling the whole air with its sweetness, is even more picturesque in the appearances it offers, as well as more pleasant in the associations it calls forth, than the Harvest in Autumn. What a delightful succession of pictures it presents! First, the Mowers, stooping over their scythes, and moving with measured paces through the early morning mists, interrupted at intervals by the freshening music of the whetstone.

Then—blithe companies of both sexes, ranged in regular array, and moving lengthwise and across the Meadow, each with the same action, and the ridges rising or disappearing behind them as they go:

Then again, when the fragrant crop is nearly fit to be gathered in, and lies piled up in dusky-coloured hillocks upon the yellow sward, while here and there, beneath the shade of a “hedgerow elm,” or braving the open sunshine in the centre of the scene, sunburnt Groups are seated in circles at their noonday meal, enjoying that ease which nothing but labour can generate.

And lastly, when Man and Nature, mutually assisting each other, have completed the work of preparation, and the cart stands still to receive its last forkfull; while the horse, almost hidden beneath his apparently overwhelming load, lifts up his patient head sideways to pick a mouthful; and all about stand the labourers, leaning listlessly on their implements, and eyeing the completion of their work.

What sweet pastoral pictures are here! The last, in particular, is prettier to look upon than any thing else, not excepting one of Wouvermann’s imitations of it.

Sheep-shearing, the other great rural labour of this delightful month, if not so full of variety as the Hay-harvest, and so creative of matter for those “in search of the picturesque” (though it is scarcely less so), is still more lively, animated, and spirit-stirring; and it besides retains something of the character of a Rural Holiday,—which rural matters need, in this age and in this country, more than ever they did since it became a civilized and happy one. The Sheep-shearings are the only stated periods of the year at which we hear of festivities, and gatherings together of the lovers and practisers of English husbandry; for even the Harvest-home itself is fast sinking into disuse, as a scene of mirth and revelry, from the want of being duly encouraged and partaken in by the great ones of the Earth; without whose countenance and example it is questionable whether eating, drinking, and sleeping, would not soon become vulgar practices, and be discontinued accordingly! In a state of things like this, the Holkham and Woburn Sheep-shearings do more honour to their promoters than all their wealth can purchase and all their titles convey. But we are getting beyond our soundings: honours, titles, and “states of things,” are what we do not pretend to meddle with, especially when the pretty sights and sounds preparatory to and attendant on Sheep-shearing, as a mere rural employment, are waiting to be noticed.

Now, then, on the first really summer’s day, the whole Flock being collected on the higher bank of the pool formed at the abrupt winding of the nameless mill-stream, at the point perhaps where the little wooden bridge runs slantwise across it, and the attendants being stationed waist-deep in the midwater, the Sheep are, after a silent but obstinate struggle or two, plunged headlong, one by one, from the precipitous bank; when, after a moment of confused splashing, their heavy fleeces float them along, and their feet, moving by an instinctive art which every creature but man possesses, guide them towards the opposite shallows, that steam and glitter in the sunshine. Midway, however, they are fain to submit to the rude grasp of the relentless washer; which they undergo with as ill a grace as preparatory-schoolboys do the same operation. Then, gaining the opposite shore heavily, they stand for a moment till the weight of water leaves them, and, shaking their streaming sides, go bleating away towards their fellows on the adjacent green, wondering within themselves what has happened.

The Shearing is no less lively and picturesque, and no less attended by all the idlers of the Village as spectators. The Shearers, seated in rows beside the crowded pens, with the seemingly inanimate load of fleece in their laps, and bending intently over their work; the occasional whetting and clapping of the shears; the neatly attired housewives, waiting to receive the fleeces; the smoke from the tar-kettle, ascending through the clear air; the shorn Sheep escaping, one by one, from their temporary bondage, and trotting away towards their distant brethren, bleating all the while for their Lambs, that do not know them;—all this, with its ground of universal green, and finished every where by its leafy distances, except where the village spire intervenes, forms together a living picture, pleasanter to look upon than words can speak, but still pleasanter to think of when that is the nearest approach you can make to it.

We must now betake ourselves to the Garden, which I have perhaps kept aloof from longer than I ought, from something like a fear that the flush of beauty we shall meet there will go near to infringe upon that perfect sobriety of style on which these papers so much pique themselves, and which, I hope, has not hitherto been departed from! What may happen now, however, is more than I shall venture to anticipate. If, therefore, in passing across yonder smooth elastic Turf, now in its fullest perfection, and making our way towards the Flower-plots that are imbedded in it, my imagination should imbibe some of the occasionally undue warmth of the season, and my fancy find itself “half in a blush of clustering roses lost,” and these should together engender a style as flowery as the subject about which it is to concern itself, the reader will be good enough to bear in mind, that even the Berecinian blood of an Irish Barrister can scarcely be made to keep within due bounds, when he has a beauty for his client! nay, that even the Irish Barrister par excellence is sometimes misled into a metaphor, and inveigled into an allitteration, when his theme happens to be more than ordinarily inspiring!

As the Wild Rose is the reigning belle of the Forest during this Month, so the Rose occupies a similar rank in the more courtly realm of the Garden; and the latter is to her sweet relative of the Woods what the centre of the court circle in town (whoever she may be) is to the Cynosure of a country village. Here, in these oval clumps, which she has usurped entirely to herself, we find her greeting us under a host of different forms at the same time, all of which are her own, all unlike each other, and yet each and all more lovely than all the rest! I must be content merely to call by name upon a few of the principal of these “fair varieties,” and allow their prototypes in the reader’s imagination to answer for themselves; for the Poets, those purloiners of all public property that is worth possessing, have long precluded us plain prosers from being epithetical in regard to Roses, without incurring the imputation of borrowing that from them, which they first borrowed from their betters, the Roses themselves.

What, then, can be more enchanting to look upon than this newly-opened Rose of Provence, looking upward half shamefacedly from its fragile stem, as if just awakened from a happy dream to a happier reality? It is the loveliest Rose we have, and the sweetest—except this by its side, the Rose-unique, which looks like the image of the other cut in marble—the statue of the Venus de’ Medici beside the living beauty that stood as its model. This, surely, is the loveliest of all Roses—except the White Blush-Rose, that rises here in the centre of the group, and looks like the marble image of the two former, just as the enamoured gaze of its Pygmalion has warmed it into life. You see, its delicate lips are just becoming tinged with the hues of vitality; and it breathes already, as all the air about it bears witness. Undoubtedly this is the loveliest of Roses—except the Moss Rose that hangs flauntingly beside it, seemingly the most careless, but in reality the most coquettish of court beauties; apparently the sport of every coxcomb Zephyr that passes, but in truth indifferent to all but her own sweet self; and if more modest in her attire than all other of her fair sisterhood, only adopting this particular mode because it makes her look more pretty and piquant. Her “close-fit cap of green,” the fashion of which she never changes, has exactly that becoming effect on her face which a French blonde trimming has on the face of an English londe beauty. But I must refrain from further details, touching the attractions of the Rose family, or I shall inevitably lose my credit with all of them, by discovering some reason why each, as it comes before me, is without exception preferable to all the rest. And, in fact, without wishing to be personal in regard to any, I must insist that, philosophically speaking, that Rose which is nearest at hand is, without exception, the best of Roses, in relation to the person affected by it; and that even the gaudy Damask, and the intense velvet-leaved Tuscan (each of which, in its own particular ear be it said, is handsomer than any of the beforenamed), must yield in beauty to the pretty little innocent blossoms of the Sweet-briar Rose itself, when none but that is by.

I am afraid the other Garden Flowers, that first appear in June, must go without their fair proportion of praise, since they will risk a rivalry with the unrivalled. They must be content with a passing “now” of recognition. Now, then, the flaring Peony throws up its splendid globes of crimson and blush-colour from out its rich domelike pavilion of dark leaves.—Now, the elegant yet exotic-looking family of the Amaranths begin to put on their fantastical attire of fans, feathers, and fringes. Those, however, which give name to the tribe, the truly Amaranthine, or Everlasting ones, are not yet come; nor that other, most elegant and pathetic of them all, which is known by the name of Love-lies-bleeding.

Now, the Ranunculus tribe begin to scatter about their many-coloured balls of brilliant light. The Persian ones, when planted in beds, with their infinite varieties of tint and penciling, and their hundred leaves, lapped over each other with such inimitable art, eclipse all the Tulips of the Spring, and would eclipse their Summer rivals the Carnations too, but that the latter are as sweet as they are beautiful.

Now, the delicate Balsams rejoice in the fresh air which is allowed to blow upon them, and which, like too tender maidens, they have been sighing for ever since they came into bloom, without knowing that one rude breath of it would have blown them into the grave.

Now, too, the Fuchsia, that most exquisitely formed of all our flowers, native or exotic, is no longer confined, like an invalid, to a fixed temperature, but is permitted to mix with its more hardy brethren in the open air.

Now, also, the whole tribe of Geraniums get leave of absence from their winter barracks, and are allowed to keep guard on each side the hall-door, in their gay regimentals of scarlet, crimson, and the rest, ranged “each under each,” according to their respective inches, and all together making up as pretty a show as a crack regiment at a review. What the passers in and out can mean by plucking part of a leaf as they go, rubbing it between their fingers, and then throwing it away, is more than they (the Geraniums) can divine.

The other flowers, that present themselves for the first time in this most fertile of all the months, must be dismissed with a very brief glance at the commonest of them: which epithet, by the way, is always a synonyme for the most beautiful, among flowers. Now, the favourite family of the Pinks shoot up their hundred-leaved heads from out their low ground-loving clump of frosty-looking leaves, and are in such haste to scatter abroad their load of sweetness, that they break down the polished sides of the pretty green vase in which they are set, and hang about it like the tresses of a school-girl on the afternoon of dancing-day.

Now, Sweet-Williams lift up their bold but handsome faces, right against the meridian Sun,—disdaining to shrink or bend beneath his most ardent gaze: whence, no doubt, their claim to the name of William; for no lady-flower would think of doing so!

Now, the Columbine dances a pas-seul to the music of the breeze; “being her first appearance this season;” and she performs her part to admiration, notwithstanding her Harlequin husband, Fritillary, has not been heard of for this month past.

Now, the yellow Globe-flower flings up its balls of gold into the air; and the modest little Virginia Stock scatters its rubies, and sapphires, and pearls, profusely upon the ground; and Lupines spread their wings for flight, but cannot, for very fondness, escape from the handsome leaves over which they seem hovering; and Mignonette begins to make good its pretty name; and, finally, the princely Poppy, and the starry Marigold, and the innocent little wild Pansy, and the pretty Pimpernel, and the dear little blue Germander, will spring up, unasked, all over the Garden, and you cannot find in your heart to treat them as weeds.

In the Fruit Garden, all is still for the most part promise: not, however, the flowery and often fallacious promise of the Spring; but that solid and satisfying assurance which one feels in the word of a friend who never breaks it. So that, to the eye and palate of the imagination, this month and the next are richer than those which follow them; for now you can “have your fruit and eat it too;” which you cannot do then. In short, now the fruit blossoms are all gone, and the fruit is so fully set that nothing can hurt it; and what is better still, it is not yet stealable, either by boys, birds, or bees; so that you are as sure of it as one can be of any thing the enjoyment of which is not actually past. Enjoy it now, then, while you may; in order that, when in the Autumn it disappears, on the eve of the very day you had destined for the gathering of it (as every body’s fruit does), you alone may feel that you can afford to lose it. Every heir who is worthy to enjoy the estate that is left to him in reversion, does enjoy it whether it ever comes to him or not.

On looking more closely at the Fruit, we shall find that the Strawberries, which lately (like bold and beautiful children) held out their blossoms into the open sunshine, that all the world might see them, now, that their fruit is about to reach maturity, hide it carefully beneath their low-lying leaves, as conscious virgins do their maturing beauties;—that the Gooseberries and Currants have attained their full growth, and the latter are turning ripe;—that the Wall-fruit is just getting large enough to be seen among the leaves without looking for;—that the Cherries are peeping out in white or “cherry-cheeked” clusters all along their straight branches;—and that the other standards, the Apples, Pears, and Plums, are more or less forward, according to their kinds.

For reasons before hinted at, and in deference to the delicacy of that class of readers for whom these papers are in part propounded, I must, however reluctantly, refrain from descending any lower in the scale of vegetable life. It would ill become me to speak in praise of Green Peas in presence of a Peeress—who could not possibly understand the allusion! Think of mentioning Summer Cabbages within hearing of a Countess, or French Beans to a Baronet’s Lady! I could not do it. I cannot even persuade myself to “mention Herbs to ears polite!” If it were not for this proper, and indeed necessary restriction, there would be no end to the pleasant sights I might show the ordinary reader during this month, in the Kitchen-garden. But it may not be. I know my duty, and in pursuance of it must now at once “stay my hand, and change my measure.”

Behold us, then, in the heart of London. In the Country, when we left it, Midsummer was just at hand. Here mid-Winter has just passed away! and the Fashionable World finds itself in a condition of the most melancholy intermediateness. It is now much too late to stay in Town, and much too early to go into the Country. And what is worse, all fashionable amusements are at an end in London, and have not yet commenced elsewhere; on the express presumption that there is no one at hand to partake of them in either case. There are two places of public resort, however, which still boast the occasional countenance of people of fashion; probably on account of their corresponding with the intermediate character of the month—not being situated either in London or the Country, but at equal distances from each. I mean Kensington Gardens and Vauxhall. Now, in fact, during the first fortnight, Kensington Gardens is a place not to be paralleled: for the unfashionable portion of my readers are to know, that this delightful spot, which has been utterly deserted during the last age (of seven years), and could not be named during all that period without incurring the odious imputation of having a taste for trees and turf, has now suddenly started into vogue once more, and you may walk there even during the “morning” part of a Sunday afternoon with perfect impunity, always provided you pay a due deference to the decreed hours, and never make your appearance there earlier than twenty minutes before five, or later than half-past six; which is allowing you exactly two hours after breakfast to dress for the Promenade, and an hour after you get home to do the same for dinner: little enough, it must be confessed; but quite as much as the unremitting labour of a life of idleness can afford! Between the abovenamed hours, on the three first Sundays of this month, and the two last of the preceding, you may (weather willing) gladden your gaze with such a galaxy of Beauty and Fashion (I beg to be pardoned for the repetition, for Fashion is Beauty) as no other period or place, Almack’s itself not excepted, can boast: for there is no denying that the fair rulers over this last-named rendezvous of the regular troops of bon ton are somewhat too recherchée in their requirements. The truth is, that though the said Rulers will not for a moment hesitate to patronise the above proposition under its simple form, they entirely object to that subtle interpretation of it which their sons and nephews would introduce, and on which interpretation the sole essential difference between the two assemblies depends. In fact, at Almack’s Fashion is Beauty; but at Kensington Gardens Beauty and Fashion are one. At any rate, those who have not been present at the latter place during the period above referred to, have not seen the finest sight (with one exception) that England has to offer.

Vauxhall Gardens, which open the first week in this month, are somewhat different from the above, it must be confessed. But they are unique in their way nevertheless. Seen in the darkness of noonday, as one passes by them on the top of the Portsmouth coach, they cut a sorry figure enough. But beneath the full meridian of midnight, what is like them, except some parts of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments? Now, after the first few nights, they begin to be in their glory, and are, on every successive Gala, illuminated with “ten thousand additional lamps,” and include all the particular attractions of every preceding Gala since the beginning of time!

Now, on fine evenings, the sunshine finds (or rather loses) its way into the galleries of Summer Theatres at whole price, and wonders where it has got to. Now, Boarding-school boys, in the purlieus of Paddington and Mile End, employ the whole of the first week in writing home to their distant friends in London a letter of not less than eight lines, announcing that the “ensuing vacation will commence on the —— instant;” and occupy the remaining fortnight in trying to find out the unknown numerals with which the blank has been filled up.

Finally, now, during the first few days, you cannot walk the streets without waiting, at every crossing, for the passage of whole regiments of little boys in leather breeches, and little girls in white aprons, going to church to practise their annual anthem singing, preparatory to that particular Thursday in this month, which is known all over the world of Charity Schools by the name of “walking-day;” when their little voices, ten thousand strong, are to utter forth sounds that shall dwell for ever in the hearts of their hearers. Those who have seen this sight, of all the Charity Children within the Bills of Mortality assembled beneath the dome of Saint Paul’s, and heard the sounds of thanksgiving and adoration which they utter there, have seen and heard what is perhaps better calculated than any thing human ever was to convey to the imagination a faint notion of what we expect to witness hereafter, when the Hosts of Heaven shall utter, with one voice, hymns of adoration before the footstool of the Most High.