August 31.
Grasshoppers.
It was observed at the end of August, 1742, great damage was done to the pastures in the country, particularly about Bristol by swarms of grasshoppers; and the like happened in the same year at Pennsylvania to a surprising degree.[314]
In 1476, “Grasshoppers and the great rising of the river Isula did spoyle al Poland.”[315]
Grasshoppers are infested by a species of “insect parasites” thicker than a horse hair, and of a brown colour. It consumes the intestines, and at first sight in the body of the grasshopper, has been mistaken for the intestines themselves.
The eminent entomologist who mentions this fact, observes that “insects generally answer the most beneficial ends, and promote in various ways, and in an extraordinary degree, the welfare of man and animals.” The evils resulting from them occur partially when they abound beyond their natural limits, “God permitting this occasionally to take place, not merely with punitive views, but also to show us what mighty effects he can produce by instruments seemingly the most insignificant: thus calling upon us to glorify his power, wisdom, and goodness, so evidently manifested, whether he relaxes or draws tight the reins by which he guides insects in their course, and regulates their progress; and more particularly to acknowledge his overruling Providence so conspicuously exhibited by his measuring them, as it were, and weighing them, and taking them out, so that their numbers, forces, and powers, being annually proportioned to the work he has prescribed to them, they may neither exceed his purpose, nor fall short of it.”[316]
The Valley of Nightingales.
A Scene near the Hotwells, Bristol.[317]
“Then said I, master, pleasant is this place
And sweet are those melodious notes I hear;
And happy they, among man’s toiling race,
Who, of their cares forgetful, wander near.”
Bowles.
To those who might not happen to know St. Vincent’s rocks, Clifton, and the very beautiful scenery near the Hotwells, Bristol, it might be desirable to state that the river Avon winds here through a sinuous defile, on one side of which “the rocks” rise perpendicularly in a bold yet irregular manner, to the height of many hundred feet; the opposite side is not so bold, but it is, nevertheless, extremely beautiful, being clothed in many places with wood, and has besides a VALLEY, through which you may ascend to Leigh Down. This valley has been named the “Valley of Nightingales,” no doubt, in consequence of those birds making it their resort.
“Where foliaged full in vernal pride
Retiring winds thy favourite vale;
And faint the moan of Avon’s tide,
Remurmurs to the nightingale.”
C. A. Elton’s Poems, Disappointment.
In a note, Mr. Elton informs us that this stanza alludes to the “Valley of Nightingales opposite St. Vincent’s rocks at Clifton.” The lovers of the picturesque will here find ample gratification. If, in the following poem, the truth in natural history be a little exceeded in reference to a troop of nightingales, it is hoped that the poetical licence will be pardoned. The vicinity of the Hotwells has been lately much improved by a carriage drive beneath and around those rocks.
Seest thou yon tall ROCKS where, midst sunny light beaming,
They lift up their heads and look proudly around;
While numerous choughs, with their cries shrill and screaming,
Wheel from crag unto crag, and now o’er the profound?
Seest thou yonder Valley where gushes the fountain;
Where the nightingales nestling harmoniously sing;
Where the mavis and merle and the merry lark mounting,
In notes of wild music, now welcome the spring.
Seest thou yonder shade, where the woodbine ascending,
Encircles the hawthorn with amorous twine,
With the bryony scandent, in gracefulness blending;
What sweet mingled odours scarce less then divine!
Hearest thou the blue ring-dove in yonder tree cooing;
The red-breast, the hedge-sparrow, warble their song;
The cuckoo, with sameness of note ever wooing;
Yet ever to pleasure such notes will belong!
And this is the Valley of Nightingales;—listen
To those full-swelling sounds, with those pauses between,
Where the bright waving shrubs, midst the pale hazels, glisten,
There oft may a troop of the songsters be seen.
Seest thou yon proud ship on the stream adown sailing,
O’er ocean, her course, to strange climes she now bends;
Oh! who may describe the deep sobs or heart-wailing
Her departure hath wrought amongst lovers and friends?
The rocks now re-echo the songs of the sailor
As he cheerfully bounds on his watery way;
But the maiden!—ah! what shall that echo avail her,
When absence and sorrow have worn out the day?
Behold her all breathless, still gazing, pursuing,
And waving, at times, with her white hand adieu;
On the rock now she sits, with fixed eye, the ship viewing;
No picture of fancy—but often too true.
Dost thou see yon flush’d Hectic, of health poor remainder,
With a dark hollow eye, and a thin sunken cheek;
While AFFECTION hangs o’er him with thoughts that have pained her,
And that comfort and hope, still forbid her to speak?[318]
Yes, Friendships! Affections! ye ties the most tender!
Fate, merciless fate, your connection will sever;
To that tyrant remorseless—all, all must surrender!
I once had a Son—here we parted for ever![319]
Now the sun, o’er the earth, rides in glory uncloud
The rocks and the valleys delightedly sing;
The Birds in wild concert, in yonder wood shrouded,
Awake a loud CHORUS to welcome the spring.
And this is the valley of nightingales;—listen
To those full-swelling sounds, with those pauses between,
Where the bright waving shrubs, midst the pale hazels, glisten,
There oft may a troop of the songsters be seen.
J.