In so selecting she differed from Mr. Ruskin, who has laid it down that “a tree is never meant to be drawn with all its leaves on, any more than a day when its sun is at noon. One draws the day in its morning or eventide, the tree in its spring or autumn dress.” This naturally exaggerated dictum is the contrary of Mrs. Allingham’s practice. She almost invariably waits for the trees until they have completely donned their spring garb, and leaves them ere they doff their summer dress.
The drawings of the woods, lanes, and fields which Mrs. Allingham has selected for illustration here comprise six of spring, three of summer, and two of autumn, winter being unrepresented. They are culled as to seven from Kent, three from Surrey, and a single one from Hertfordshire.
Taking them in their seasonal order we may discuss them as follows:—
32. SPRING ON THE KENTISH DOWNS
From the Water-colour in the possession of Mrs. Beddington.
Painted 1900.
Out of the city, far away
With spring to-day!
Where copses tufted with primrose
Give one repose.
William Allingham.
That the joy of spring is a never-failing subject for poets, any one may see who turns over the pages of the numerous compilations which now treat of Nature. I doubt, however, whether they receive a higher pleasure from it than does the townsman who can only walk afield at rare intervals, and whose first visit to the country each year is taken at Eastertide. He probably has no eye save for the contrasts which he experiences to his daily life, of scene, air, and vitality, but these will certainly infect him with a healthier love of life than is enjoyed by those who live amongst them and see them come and go.
Fortunate is the man who can visit these Kentish downs at a time when the breath of spring is touching everything, when the eastern air makes one appreciate the shelter that the hazel copses fringing their sides afford, an appreciation which is shared by the firs which hug their southern slopes.
It is very early spring in this drawing. The highest trees show no sign of it save at their outermost edges. Hazels alone, and they only in the shelter, have shed their flowery tassels, and assumed a leafage which is still immature in colour. The sprawling trails of the traveller’s joy, which rioted over everything last autumn, are still without any trace of returning vitality.
