Mirror of the Months

by P. G. Patmore

If we happen to be wandering forth on a warm still evening during the last week in this month, and passing near a roadside orchard, or skirting a little copse in returning from our twilight ramble, or sitting listlessly on a lawn near some thick plantation, waiting for bedtime, we may chance to be startled from our meditations (of whatever kind they may be) by a sound, issuing from among the distant leaves, that scares away the silence in a moment, and seems to put to flight even the darkness itself;—stirring the spirit, and quickening the blood, as no other mere sound can, unless it be that of a trumpet calling to battle. That is the Nightingale’s voice. The cold spells of winter, that had kept him so long tongue-tied, and frozen the deep fountains of his heart, yield before the mild breath of Spring, and he is voluble once more. It is as if the flood of song had been swelling within his breast ever since it last ceased to flow; and was now gushing forth uncontrollably, and as if he had no will to control it: for when it does stop for a space, it is suddenly, as if for want of breath. In our climate the nightingale seldom sings above six weeks; beginning usually the last week in April. I mention this because many, who would be delighted to hear him, do not think of going to listen for his song till after it has ceased. I believe it is never to be heard after the young are hatched.

Now, too, the pretty, pert-looking Blackcap first appears, and pours forth his tender and touching love-song, scarcely inferior, in a certain plaintive inwardness, to the autumn song of the Robin. The mysterious little Grasshopper Lark also runs whispering within the hedgerows; the Redstart pipes prettily upon the apple trees; the golden-crowned Wren chirps in the kitchen-garden, as she watches for the new sown seeds; and lastly, the Thrush, who has hitherto given out but a desultory note at intervals to let us know that he was not away, now haunts the same tree, and frequently the same branch of it, day after day, and sings an “English Melody” that even Mr. Moore himself could not write appropriate words to.

Though all the above-named are what are commonly called birds of passage, yet from their not congregating together, and from their particular habits (except of singing) being consequently but little observed, we are accustomed to blend them among the general class of English birds, and look upon them as if they belonged to us. But now also first come among us (whether from a far off land, or from their secret homes within our own, remains to this day undetermined) those mysterious and interesting strangers that enliven all the air of Spring and Summer with their foreign manners, and the infinite variety of whose movements it is almost as pleasant to watch as it is to listen to the modulations of their vocal brethren. I allude to the Swallow tribe, who come usually in the following order, namely, first the Sand-Martin, the least noticeable of the tribe, and not affecting the dwellings of man; then the House or Chimney Swallow; then the House Martin; and lastly the Swift. Those who can see shoot past them, like a thought, the first swallow of the year, and yet continue pondering on their own affairs as if nothing had happened, may be assured that “the seasons and their change” were not made for them, and that, whatever they may fancy they feel to the contrary, Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter are to them mere words, indicating the periods when rents are payable and interest becomes due.

As the Swallow tribe do nothing, for the first fortnight after their arrival, but disport themselves, we will leave them and the rest of the feathered tribe for the present. We shall have sufficient opportunities of observing all their pretty ways hereafter.

I am afraid we must now quit the country altogether, as the country; not however without mentioning that now begins that most execrable of all practices, Angling. Now Man, “lordly man,” first begins to set his wit to a simple fish; and having succeeded in attracting it to his lure, watches it for a space floundering about in its crystal waters, in the agonies of death; and when he is tired of this sport, drags it to the green bank, among the grass, and moss, and wild-flowers, and stains them all with its blood![2] The “gentle” reader may be sure that I would willingly have refrained altogether from forcing upon his attention this hateful subject, especially amid such scenes and objects as we have just been contemplating: but I was afraid that my “silence” might have seemed to “give consent” to the practice.

We must now transport ourselves to the environs of London, and see what this happy season is producing there; for to leave the very heart of the country, and cast ourselves at once into the very heart of town, would be likely to put us in a temper ill suited to the time.

Now, on Palm Sunday, boys and girls (youths and maidens have got much above so “childish” a practice) may be met early in the morning, in blithe though breakfastless companies, sallying forth towards the pretty outlets about Hampstead and Highgate on one side of the water, and Clapham and Camberwell on the other (all of which they innocently imagine to be “The Country”), there to sport away the pleasant hours till dinner-time, and then return home, with joy in their hearts, endless appetites in their stomachs, and bunches of the Sallow Willow with its silken bloom-buds in their hands, as trophies of their travels.

Now, at last, the Easter week is arrived, and the Poor have for once in the year the best of it,—setting all things, but their own sovereign will, at a wise defiance. The journeyman who works on Easter Monday should lose his caste, and be sent to the Coventry of Mechanics, wherever that may be. In fact, it cannot happen. On Easter Monday ranks change places; Jobson is as good as Sir John; the “rude mechanical” is “monarch of all he surveys” from the summit of Greenwich Hill, and when he thinks fit to say “It is our royal pleasure to be drunk!” who shall dispute the proposition? Not I, for one. When our English mechanics accuse their betters of oppressing them, the said betters should reverse the old appeal, and refer from Philip sober to Philip drunk; and then nothing more could be said. But NOW, they have no betters, even in their own notion of the matter. And in the name of all that is transitory, envy them not their brief supremacy! It will be over before the end of the week, and they will be as eager to return to their labour as they now are to escape from it; for the only thing that an Englishman, whether high or low, cannot endure patiently for a week together, is, unmingled amusement. At this time, however, he is determined to try. Accordingly, on Easter Monday all the narrow lanes and blind alleys of our metropolis pour forth their dingy denizens into the suburban fields and villages, in search of the said amusement, which is plentifully provided for them by another class, even less enviable than the one on whose patronage they depend; for of all callings, the most melancholy is that of Purveyor of Pleasure to the poor.

During the Monday our determined holiday maker, as in duty bound, contrives, by the aid of a little or not a little artificial stimulus, to be happy in a tolerably exemplary manner. On the Tuesday, he fancies himself happy to-day, because he felt himself so yesterday. On the Wednesday he cannot tell what has come to him, but every ten minutes he wishes himself at home, where he never goes but to sleep. On Thursday he finds out the secret, that he is heartily sick of doing nothing; but is ashamed to confess it; and then what is the use of going to work before his money is spent? On Friday he swears that he is a fool for throwing away the greatest part of his quarter’s savings without having any thing to show for it, and gets gloriously drunk with the rest to prove his words; passing the pleasantest night of all the week in a watch-house. And on Saturday, after thanking “his Worship” for his good advice, of which he does not remember a word, he comes to the wise determination, that, after all, there is nothing like working all day long in silence, and at night spending his earnings and his breath in beer and politics!—So much for the Easter week of a London holiday maker.

But there is a sport belonging to Easter Monday which is not confined to the lower classes; and which fun forbid that I should pass over silently. If the reader has not, during his boyhood, performed the exploit of riding to the Turn-out of the Stag on Epping Forest—following the hounds all day long at a respectful distance—returning home in the evening with the loss of nothing but his hat, his hunting whip, and his horse, not to mention a portion of his nether person—and finishing the day by joining the Lady Mayoress’s Ball at the Mansion-House; if the reader has not done all this when a boy, I will not tantalize him by expiating on the superiority of those who have. And if he has done it, I need not tell him that he has no cause to envy his friend who escaped with a flesh wound from the fight of Waterloo; for there is not a pin to choose between them.