I have little to tell the reader in regard to London exclusively, this month; which is lucky, because I have left myself less than no space at all to tell it in. I must mention, however, that now is heard in her streets the prettiest of all the cries which are peculiar to them—“Come, buy my Primroses!” and but for which the Londoners would have no idea that Spring was at hand.
Now, too, spoiled children make “fools” of their mammas and papas; which is but fair, seeing that the said mammas and papas return the compliment during all the rest of the year. Now, not even a sceptical apprentice (for such there be now-a-days, thanks to the enlightening effects of universal education) but is religiously persuaded of the merits of Good Friday, and the propriety of its being so called, since it procures him two Sundays in the week instead of one.
Finally,—now, Exhibitions of Paintings court the public gaze, and obtain it, in every quarter; on the principle, I suppose, that the eye has, at this season of the year, a natural hungering and thirsting after the colours of the Spring leaves and flowers, and rather than not meet with them at all, is content to find them on painted canvas!
MAY.
Spring is with us once more, pacing the earth in all the primal pomp of her beauty, with flowers and soft airs and the song of birds every where about her, and the blue sky and the bright clouds above. But there is one thing wanting, to give that happy completeness to her advent, which belonged to it in the elder times; and without which it is like a beautiful melody without words, or a beautiful flower without scent, or a beautiful face without a soul. The voice of Man is no longer heard, hailing her approach as she hastens to bless him; and his choral symphonies no longer meet and bless her in return—bless her by letting her behold and hear the happiness that she comes to create. The soft songs of women are no longer blended with her breath as it whispers among the new leaves; their slender feet no longer trace her footsteps in the fields and woods and wayside copses, or dance delighted measures round the flowery offerings that she prompted their lovers to place before them on the village green. Even the little children themselves, that have an instinct for the Spring, and feel it to the very tips of their fingers, are permitted to let May come upon them, without knowing from whence the impulse of happiness that they feel proceeds, or whither it tends. In short,
“All the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday:”
while man, man alone, lets the season come without glorying in it; and when it goes he lets it go without regret; as if “all seasons and their change” were alike to him; or rather, as if he were the lord of all seasons, and they were to do homage and honour to him, instead of he to them! How is this? Is it that we have “sold our birthright for a mess of pottage?”—that we have bartered “our being’s end and aim” for a purse of gold? Alas! thus it is: