We must delay for a moment beside this pretty Hedgerow, to observe a few more of the various coloured weeds (so called by those manufacturers of artificial flowers, the gardeners) which first put forth their blossoms this month. Conspicuous is the Campion, rising from the bank, with its single lake-coloured flowers scattered aloof from each other, upon their long bare stems. Among the lower leaves of these, rising from the ditch below, the Water-violet rears its elegant head, consisting of rosy clusters ranged tier above tier, and lessening towards the top, till they form a flowery pyramid. About the edges of the banks, low on the ground, are scattered the Hyacinths in blue profusion, relieved here and there by the white Cuckoo-flower, or Lady-smock, the plain, but sweet-scented Woodruff, and the sunny Dandelion; while, close beneath the overhanging hedgerow, the Cuckoo-pint stands motionless in its green pavilion, and seems to keep watch, like a sentinel, over the flowery tribe around.
But see! yonder Butterfly, fluttering past us like a winged flower, reminds us that now come forth that ephemeral race whose lives are scarcely of longer date than those of the flowers on whose aroma they feed.
Now, shoot past us, like winged arrows, or hover near us like Fairies’ messengers come to bring us tidings of the Summer, those frail creatures—green, and purple, and gold—borne on invisible gossamer wings,—of which the flying dragons of fairy and of pantomime-land are but clumsy imitations. Now, blithe companies of Gnats hum and hover up and down in the warm air, like motes in a sunbeam. Now, the wayside Cricket begins to chirrup forth its monotonous mirth; for ever harping on one note, and never tiring or growing tired. Now, the great Humble Bee goes booming along, startling the pleased ear as he passes; or hurries suddenly out of the heart of some wayside flower, and leaves it trembling at his departure, as if a thought of his distant home had disturbed him in the midst of his blithe labours. Now, in the early dusk, the heavy Cockchafer hums drowsily along, or flurs from out some near lime-tree, and flings his mailed form (as if on purpose) into the face of the startled passenger. Now, at night, the Glow-worm shows her bright love-lamp to her distant mate, as he floats in the dim air above; and, seeing it, he closes his thin wings about him, and drops down to her side.
Now, the most active and industrious of all the smaller birds, the Swallow tribe, begin to devote themselves seriously to the business of the season. They have hitherto, since their first appearance, been sporting about in seeming idleness. But without this needful exercise and relaxation they would not be fit to go through the henceforth unceasing toils of the Summer; for they have two or three broods to bring up before they retire, each of which, when hatched, requires the incessant toil of the parents from light till dark, to provide them food,—so dainty and delicate are they in the choice of it. Now, during this month, they begin and complete their dwellings; the House-swallow in the shafts of chimneys, thus providing their young at once with warmth and safety; the confiding Martin in the windows, and under the eaves, of our houses; and the Swift within the clefts of castles and other high old buildings, where “the air is delicate.”
Finally, now many of the earlier builders are sitting, and some few have hatched their broods. Let those who would contemplate, in imagination, the most perfect state of tranquil happiness of which a sentient being is susceptible, gaze (still in imagination, for actual sight would break the spell for both parties) on the mother bird, breasting her warm eggs beneath the shade of some retired covert, while her vocal lover (made vocal by his love) sits on some near bough beside, and pours into her listening heart the joy that will not be contained within his own.
In the Garden we now find all the promises of April completed, and a host of others springing up, to be fulfilled in their turn during the rest of the season. But May, notwithstanding its reputation in this particular, is not to be considered as, par excellence, the Month of Flowers, at least in this climate, and in respect to those flowers which have now become exclusively garden ones: though of wild flowers, and of blossoms which are afterwards to produce fruit, it is the month. Of the annuals, for instance, which make so rich a show in common gardens, (and it is of those alone that these unexotic pages profess to speak), none flower in May; but all of them mix up their many-shaded greens, and contrast their various shaped forms, with those that do. Among these latter are, in addition to those of last month which still continue in blow, the rich-scented Wall-flower; the flower of as many names as colours, the prettiest of which is taken from that feeling which the sight of it gives—Heart’s-ease; Crown-imperial; Lily of the Valley, most delicate of all the vegetable tribe, both in shape and odour,—its bright little illumination-lamps looking out meekly from their pavilions of emerald green; the towering, blue Monk’s-hood; the pretty but foreign-looking Fritillary, or Snake’s-head, as it is more appropriately called, from its shape and colours; and sometimes, when the season is unfavourably favourable, the Rose herself. But her and her attractions we must leave till they come upon us in showers, in her own month of June.
Among the flowering shrubs we have now, also, many which demand their Spring welcome. And first the Lilac; for it was scarcely in full bloom last month; and it is its rich fulness that constitutes much of its charm, though its scent is delightful. Now, too, the Guelder-rose flings up its spheres of white light into the air, supported on their invisible stems, and looking, as the wind blows them about, like the jugglers’ balls chasing each other as if in sport. The Mountain-ash, too, puts forth its fans of white blossom, which the imagination converts, as soon as they appear, into those rich bunches of scarlet berries that make the winter months look gay; and which said “imagination” would do the same by the Elder-bloom, which also now appears, but that its delicious odour, when scented at a sufficient distance from its source, tells tales of any thing but winter and elder-wine. Lastly, the Laburnum now hangs forth its golden glories, and shows itself, for a few brief days, the most graceful of all the inhabitants of the shrubbery. The blossoms of the Laburnum, where they are seen from a little distance, and have (from circumstances of soil, &c.) acquired their due dependent posture, can scarcely be looked at steadily without a seeming motion being communicated to them, as if some invisible hand had detached them from their stems, and they were in the act of falling to the earth in the form of a yellow rain.
In the orchard, the loveliest of all fruit-blossoms, the Apples, are now in full perfection. These flowers are scarcely ever examined or praised for their beauty; and yet they are formed of almost every other flower’s best. They are as fresh as the Rose, and more delicate; as innocent as the Vale Lily, and more gay; as modest as the Daisy, and less prim. And surely they are not the worse for being followed by a beautiful fruit; any more than a beautiful bride is the worse for being a rich one. I have been “cudgelling my brains” (which, to speak the truth, I am seldom called upon to do) for a likeness to this lovely blossom; and I can find none but that which I have used already. The Apple-blossom is like nothing, in nature or in art, but the Countess of B——’s face; which is itself not wholly in either, being a happy mixture of the best parts of both—the sweet simplicity of the one, and the finished grace of the other; and which—but I beseech her to take it away from before my imagination at once, if she has any desire to see these pleasant papers come to a conclusion; for if it should again open upon me from among the flowers, like Cupid’s from out the Rose, I cannot answer for the consequences on the remainder of this history; for, though I am able to find in the Apple-blossom no likeness to any thing but her face, if once I am put upon pointing out resemblances in that, it shall go hard but I will prove it to be, in some particular or other, the prototype of all beautiful things,—always excepting Sir Thomas’s portrait of her; which, however she may be like it, is not like her. Her face is like—
’Tis like the morning when it breaks;
’Tis like the evening when it takes
Reluctant leave of the low sun;
’Tis like the moon, when day is done,
Rising above the level sea;
’Tis like——
But hold!—if my readers, in consideration of the brief limits which confine me, are not to be treated with other people’s poetry, they shall, at least, not be troubled with mine; to which end I must bid adieu to the abovenamed face, once and for ever.