JULY.
Then came hot July, boiling like to fire,
That all his garments he had cast away.
Upon a lyon raging yet with ire
He boldly rode, and made him to obey:
(It was the beast that whilom did forray
The Nemæan forest, till the Amphitrionide
Him slew, and with his hide did him array:)
Behind his backe a sithe, and by his side
Under his belt he bore a sickle circling wide.
July is the seventh month of the year. According to ancient reckoning it was the fifth, and called Quintilis, until Mark Antony denominated it July, in compliment to Caius Cæsar, the Roman dictator, whose surname was Julius, who improved the calendar, and was born in this month.
July was called by the Saxons hen-monath, which probably expressed the meaning of the German word hain, signifying wood or trees; and hence hen-monath might mean foliage month. They likewise called it heymonath, or haymonth; “because,” says Verstegan, “therein they usually mowed and made their hay harvest;” and they also denominated it Lida-aftera, meaning the second “Lida,” or second month after the sun’s descent.[205]
The beautiful [representation] preceding Spenser’s personification of July, on the [preceding page], was designed and engraved by Mr. Samuel Williams, of whom it should in justice be said, that his talents have enriched the Every-Day Book with most of its best illustrations.
Now comes July, and with his fervid noon
Unsinews labour. The swinkt mower sleeps;
The weary maid rakes feebly; the warm swain
Pitches his load reluctant; the faint steer,
Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along
The slow encumbered wain in midday heat.
Mr. Leigh Hunt in his Months, after remarking that “July is so called after Julius Cæsar, who contrived to divide his names between months and dynasties, and among his better deeds of ambition reformed the calendar,” proceeds to notice, that—“The heat is greatest in this month on account of its previous duration. The reason why it is less so in August is, that the days are then much shorter, and the influence of the sun has been gradually diminishing. The farmer is still occupied in getting the productions of the earth into his garners; but those who can avoid labour enjoy as much rest and shade as possible. There is a sense of heat and quiet all over nature. The birds are silent. The little brooks are dried up. The earth is chapped with parching. The shadows of the trees are particularly grateful, heavy, and still. The oaks, which are freshest because latest in leaf, form noble clumpy canopies, looking, as you lie under them, of a strong and emulous green against the blue sky. The traveller delights to cut across the country through the fields and the leafy lanes, where nevertheless the flints sparkle with heat. The cattle get into the shade, or stand in the water. The active and air-cutting swallows, now beginning to assemble for migration, seek their prey about the shady places, where the insects, though of differently compounded natures, ‘fleshless and bloodless,’ seem to get for coolness, as they do at other times for warmth. The sound of insects is also the only audible thing now, increasing rather than lessening the sense of quiet by its gentle contrast. The bee now and then sweeps across the ear with his gravest tone. The gnats