SUMMER PICTURES. 151 



mon are purple with the clumps of wild thyme, and a drowsy, over- 

 powering fragrance comes from the blossoming beanfield, " reminding 

 us of Proserpine and her fallen flowers." The hedges are covered 

 with the foam-like cymes of the wayside elder, and woven in a net- 

 work of the wild convolvulus and the white bryony, which throw their 

 glossy trails in all directions. 



But we leave the land of flow^ers, and, led on by the» witchery of the 

 clear sunshine and the deep blue sky, studded with masses of cloud 

 as bright as molten silver, tumble over the brink of a little hollow, 

 scooped like that of Cowper, by Kilwick's echoing wood. There is a 

 small mud-walled cottage, partially white-washed, standing upon a 

 little plot of chalky ground, partly fenced and planted with cabbages 

 and potatoes ; and just at the foot of a tall perpendicular cliff, on a 

 small round grassy hill, lies an ill-favoured mongrel fast asleep. The 

 upper edge of the cliff is fringed with coppice wood, and a straggling 

 hazel hangs carelessly over the brink, the shadows of which, as it 

 sways to and fro in the wind, dance like grim spectres on the white 

 chalky ramparts, and hold a sort of demon dance with the light steamy 

 smoke which curls gracefully upward from the little hovel below. 

 Beyond the young coppice rises a rich plantation of Scotch firs, and 

 their tall grey stems swing mournfully and change places with each 

 other, alternately forming long and regular vistas, at the end of which 

 you catch enchanting glimpses of the blue sky, and then lose them 

 again behind a forest of silvery stems, whose dark-green leafy summits 

 shed on the brown slopes and grassy avenues below a calm and 

 softened twilight. It would be impossible to gaze on such a scene as 

 this without thinking of Longfellow's lovely stanzas : — 



" Before me rose an avenue 



Of tall and sombrous pines, 

 Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 

 And where the sunshine darted through, 

 Spread a vapour soft and blue, 



In long and sloping lines. 



" And falling on my weary bram. 



Like a fast-falling shower, 

 The dreams of youth come back again,— 

 Low lispings of the summer rain 

 Dropping on the ripened grain, 



As once upon the flower." 



When you get up there, underneath the rich festoons of foliage, 



