  Painted by H. Thompson, R.A. THE IDLE SCHOOLBOY. Engraved by T. B. Welch expressly for Graham’s Magazine. GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. Vol. XXXVI. March, 1850. No. 3. Table of Contents Fiction, Literature and Articles Poetry, Music, and Fashion Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. Vol. XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, March, 1850. No. 3. Spenser finely characterizes this month — Study March with brows full sternly bent And armed strongly; yet he pictures it, as it advances, scattering blessings around, calling on the buds to throw aside their wintry vestments, and come forth to gladden the earth with their smiles. Such is, in reality, the progress of the season. In the early days of the month “Winter, still lingering on the verge of Spring, Retires reluctant, and, from time to time, Looks back.” As it proceeds, however — “The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth Her universal green, and the clear sky Delights still more and more the gazing eye,” and all is joy and gladness. The lark is caroling in the clear blue vault of heaven; the notes of the blackbird resound through the yet leafless groves; the robin is again heard from his lofty perch on the branch of some tall tree. The waters are dancing in the pale sunshine, and every thing looks as if regeneration had commenced its work. A quaint old writer says, “the moneth of March was called by the Saxons Leneth moneth, because the days did then first begin in length to exceed the nights. And this moneth being by our ancient fathers so called when they received Christianity, and, consequently, therewith the annual Christian custome of fasting, they called their chief season of fasting the fast of Lenet, because of the Lenet moneth, whereon most part of this fasting always fell, and hereof it cometh that we now call it Lent.” According to other etymologists, Lenet, or Lent, means Spring; hence, March was literally the Spring month. Spring, most delightful of seasons! how beautifully have thy charms been celebrated in undying song, by bards of old from the very dawn of literature. With what pleasure do we look back on thy worshipers of other days—such as Chaucer, Spenser, Herrick, Ben Jonson, Shakspeare, each speaking of thy beauties out of the fullness of his heart. But in our admiration of those whose memories will ever live in song, let us not forget those of our own day; gratitude, admiration and pride prompt our notice of Bryant, our favorite American poet, who thus beautifully apostrophizes this blustering month: The stormy March is come at last, With wind and cloud and changing skies: I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah! passing few are those who speak, Wild stormy month, in praise of thee! Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou to northern lands again The glad and glorious sun dost bring; And thou hast joined the gentle train, And wearest the gentle name of Spring.
And in thy reign of blast and storm Smiles many a long bright sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the bloom of May.
Then sing aloud the gushing rills, And the full springs from frost set free, That brightly leaping down the hills Are just set out to meet the sea.
The year’s departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat, But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet.
Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft hue of many showers, When the wide bloom on earth that lies Seems of a brighter world than ours. How graphically does the author of the “Fairie Queene” marshal this harbinger of Spring, in the noble march of the Seasons — First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of floures That freshly budded, and new blossomes did beare, In which a thousand birds had built their bowres, That sweetly sung to call forth paramoures: And in his hand a javelin he did beare, And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) A guilt-engraven morion he did weare, That as some did him love, so others did him feare The great operations of Nature during this month seem to be, to dry up the superabundant moisture of February, thereby preventing the roots and seeds from rotting in the earth, and gradually to bring forward the process of evolution in the swelling buds, whilst, at the same time, by the wholesome severity of the chilling blasts, they are kept from a premature disclosure, which would expose their tender contents to injury from the yet unconfirmed season. Shakspeare in one of his beautiful similies says — And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north, Checks all our buds from blowing. This seeming tyranny, however, is to be regarded as the most useful discipline; and those years generally prove most fruitful in which the pleasing appearances of Spring are the latest. The sun having now acquired some power, often reminds us of the genial influence of Spring, though the naked shrubs and trees still give the landscape the comfortless appearance of Winter — “There is a vernal freshness in the air, A breaking in the sky, full of sweet promise That the tardy Spring, capricious as she is, And chary of her favors, will, ere long, Smile on us in her beauty, and call forth From slumber long and deep each living thing. I know it by this warm delicious breeze, Balmy, yet fresh, the very soul of health— Of health, of hope, of joy; by these bright beams, And yonder azure heavens, I know it well. Soon the pent blossom in the naked spray, Trained to the sunny wall, shall own her power, And ope its leaves, tinged like an ocean shell: Soon shall each bank which fronts the southern sky, And tangled wood, and quiet sheltered nook, Be gemm’d with countless flowers—earth’s living stars.” Mild, pleasant weather in March is seldom, however, of long duration. In Europe, where the seasons are much more forward than they are with us, they have an old proverb—“A peck of March dust is worth a king’s ransom.” For as soon as a few dry days have made the land fit for working, the farmer goes to the plough, and, if the fair weather continues, proceeds to sowing oats and barley, though this business is seldom finished till the next month. “A strange commotion,” observes a celebrated English writer, “may be seen and heard at this season among the winged creatures, portending momentous matters. The lark is high up in the cold air before daylight, and his chosen mistress is listening to him among the dank grass, with the dew still upon her unshaken wing. The robin, too, has left off, for a brief season, his low, plaintive piping, which, it must be confessed, was poured forth for his own exclusive satisfaction, and, reckoning on his spruce looks and sparkling eyes, issues his quick, peremptory love-call in a somewhat ungallant and husband-like manner. “The sparrows who have lately been skulking silently about from tree to tree, with ruffled plumes and drooping wings, now spruce themselves up, till they do not look half their former size, and if it were not pairing time, one might fancy there was more of war than of love in their noisy squabblings.” Among other indications of the advancing season, says Gray — New born lambs in rustic dance Frisking ply their nimble feet, Forgetful of their wintry trance The birds his presence greet; But chief the sky-lark warbles high His trembling, thrilling ecstasy, And lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light. Nothing, at this season, is a more pleasing spectacle than the sporting of the young lambs, most of which are yeaned this month, and are, if the weather is severe, protected in covered sheds, till the mildness of the season permits them to venture abroad. Dyer, in his poem of “The Fleece,” gives a very natural and beautiful description of this circumstance: Spread around thy tend’rest diligence In ploughing spring-time, when the new-dropt lamb, Tottering with weakness by his mother’s side, Feels the fresh world about him, and each thorn, Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet; Oh! guard his meek, sweet innocence from all The innum’rous ills that rush around his life! Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone, Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain! Observe the larking crows! beware the brake, There the sly wolf the careless minute waits! Nor trust thy neighbor’s dog, nor earth nor sky; Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide! Eurus oft slings his hail; the tardy fields Pay not their promised food; and oft the dam O’er her weak twins with empty udder mourns, Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of prey Alights, and hops in many turns around, And tires her, also turning; to her aid Be nimble, and the weakest, in thine arms, Gently convey to the warm cote; and oft, Between the lark’s note and the nightingale’s His hungry bleating still with tepid milk; In this soft office may thy children join, And charitable habits learn in sport; Nor yield him to himself, ere the vernal airs Sprinkle thy little croft with daisy flowers. Another most agreeable token of the arrival of Spring is, that the bees, “Pilgrims of Summer, who do bow the knee At every shrine,” begin to venture out of their hives about the middle of this month. As their food is the honey-like juice found in the tubes of flowers, their coming abroad is a certain indication of the approach of Spring. No creature seems possessed of a greater power of foreseeing the weather; so that their appearance in the morning may be reckoned a sure token of a fine day. The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb, Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time. Bees stroke their little legs across their wings, And venture short flights where the snow-drop brings Its silver bell, and winter aconite, Its buttercup-like flowers, that shut at night, With green leaf furling round its cup of gold, Like tender maiden muffled from the cold; They sip, and find their honey-dreams are vain, Then feebly hasten to their hives again. The butterflies, by eager hopes undone, Glad as a child come out to greet the sun; Beneath the shadow of a sudden shower, Are lost—nor see to-morrow’s April flower. The gardens are now beginning to be studded by the crocus — “The flower of Hope, whose hue Is bright with coming joy,” the varieties of which adorn the borders with a rich mixture of yellow and purple. The little shrubs of mezereon are in their beauty. The fields begin to be clothed with the springing grass, and but few flowers appear to decorate their velvet mounds. The flowers of Spring have been favorite themes for the poets. Shakspeare represents Perdita as desirous to present to her guests Daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one! and Chaucer has sung so melodiously and so affectionately of the charms of These flowres, white and rede, Soch that men callen daisies in our town, as to entwine it with the recollections of himself. Shelley, among the modern writers, in a single couplet, has left one of the most exquisite descriptions of this flower that ever was written: And another poet endears it by a single epithet. He is seeking for a flower to place in the coffined hand of a dead infant. Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose, That tiny hand to fill, Go search the fields! the lichen wet, Bends o’er the unfailing well: Beneath the furrow lingers yet The scarlet pimpernel. Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower, Where never froze the spring? A daisy? oh! bring childhood’s flower — The half-blown daisy bring! Yes, lay the daisy’s little head Beside the little cheek; Oh, hush! the last of five is dead — The childless cannot speak! The inimitable Wordsworth, with the garrulity of a nurse, fondling a beloved infant, lavishes on it in a single poem, several endearing appellations, in one verse styling it A nun demure, of lowly port. And in another line: A queen in crown of rubies drest. And again: A little Cyclops, with one eye, Staring to threaten or defy. The primrose, a beautiful little flower but little known in this country, also has been embalmed in song. Milton introduces it in terms of endearment, “the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,” as if its little heart was too gentle to withstand alone the rude shocks of the world. The violet seems to have been a favorite flower with this author, when he says, No sweeter fragrance e’er perfumed the gale. Herrick thus fancifully accounts for its color: Love, on a day, wise poets tell, Some time in wrangling spent, Whether the violet should excel, Or she, in sweetest scent.
But Venus, having lost the day, Poore girles, she fell on you, And beate ye so, as some dare say, Her blows did make ye blew. Even the most unpoetical nature must have been occasionally conscious of some such emotion as is embodied in these lines: There’s to me A daintiness about these early flowers That touches one like poetry. Among the visitants of March, especially if the season be mild, that now delights the eye of the observer, is the rich scarlet flower of the Pyrus Japonica; and the sweet-smelling jonquil irradiates the flower-border, and if he ventures into the fields, and braves the blustering winds of the season, he will be charmed with the bright blossoms of the celandine and the butter-cup, whose bright golden faces recall many an hour of childhood and happiness of the time when “Daisies and buttercups gladdened our sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.” As we approach the Equinox, the storms and winds tempestuous and frequent, yet from these extremes, reconciled and moderated by the hand of Providence, much good results. Thus says the poet of nature, whose philosophic reflections and moral remarks are only to be equalled by his own matchless descriptions: Be patient, swains, these cruel seeming winds Blow not in vain; for hence they keep repressed Those deepening clouds on clouds, surcharged with rain, That o’er the vast Atlantic hither borne, In endless rain would quench the summer blaze, And cheerless drown the crude unripened year. A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND. ——— BY MISS M. J. WINDLE. ——— |
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