I’ve been dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedgerows of England; They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden; Thinking of lanes and of fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet. When Mrs. Allingham finally, I will not say determined to cut herself away from figure painting, but by the influence of her surroundings drifted away from it, she did not, as so many do, become the delineator of a single phase of landscape art. Her journeyings in search of subjects for some years were neither many nor extensive, for a paintress with a family growing up around her has not the same opportunities as a painter. He can leave his incumbrances in charge of his wife, and his work will probably benefit by an occasional flitting from home surroundings. But As evidence of this we may instance the case of the corner of Kent whither she has gone again and again of late, and where in the present year she has still been able to find ample material to her liking. A visit to this somewhat out-of-the-way spot, which lies in Kent in an almost identically A ramble round these scenes, whilst a most enjoyable matter to any one born to an appreciation of the country, was in truth not the inspiration that would be imagined to the writer of the text, This description of the variety of the artist’s work within a single small area will show that it is somewhat difficult to classify it for consideration. However, one or two arrangements and rearrangements of the drawings which illustrate these phases of the artist’s output seem to bring them best into the following divisions: woods, lanes, and fields; cottages; and gardens. These we shall therefore consider in this and the following chapters, dealing here with the first of them. Midway in her life at Witley, The Fine Art Society induced Mrs. Allingham to undertake, as the subject for an Exhibition, the portrayal of the countryside under its four seasonal aspects of spring, When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In so selecting she differed from Mr. Ruskin, who has laid it down that “a tree is never meant to be drawn with all its leaves on, any more than a day when its sun is at noon. One draws the day in its morning or eventide, the tree in its spring or autumn dress.” This naturally exaggerated dictum is the contrary of Mrs. Allingham’s practice. She almost invariably waits for the trees until they The drawings of the woods, lanes, and fields which Mrs. Allingham has selected for illustration here comprise six of spring, three of summer, and two of autumn, winter being unrepresented. They are culled as to seven from Kent, three from Surrey, and a single one from Hertfordshire. Taking them in their seasonal order we may discuss them as follows:— Out of the city, far away With spring to-day! Where copses tufted with primrose Give one repose. That the joy of spring is a never-failing subject for poets, any one may see who turns over the pages of the numerous compilations which now treat of Nature. I doubt, however, whether they receive a higher pleasure from it than does the Fortunate is the man who can visit these Kentish downs at a time when the breath of spring is touching everything, when the eastern air makes one appreciate the shelter that the hazel copses fringing their sides afford, an appreciation which is shared by the firs which hug their southern slopes. It is very early spring in this drawing. The highest trees show no sign of it save at their outermost edges. Hazels alone, and they only in the shelter, have shed their flowery tassels, and assumed a leafage which is still immature in colour. The sprawling trails of the traveller’s joy, which rioted over everything last autumn, are still without any trace of returning vitality. Here the white ray’d anemone is born, Wood-sorrel, and the varnish’d buttercup; And primrose in its purfled green swathed up, Pallid and sweet round every budding thorn. This little sequestered bridge would hardly seem to be of sufficient importance to deserve a name, nor for the matter of that the streamlet, the Tigbourne, which runs beneath it, but on the Hindhead slope streams of any size are scarce, and therefore call for notice. Bridges resemble stiles in being enforced loitering places, for whilst there is no effort which compels a halt in crossing bridges, as there is with stiles, there is the sense of mystery which underlies them, and expectancy as to what the water may contain. Especially is this so for youth; and so here we have boy and girl who pause on their way from bluebell gathering, whilst the former makes belief of fishing with the thread of twine which youngsters of his age always find to hand in one or other of their pockets. We have elsewhere remarked on the rare occasions on which Mrs. Allingham utilises sunlight and shadow. Here, however, is one of them, and one which shows that it is from no incapacity to do so, for it is now introduced with a difficult effect, namely, blue flowers under a low raking light. The artist’s eye was doubtless attracted by the unusual visitation of a bright warm sun on a spring day, and determined to perpetuate it. The wood in which the scene is laid is on the Kentish Downs, where, as the distorted boughs show, the winds are always in evidence. The juxtaposition of the two primaries, blue and yellow, is always a happy one in nature, but specially is it so when we have such a mass of sapphire blue. Blue, gentle cousin of the forest green, Married to green in all the sweetest flowers— Forget-me-not, the bluebell, and that queen Of secrecy the violet. In a recent “One Man Exhibition” by that refined artist Mr. Eyre Walker, there was a very unusual drawing entitled “Beauty for Ashes.” The entire foreground was occupied with a luxuriant growth of purple willow loosestrife, intermixed with the silvery white balls of down from seeding nipplewort. Standing gaunt from this intermingling, luxuriant crop, were the charred stems of burnt fir trees, whilst the living mass of their fellows formed an agreeable background. The subject must have attracted many travellers on the South-Western Railway as they passed Byfleet; it did so in Mr. Walker’s case to the extent that he stayed his journey and painted it. In that case this beautiful display had, as the title to the picture hints, arisen from the ashes of a forest. A spark from a train had set fire to the wood, and had apparently destroyed every living thing in its course. But such is Nature that out of death sprang life. So it has been with the coppice here, and in the oakwood scene which preceded Sheets of hyacinth That seem the heavens upbreaking thro’ the earth. The drawing takes its name from the cuckoo whose note has arrested the children’s attention. Still with the black cloak round his ancient wrongs. One of many that are dotted about the southern slopes of the Westerham Downs, and that, not only here but all along the line of the Pilgrims’ Way, are regarded as having their origin in these devotees. The drawing was made in the early part of the present year, when the primroses and violets were out, but before there was anything else, save the blossom of the willow, to show that The spring comes slowly up this way, Slowly, slowly! To give the world high holiday. It is somewhat remarkable that the most impressive flower-show that Nature presents to our notice, namely, when, as May passes into June, the whole countryside is decked with a bridal array of pure white, should have taken hold of but few of our poets. Shakespeare, of course, recognised it in lines which make one smile at the idea that they could ever have been composed by a town-bred poet:— O what a life were this! How sweet, how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroidered canopy To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery. Another, in the person of Mrs. Allingham’s husband, penned a sonnet upon it containing the following happy description:— Cluster’d pearls upon a robe of green, And broideries of white bloom. The scene of this drawing is laid in the park at Brocket Hall, to which reference is made in connection The artist has treated a very difficult subject with success, as any one, especially an amateur, who has tried to portray masses of hawthorn blossom will readily admit. Any attempt to draw the flowers and fill in the foliage is hopeless, and it can only be done, as in this case, by erasure. Hardly less difficult to accomplish are the delicate fronds of the young bracken, unfolding upwards by inches a day, which can only be treated suggestively. In the original, which is on a somewhat large scale, the middle distance is enlivened with browsing rabbits, but the very considerable reduction of the drawing has reduced these to a size which renders them hardly distinguishable. Whilst no Exhibition passes nowadays which has not one or more representations of the “blithe populace” of daisies, the fashion has only come in of late years. Even the Flemings, who were so partial to the flowers of the field, seem to have considered it beneath their notice—a strange occurrence, because one can hardly turn over the pages of any missal of a corresponding epoch without coming upon many a faithful representation of the rose-encircled orb. Chaucer extolled it Above all the flow’res in the mead Then love I most these flow’res white and red, Such that men callen daisies in our town. And much content it gave him To see this flow’r against the sunne spread. When it upriseth early by the morrow That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow. He recognised its name of “day’s eye,” because it opens and closes its flower with the daylight, in the lines— The daisie or els the eye of the daie, The emprise and the floure of floures alle. In fact it was a favourite with English poets long before it came under the notice of English painters. Witness Milton’s well-known line— Meadows trim with daisies pied. It was not until the epoch of the pre-Raphaelite brethren that the daisies which pie the meadows seemed worthy of perpetuation, and it was reserved to Frederick Walker, in his “Harbour of Refuge,” to limn them on a lawn falling beneath the scythe. The flower that Mrs. Allingham has painted with so much skill—for it is a very difficult undertaking to suggest a mass of daisies without too much individualising—is not, of course, the field daisy (bellis perennis) but the ox-eye, or moon daisy, which is really a chrysanthemum (chrysanthemum leucanthemum), a plant which seems to have increased very much of late years, especially on railway embankments, maybe because it has come into vogue, and actually been advanced to a flower worthy of gathering and using as a table decoration, an honour that would never have been bestowed on it a quarter of a century ago. The drawing was made from the window of the farmhouse in Kent, to which, as we have said, Mrs. Allingham runs down at all seasons. It was Foxgloves have appealed to Mrs. Allingham for portrayal in more than one locality in England, but never in greater luxuriance than on this Kentish woodside, where their spikes overtop the sweet little sixteen-year-old faggot-carrier. It happens to be another instance of a magnificent crop springing up the first year after a growth of saplings have been cleared away, and not to be repeated even in this year of grace (1903) when the newspapers have been full of descriptions of the unwonted displays of foxgloves everywhere, and have been taunting It is perhaps a fallacy, or at least heresy, to assert that English heather bears away the palm for beauty over that of the country with which it is more popularly associated. But many, I am sure, will agree with me that nowhere in Scotland is any stretch of heather to be found which can eclipse in its magnificence of colour that which extends for mile after mile over Surrey and Kentish commonland in mid August. In the summer in which this drawing was painted it was especially noticeable as being in more perfect bloom than it had been known to be for many seasons. I was taken to task by Mrs. Allingham a while ago for saying that her affections were not so set One of those steep self-made roads which the passage of the seasons rather than of man has furrowed and deepened in “the flow of the deep still wood,” a lodgment for the leaves from whose depths that charming lament of the dying may well have arisen,— Said Fading Leaf to Fallen Leaf, “I toss alone on a forsaken tree, It rocks and cracks with every gust that rocks Its straining bulk: say! how is it with thee?” Said Fallen Leaf to Fading Leaf, “A heavy foot went by, an hour ago; Crush’d into clay, I stain the way; The loud wind calls me, and I cannot go.” The name “Night-Jar,” by which this lane is known, is unusual, and probably points to its having been a favourite hunting-ground for a seldom-seen visitant, for which it seems well-fitted. The name may well date back to White of Selborne’s time, who lived not far away, and termed the bird “a wonderful and curious creature,” which it must be Night-jars are most deceptive in their flight, one or two giving an illusion of many by their extremely rapid movements and turns; and they may well have been very noticeable to persons in the confined space of this gully, especially as the observer in his evening stroll would probably stir up the moths, which are the bird’s favourite food, and which would attract it into his immediate vicinity. How much interest would be added to a countryside were the lanes all fitted with titles such as this. |