Page:Once a Week Volume 8.djvu/36

28  there intersect the soil. White himself refers to them in the following passage:—

These lanes are most delightful promenades on a hot summer’s afternoon or evening, being sunk deep in the bed of the earth, and resembling far more the dried-up pathway of a torrent than a habitual roadway. A wooden bridge, thrown across one of these lanes, formed a picturesque feature, until its recent removal. Here, indeed, a naturalist may revel to his heart’s content. If these miniature chasms are gloomy, they abound in vegetation which delights in shade and moisture. The fern, the moss, the foxglove, the daphne, the wild strawberry, grasses of all kinds, tangled furze and thistles, and plants innumerable, which elsewhere would be weeds, but here appropriately adorn the garden of nature, literally mantle the banks on either side, whilst the trees which line their top thrust their roots down and in and out in the most fantastic shapes.

It is, however, to be regretted, that Selbourne and its neighbourhood are not better supplied with streams. With the exception of the Well Head, which is a perennial fountain, there is no real river to refresh the eye as it wanders over this beautiful scenery. After a storm of rain a thousand little channels are indeed filled with a temporary flood, but these soon ebb away, enjoying only a short tumultuous existence. No landscape can be said to be perfect without water. It is the beautiful meandering of the silvery Thames from Twickenham towards Kew that gives to the view from Richmond Hill so exquisite a charm; it is the absence of such an accessory that makes the visitor to Byron’s tomb in Harrow church-yard feel, whilst overlooking the fertile plain between him and Windsor, that something is wanting to perfect the picture.

Happily, it is only to the eye of the artist that this defect is palpably visible. Selbourne, to White, presented a thousand attractions; and to the lover of natural history it will present a thousand-and-one attractions, for it will have the additional charm of being associated with the name of its venerable son. I have not thought it necessary to dwell upon the biography of this illustrious man, for few are there who are unacquainted with its outlines. That he was born in the early part of the eighteenth century, and died in the year 1793; that he was educated at the Basingstoke Grammar School, under the superintendence of Dr. Thomas Warton, the father of the celebrated author of the “History of Music;” that he graduated at Oxford, and that he had the gateway of preferment open to him, but chose the quiet retirement of Selbourne, in order that he might carry on his favourite studies there—these are facts so generally known, that I have not thought it necessary to dwell upon them. His letters to Mr. Pennant and the Honourable Daines Barrington afford an admirable insight into his mind, his love of nature, and his manner of life; and what could I say to enhance his reputation which he has not already bequeathed to posterity in the monument which he has unconsciously raised to his quiet fame?

Yet the celebrity which Gilbert White has attained affords a striking lesson. It is a remarkable instance of what may be achieved by quiet observation and perseverance. When penning his letters, White knew not that he was constructing for himself a niche in the Temple of Fame. He minutely investigated Nature in her outward attributes; he jotted down his notes to a friend, scarcely regarding the style in which he poured forth his information, though that style shows him to have been an elegant scholar; and, without any special effort on his part, he has won the ear of thousands and tens of thousands whom he had not the most remote idea his epistles would ever reach. How unlike those who strive by night and by day, with severe toil and ceaseless assiduity, to acquire a bubble reputation in order that they may shine before men! C. T. B.

gathered storm was ripe, the big drops fell— And yet she lingered silent as a stone, Gazing with wildered eyes upon the night, Whilst on her burning bosom for a while, Of twilight whispers and deep noonday vows The welcome shadow fell; one tremulous sob Alone convulsed her parted lips, in ruth That she might never see her home again— Her early-loved and late-forgotten home,— Nor the blue sky, nor yet the silent fields, Grey with the dew of eventide, nor hear The chafers humming aye their weary tune, Nor the deep baying of the wakeful hound, Far, far off in the distance, any more.

Anon she rose; a restless impulse urged Her steps towards the river; fast it flowed With current deep as slumber, the faint plash Of the dark restless water surging past, Washing the time-worn arches of the bridge, In concord with the never-ceasing rain, Made fitful harmony. All else was still.

The rain died slowly with the birth of day, The river still flowed on to meet the sea, The bright sky glistened through the frosted panes, And all the sleeping streets awoke, and all The busy hum of men arose to form The orison she might not join again,— She, whose nude shoulders, and long golden hair Slow cradled by the undulating tide, Shone in the early sunlight of the dawn. F. M.