Then came hot
JULY, boiling like to fire,
That all his garments he had cast away;
Upon a lion raging yet with ire
He boldly rode, and made him to obey:
It was the beast that whilom did foray
The Nemaean forest, till the Amphitrionide
Him slew, and with his hide did him array:
Behind his back a scythe, and by his side.
Under his belt he bore a sickle circling wide.
SPENSER
DESCRIPTIVE
July is now what our old poets
loved to call ' sweet summer-time, when the leaves are
green and long,' for in such brief word-painting did
they picture this pleasant season of the year; and,
during this hot month, we sigh while perusing the
ancient ballad lore, and wish we could recall the
past, were it only to enjoy a week with
Robin Hood and
his merry men in the free old forests: 'All under the
greenwood tree.'
We feel the harness chafe in
which we have hitherto so willingly worked, amid the
'fever and the fret' of the busy city, and pine to get
away to some place where we can hear the murmur of the
sea, or what is nearest the sound�the rustle of the
summer leaves. We long to lie down beneath the
low-bending, and high overhanging branches beside the
stream, that runs dark and bright through shade and
sunshine, and watch the blue dragon-flies sport above
the bluer forget-me-nots, that nod their tufted heads
to every breeze which ripples the water. There fancy
floats away, and where the drooping willow gives a
white shiver as the underpart of the leaves are turned
to the light, and the brook rolls along ' singing a
quiet tune,' we conjure up the image of sweet Ophelia,
' her clothes spread wide' upon the glassy stream, and
seem again to hear her warbling ' snatches of old
tunes' till, mermaid-like, she sinks beneath the '
weeping-brook.' Then we hear the bleating of sheep
that come down from some hidden bending of the
water-course, and journeying along we see an old-world
picture, such as the gray patriarchs had often looked
on, and which is familiar to us, through the
Bible-pages, unaltered through thou-sands of years;
for there we find them washing sheep, just as they did
when David and Solomon paused to look at the
sheep-washers, beside the brooks that flow through the
valleys around Jerusalem.
The mind wanders away into the
twilight of those remote ages, and we wonder who she
was whose teeth he in his Songs compared to a flock of
sheep ' which come up from the washing.' In our
wanderings through the nooks and corners of England,
we have seen sheep-washing in such pleasant places,
that had they been selected purposely to harmonise
with this picturesque occupation, it would scarcely
have been possible to have added a new beauty to the
scene, though trees are always beautiful when
reflected in water, especially when they also overhang
a ground of green.
The wattled hurdles, running
in lines beneath the wide-spreading branches, which
enclose the white sheep, making gray patches of light
under the boughs, and upon the greensward; the
sheep-washer standing in the pool, and the idlers in
every variety of coloured costume assembled on the
banks, and all mirrored in the water, make as pretty a
rural picture as the eye can delight to dwell upon,
and which seems ever changing its hue under the
shifting lights of heaven. Then those brown sinewy
labourers clutch at the fleecy sheep as they are
driven down the bank�keeping their heads clear of the
water, while they roll them to and fro, making
incessant circles of ripples, for as one releases a
sheep, another seizes upon it, until the immersion is
completed, when it swims to the opposite bank, and
there stands bleating, while the water drops from its
heavy-hanging wool. Now and then you hear a loud laugh
from the spectators, for the chubby farmer's-boy, who
has to drive the sheep into the water for the men to
wash, finds one that is obstinate, at which he pushes
with all his might, when the animal gives a sudden
spring, and the boy falls headlong into the pool.
About a week or so after the
washing, sheep-shearing commences; the reason why
'clipping' is delayed for this length of time is, that
the fleece may regain its oily nature, which it can
only do through the wool becoming thoroughly dry, when
the shears cut through it easily. This also is a busy
time, and we have seen half a score sheep-shearers at
work at once, the large barn-door having been lifted
off its hinges and raised about a foot above the
ground, to place the sheep upon, while they were
shorn. By night the barn looks like a large wool
warehouse, so high rise the piles of rolled up
fleeces, and some of our English sheep yield as much
as fifteen pounds of wool each. It is amusing to watch
the lambs after the dams are clipped, the way they go
smelling about them, and the pitiful bleating they
make, until the mother answers, when they at once
recognise her voice, and all doubt in a moment ceases.
Sheep-shearing feasts, like
harvest-homes, are of ancient date; for we read in the
Bible of Nabal, who had three thousand sheep in
Carmel, holding a sheep-shearing feast in his house '
like the feast of a king,' and the custom still
remains amongst many of our English sheep-breeders in
the present day. It is pleasant to know that such
old-world customs are still kept up; that when the
owner has gathered the wool that clothes him, and the
corn that feeds him, he should make glad the hearts of
those who ' have borne the burden and heat of the
day.' While this busy work is going on, the
bean-fields are in bloom, and fill the air around with
such a perfume as makes the wayfarer feel languid,
longing to lie down in the midst of it, and with
half-shut eyes dream dreams.
At every passing gust which
ripples the fields, the corn now makes a husky
whisper, and there are white spots on the long ears,
which tell that it is fast ripening, and that bending
reapers will soon be busy with their crooked sickles
in the harvest-field. We now see amid the grass that
is powdered with summer-dust, the most beautiful of
all our wayside-flowers, the pretty pimpernel, which,
though but little larger than the bloom of the common
chickweed, fairly dazzles the eye like a gem with its
rich crimson petals. By the very rim of the cart-rut,
and close by the dent of the horse's hoof on the brown
highway, it blows, a thing of beauty, that has no peer
in garden or green-house, whether blood-red, crimson,
or scarlet, for nothing but the flashing blaze of the
red poppy of the cornfield, can be compared with it a
moment for richness of colour.
Country-people call this
wayside beauty the poor man's weather-glass, and the
shepherd's clock; and it never errs in announcing the
approach of rain, for long before we can discover any
sign of the coming shower, we find its deep-dyed
petals folded up in its green cup. As a time-keeper,
it may be relied upon, always closing at noon, no
matter how fine the day may be, and never opening
again before seven on the following morning. Its
leaves are also very beautiful, of a fine clean oval
shape, and on the underpart spotted. Often near to it,
on the sunny-side of the hedge, may now be found the
dull golden-coloured agrimony, with its long spiked
head up-coned with little flowers, the favourite 'tea'
of the poor cottagers, and a thousand times more
delicious than some of the rubbish sold as tea in low
neighbourhoods, for it makes a most refreshing
beverage. Scarcely a leaf can be found on tree, shrub,
or plant, to equal in beauty of form that of the
agrimony, so deeply and elegantly are the edges cut,
and so richly veined, that they carry the eye from the
up-piled head of five-petaled golden flowers, which so
gracefully overtop the foliage.
The fragrance, too, is quite
refreshing; only bruise this elegant leaf between the
fingers, and it throws out an aroma that can no more
be forgotten than the smell of roses. The next
favourite as a tea-making herb among our old
country-women, is the wood betony, now in bloom, and
which forms a winding terrace of flowers, as the
whorls rise step above step, a pile of rose-coloured
flowers, beautiful to look upon in the sunshine. Nor
does the charm of each little bloom diminish, when
examined closely, as it is found to belong to the
lipped family of flowers, the most exquisite of all
the many orders; and quaint old Culpepper, writing
about it at his house in Spitalfields above two
centuries ago, says, 'the leaves and flowers, by their
sweet spicy taste, are comfortable both in meat and
medicine;' he also calls it ' a very precious herb;'
and in his curious book, he tells us where he found
choice wild-flowers growing in the summer sun about
London, in the very places where long miles of streets
now spread, and not even a blade of grass can be seen.
Through long leagues of
untrodden flowers the golden-belted bees now go with a
pleasant murmuring, over sunny openings in the bowery
underwood, which shrub and bramble guard, and beneath
overhanging branches by the water-courses, where the
foot of man cannot tread. Up lanes that lead nowhere,
saving to green fields, and over which a wheel seldom
passes, saving at hay-time, or during the garnering of
harvest, they grow and run. Up the hillsides they
climb, over the fences, and into the old woods, where
they play at hide-and-seek behind every bank and
shaded hollow. Great trees throw their green arms over
them, and make a shelter for their beauty under their
shadows. From the faces of steep crags, inaccessible
to man, they droop and wave in all their beauty; and
in their bells the insects find a home, and at the
golden entrances they play in the sunshine. They lean
over and listen to the singing of the river all day
long, and when they are folded, still hear its
soothing lullaby go rippling over the reflected stars.
The gentle dews alight upon
them with silver feet in the moon-light, and hang
golden drops about their petals to sparkle in the sun,
in hidden nooks which the eye of man never penetrates;
for nature leaves no crypt in her great temple
undecorated. Place any flower under a microscope, and
it becomes a world of wonder: the petals are vast
plains, the stamens stately trees, many of them formed
of gold; and deep down, on a pavement richer than any
that was ever inlaid by the band of man, move the
inhabitants of this beautiful world, winged, and
dazzling to look upon�fitting forms to sip nectar, and
find a dwelling-place in the fragrant flowers. And
what know we of their delights? The marigold may be to
them a land of the sun, and its golden petals the
beams that ever shine upon them without setting.
What tranquillity reigns
around a green secluded village on the Sabbath! There
seems a Sunday breath in the very air, so calm and
quiet sleeps everything we look upon, compared with
the unceasing hum of far-away cities, whose streets
are never silent. The very fields are still, and we
have often fancied that the flocks and herds take more
rest on this old Holy day than at any other time. Not
a sound of labour is heard. The creaking wagon, with
its shafts turned up, stands under the thatched shed;
and the busy wheel of the old water-mill rests, gray,
and dry, and motion-less, in the summer sun. No
far-sounding ring comes from the blacksmith's forge,
at the door of which a few peasants linger in their
clean smock-frocks, waiting until the village-bells
sound from the hoary tower to summon them to church.
Even the bells, as they come and go in the shifting
breeze, seem like sounding messengers sent out
everyway�up the valley, and over the hill�now heard,
then lost�as if they left no nook unvisited, but
carried their Sabbath tidings every-where.
The childish voices that come
floating on the air from the low, white-washed,
village Sunday-school, where they are singing some
simple hymn, bring before us His image, who said: '
Suffer little children to come unto me,' and who
walked out in the fields with His disciples, to enjoy
the calm of the holy Sabbath. The very murmur that
Nature makes, in the low rustling of the leaves, and
the subdued ripple of the stream, seems�because they
are audible�to leave the stillness more profound, as
her voice would not be heard if the grit of the wain,
the tramp of the hoof on the dry rutted road, and the
ring of the anvil, broke the repose which rests
here�almost noiseless as the dew falling on the fleece
of a sleeping lamb�throughout the Sabbath-day. The
very gardens appear asleep, the spade is stuck
motionless in the ground, hoe and rake are laid aside,
and, saving the murmuring of a bee among the flowers,
or the twittering of a bird from the orchard-trees,
all around lie images of rest�a land of peace from
which brown Labour seems to have retired in silence,
and left no sound of his whereabout, but sunk in
slumber somewhere, folds his sinewy arms.
How tempting those great ripe
round-bellied gooseberries look on a hot July day; we
wonder there is one left on the bushes, when we see so
many children about! The red currants, too, hang down
like drops of rich carnelian; while the black currants
look like great ebony beads, half-hidden by their
fragrant leaves�for all the early garden-fruits are
now ripe to perfection. Down the long rows the pretty
strawberries peep out, shewing like red-breasted
robins at hide-and-seek under the foliage; while
overhead the melting cherries hang down, leading even
the very birds to commit trespass, for they cannot
resist such a tempting banquet. Sweet Summer has now
attained her perfect loveliness; the roses on her
cheeks will never look more beautiful than they do
now, nor will her sky-blue eyes ever beam with sweeter
lustre. She has wreathed her sunny hair with the
sweetest and fairest of flowers; and when they have
faded, there will be no more found to make a frame of
blossoms round her matchless countenance until the
leaves of Autumn have fallen, white Winter awakened
from his cold sleep, and young Spring gone dancing
away, holding up her green kirtle as she trips over
the daisies.
As yet, there is no sign of
decay around her, only a few birds are silent, but
they have not yet departed; there are myriads of
flowers in bloom, and great armies of insects hurrying
along every way, as they go sounding through the warm
and fragrant air. Few writers had a deeper
appreciation of the beauties of nature than honest
Izaak Walton; we can almost hear
the rain-drops fall
while reading that beautiful passage where he
describes himself sitting under the hedge of
honey-suckles, sheltering from the shower, ' which
fell so gently on the teeming earth, and gave yet a
sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorned those
verdant meadows;' and listening ' to the birds in the
adjoining grove that seemed to have a friendly
contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to
live in a hollow tree, near the brow of that
primrose-hill.'
What dreams have we dreamed,
and what visions have we seen, lying idly with
half-shut eyes in some ' greenwood shaw,' sheltering
from July's noonday sun, while we seemed to hear '
airy tongues that syllable men's names,' in the husky
whispering of the leaves! Golden forms have seemed to
spring up in the sun-lighted stems of the trees, whose
high heads were buried among the lofty foliage,
through which were seen openings to the sky. The
deep-dyed pheasant, shooting over the underwood with
streaming plumage, became a fair maiden in our eyes;
and the skulking fox, noiselessly threading the brake,
the grim enchanter from whom she was escaping. The
twining ivy, with discoloured leaves, coiled round the
stem in the far distance, became the fanged serpent,
which we feared would untwine and crush her in its
scaly folds. Scouts were sent out after her in the
form of bees and butterflies, and seemed not to leave
a flowery nook unvisited in which there was room
enough for her to hide. Bird called to bird in sweet
confusion, from leafy hollows, open glades, and wooded
knolls, as if to tell that she had passed this way and
that, until their songs became so mingled, we could
not tell from which quarter the voices came. Then, as
the sun burst out in all its brightness, the grim
enchanter seemed to throw a golden net over the whole
wood, the meshes of which were formed of the checkered
lights that fell through leaf and branch, and, as we
closed our eyes, we felt that she could not escape, so
lay silent until the shadows around us deepened, and
gray twilight stole noiselessly over the scene:
A pleasing land of
drowsyhead it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky.'
Thompson
What imaginative mind has not
enjoyed these summer dreams, these poetical flashes of
purple, gold, and azure, that play on the 'inward eye'
like colours on a cathedral pavement, streaming
through some triple-arched window, richly stained with
twilight saints, and dim emblazonings!'
Towards the close of July,
most of our birds are silent�even the robin and the
wren are but rarely heard again till the end of
August. Large flocks of young birds may now be seen
flying together, and many think that they have been
driven away by the old ones, so congregate for
company; their assembling has nothing to do with
migration, as it is the case with those that never
leave us, as well as with others that will soon
migrate. It is just possible that they may have become
so numerous in the places where they were hatched as
to find food scarce, so set out together in flocks, to
seek their living where fare is more plentiful. The
chiff-chaff is one of the few birds that neither the
heat of summer nor the advance of the season can
silence, for it sings better in July than in any of
the earlier months; leaving off the two shrill
monotonous notes, which in sound resemble its name,
and giving a peculiar whistle, unlike that of any
other bird. One of the earliest singers in the morning
is the chaffinch, which may often be heard before
three o'clock during the long days of summer. The
clean white on his wings give him a splendid
appearance. These birds build their nests with such an
eye to the harmony of colour, that they are difficult
to distinguish from the branches and leaves amid which
they are placed, as they will match the green moss on
the bough, and the yellow lichen on the bark, so
closely, that only the little bright eyes of the bird
betray its whereabout by their glittering. In the
midland counties they are called 'pinks,' from their
constant repetition of the note conveying that sound.
Though most birds display great courage in defending
their young, yet hundreds of little nestlings perish
during the absence of their parents in search of food.
Then their stealthy enemies, who are ever on the
watch, pounce upon the little half-naked things, tear
them out of their nests, and devour them. It is
pitiable to hear the cry of the female on her return,
when she finds her nest empty, and parts of the
remains of her little ones hanging to the thorns they
have been dragged through. We have sometimes fancied
those wailing notes convey the feeling of Shakspeare's
Macduff, when he exclaimed:
All my pretty
ones. All at one fell swoop!'
HISTORICAL
July was originally the fifth
month of the Roman year, and thence denominated
Quintilis. In the Alban Calendar, it had a complement
of thirty-six days. Romulus reduced it to thirty-one,
and Numa to thirty days, and it stood thus for many
centuries. At length, it was restored to thirty-one
days by Julius Caesar, who felt a personal interest in
it as his natal month. After the death of this great
reformer of the calendar, Mark Antony changed the name
to July, in honour of the family-name of Caesar. '
This month he selected for such honorary distinction,
when the sun was generally most potent, the more
effectually to denote that Julius was the emperor of
the world, and therefore the appropriate leader of
one-half of the year.'�Brady.
Our Saxon ancestors called
July Hey Monath,, 'because therein they usually mowed
and made their hay-harvest; and also Maed Monath, from
the meads being then in their bloom: �Verstegan.
CHARACTERISTICS OF
JULY
July is allowed all over the
northern hemisphere to be the warmest month of the
year, notwithstanding that the sun has then commenced
his course of recession from the tropic of Cancer.
This is owing to the accumulating effect of the heat,
while the sun is still so long above the horizon. In a
table formed from the careful observations of the Rev.
Dr. Robert Gordon, at Kinfauns, Perthshire, the mean
temperature of the air during the month, in that part
of Great Britain, appears to be 61�. The same average
has been stated for England; but in London 62� would
probably be more correct.
At London, the sun rises on
1st July at 3:46 morning, and sets at 8:14 evening; on
the 31st, the respective times are 4:18 morning and
7:42 evening. At Edinburgh, it rises on the 1st at
3:20 and sets at 8:46; on the 31st, the respective
times are 4.4, and 8.8. The sun is in Cancer for the
greater part of the month, and enters Leo about the 22nd.
The great heat of the month
led to a superstition among the Romans: they conceived
that this pre-eminent warmth, and the diseases and
other calamities flowing from it, were somehow
connected with the rising and setting of the star
Canicula�the Little Dog in coincidence with the sun.
They accordingly conferred the name of DOG-DAYS upon
the period between the 3rd of July and the 11th of
August. Horace, it will be remembered, makes allusion
to this in his address to the Blandusian Fountain.
'Te flagrantis
atrox hora Caniculae Nescit tangere.'
The fact truly being that a
spring necessarily pre-serves a mean heat all the year
round�in Britain, about 47�. The utter baselessness of
the Roman superstition has been well shewn by the
ordinary processes of nature, for Canicula does not
now rise in coincidence with the sun till the latter
end of August, while, of course, the days between 3rd
July and 11th August are what they have ever been. Dr.
Hutton, remarking how the heliacal rising of Canicula
is getting later and later every year in all
latitudes, says that, on the Roman principle, the star
may in time come to be charged with bringing frost and
snow. Yet the Dog-days continues to be a popular
phrase, and probably
will long continue so. It is
undoubtedly under some lingering regard for the old
notion, as much as from a consideration of the effect
of extreme heat upon canine flesh and blood, that
magistrates of towns so often order dogs to be muzzled
about the beginning of July. The verity of the Roman
superstition is brought home to us by an antique
garnet gem in the Bessborough Collection, representing
the face of a tongue-lolling dog, surrounded by solar
rays, as in the accompanying illustration.