with their groups of happy children playing about on the stunted herbage, amid a strange medley of fowls and ducklings, geese and pigs-some wading in the dirty pool, others snuffling up the earth, whilst around here and there, spread over clumps of bramble and wild rose blossoms, the village housewives spread their snow white garments, to bleach in the mellow sunlight. Scattered around the common are seen the rustic cottages each with its little garden enclosed with a light railing, from between the bars of which peers forth many a bright blossom dipping its delicate disc in the warm rays of the sun. At the corner of the common, and usually where the cross roads meet, stands the King's Head, or the Golden Lion, as the case may be; with its broad bright sign blowing backwards and forwards, as the light breeze swings it. Hard by is the village tree, some old elm or ancient beech, with the wooden settles fastened to its sides. There, when evening comes on, with its rainbow perfumed skies, when the summer's day's toil is over, the village patriarchs and oracles assemble, to discuss the affairs of their little-and the greatworld. The landscape is divided in every direction, by narrow, rustic, winding lanes, with their "hedge row elms, and hillocks green," where in early Spring, the lane side's redolent with the rich perfume of the blooming scented hawthorn. Then as Spring wanes into Summer, the hedge rows put on a new livery, and the wild rose blossoms with a soft and delicate bloom, like the first blush of love on the cheek of a young maiden. Summer then comes forth and scorches up the rose blossoms, replacing them with its own beautiful children, the delicate, the fragile convolvuli; which wreathe their bright leaves and tender stems around the thorny hedge, dropping their pendant flowers on the verdant foliage with meekened grace. Many of these rustic lanes are only communications reaching to the fields and meadows around. Pressed into deep ruts by the heavy teams that in harvest time pass through them, they are as rugged as they well can be, and being so seldom used, are covered with a rich profusion of wild flowers and grass; into which a thousand little beaks plunge, then dart away into the neighbouring hedges. Traversing one of these out-of-the-world lanes, early in the year, we were astonished by coming in view of a gypsy encampment. Though the sun was shining, the air was particularly bleak and cold, ice being here and there in the wheel ruts of the lanes. A stiff southeast wind was blowing-the trees were entirely bare of leaves, not so much as a bud had opened-and yet there were located under a simple canvas covering, thrown over poles, some eight or ten human beings; from the puny infant slung in the hood over its mother's back, to the hale and stalwart man of fifty. There was one young urchin rugged as an unbroken colt, standing with naked feet on the cold earth, with his head bare to the blast, and laughing at the fighting of two sparrows for a berry he had thrown at them; as if he felt not "The season's difference, or the icy fangs, The churlish chidings of the wintry wind." It is a singular circumstance, connected with human physiology, how the body of man can adapt itself to any climate. From habit, here was a boy defying that exposure to the elements, that would assuredly have killed any of your well-fed and pampered citizens; and actually enjoying himself with the smallest trifle, under circumstances, that would to most individuals be a state of positive torture. But if the character of the lane scenery in this neighbourhood, is such as we have described, how much more lovely is that of the sweet footpaths, that wind about the meadows and by the brooklets sidenow meandering through a farm yard, then winding round a low copse-pausing betimes at some old stile, carved by rustic lovers with grotesque characters; or expanding into a small opening at the top of some hill that commands a view of the surrounding scenery. Now we are walking slowly through a green meadow, where " the nibbling flocks do stray," passing thence round a quickset hedge, and through a moss and lichen tufted gate, we are in a sea of joyous waving corn, their delicate green heads softened with a downy bloom, bowing in every direction, and overhanging the footpath, so that we are fain necessitated to press the rich treasure on each side, that we may pass on. But what is that we have startled?-a lark—aye in truth-one-two-four, they shoot upwards with such rapidity from the corn that we cannot count them-there must surely be some dozens. How beautiful they soar up higher and higher, chasing each other in the blue serene, whilst one more strong of wing than his brethren, keeps far ahead-how small he is now he seems a point, and now he is lost to the sight, dipping his downy pinions in the pure sunlight of the upper air. But hark! he sings a note of exultation from his blue empyrean throne with self approving vanity. Like the note of the cuckoo it seems a bodiless voice winging its way through the upper sky. "Where is thy lay and loud Far in the downy cloud Love gives it energy, love gave it birth, Where art thou journeying Thy lay is in heaven thy love is on earth." There are many of these meandering feet-enticing footpaths to be found in the district we are now considering. One extensive one we would more immediately refer to. It commences a short distance beyond the Tile Kilns in the Green Lane, crossing two or three meadows-then wending through a small village common, you pass along a serpentine rustic lane, for a short distance, cross a low stile, and then passing by a farm-yard with its large barns, surrounded with some of the finest elm trees to be found in the vicinity of London, you come to an open plat of ground, where a beautiful prospect of rural plenty and happiness gladdens the sight. Immediately opposite is a long vista of elms, like a mall, and apparently of great age; under the shade of which numerous cows have congregated, some standing, others lying down in various positions ruminating. In the meadow on one side, that inclines downwards towards the brooklet, a group of hay-makers are at their work. Along the hedge side children are plucking the wild flowers, and making posies of the delicate rose bud, the blue germander, and the yellow king-cup-and far off the green corn waves in the western breeze, encompassed on the right with a richly wooded swell of land, overtopping the foliage of which is seen the old ivy-crowned tower of Tottenham Church, whilst the corner of some old barn, or cottage, peers through the interlaced stems of the trees. A sweet and gentle quietude seems brooding over the landscape-all nature is in unison with itself and happiness delighteth the hearts of all. No sounds are heard but those that breathe of plenty, of joy, of love, The drowsy hum of the bee breaks on the ear, as it bursts from some pendent bell-flower, or the unseen cuckoo, that prophet of summer, sounds its cheerful note, like an echo in the blue above-or the joyous laughter of the happy children is heard, as they scamper away across the mead after some fairy-like butterfly, that has attracted them with its gorgeous plumage. Leaving then the quiet repose of this scene, we pass over a few stiles and across several meads, till we come to Bruce Castle, and so on to Tottenham Church, of both of which we shall take occasion to speak shortly. The footpath commences again in the churchyard, and winds down a meadow to the Brook Moselle, which is here almost hidden by the dense foliage that overhangs its black waters. Still continuing along the footpath, we come to a green lane, along which we trace our way for a few paces, when we come to a stile, beside a barn and pond, with its accompanying overshadowing elms and waddling ducklings. From thence the path traverses various meadows and corn fields for a considerable distance. Here you might imagine yourself an hundred miles from the Metropolis, all is so quiet and rural. Nought is seen by the wanderer but the repose and rusticity of a rich agricultural district; and all is open for his feet to traverse; he is not bounded on each side with high hedges, that close in the prospect; he is not smothered in the dust of the high-roads, but can breathe the fragrance of the fertile fields, can pause to view the waving of the yellow corn, as it bends in soft undulations, like a summer sea when the gentle breeze kisses its sun-lit waters, or pluck the glowing grain as it hangs temptingly over the path, not unattentive the while of the gyrations of the various fleeting winged beings that, unscared by the clappers of the call-boy, sweep down in flights to carry off the golden treasure. What sight can be more pleasant to a lover of his species than to see the rich treasure of a year harvested! To behold that which has been an object for months of unremitting care and anxiety safely housed-the staff of life to humanity!-and what can be more cheerful than to see the reapers under the bright rays of the autumn's sun merrily trilling some roundelay, or joking with some of the lasses that are aiding in binding up the sheaves; whilst ever and anon a peal of light-hearted laughter breaks from the merry group, and rings through the joyous welkin. And well may they enjoy themselves and be happy, for soon, aye too soon, the winter of the heart as well as of nature will come, when the sun of affliction will cease to shine, and even the sere and yellow leaf will have fallen from the tree of life. The footpath ends at a sweetly retired brook, near Clay-hill, where it becomes a rustic lane, and divides into various directions. There are some very picturesque little bits along the margin of this tiny stream, that in summer gently glides along its pebbly bed, though, VOL. II. probably, in wet seasons a stream of some depth, to judge by the appearance of its banks, which are in general from six to eight feet in height. In many places the brook is covered with a profusion of young shrubs, hazels, brambles; the wild sloe, the hawthorn, have here interlaced their varied coloured leaves, forming a dense archway over the black stream that glides beneath them. This brooklet is not the only stream that winds its tortuous way along this rural district. Besides it there is the Moselle, that takes its rise on Muswell Hill, and passes round through Tottenham to the sea, and the New River pleasantly winds about it in various directions. There are several old farm-houses and large cottages to be seen in various places around, and it is pleasant on a summer's evening to see the old husbandman sitting on one side of the door, whilst his good wife is busy with her needle at the other, chatting to their grown up sons, who are leaning with their pipes in their hands over the palings of the garden, or watching the sport of the young children in the neighbouring meadow, whose joyous laughter comes, like the music of their own childhood, to their hearts, making them in imagination live over again their youth of life. The appearance of Tottenham Old Church, with its ivy-crowned tower, its mossy tombstones, its rustic palings, the footpaths that wend to it through the fields, and the old pond before it, give it a picturesque and rural character. But the meaningless sort of structure that the vanity of a Lord Coleraine caused to be erected by its sidea half-mausoleum, half-vestry building, with its strange mosque-like dome and ornaments-is sadly out of unison with the Church. Strange indeed must have been the taste of both him and his advisers, to imagine for a moment that such an Arabian structure could harmonize with the quiet grey old ivy-mantled early-Gothic Church of Tottenham, with its square tower, and dark and shady aisles. Within a stone's throw of the Church is an old red brick building, that goes under the name of Bruce Castle. The present structure, however, is much more modern than the time of that great patriot. There is a small round brick tower in the garden, which is said to have been part of the original building, in which Robert the Bruce lived, until he stood forth as the Saviour of his Country from a foreign yoke. After passing through various hands it came into the possession of the Coleraine family, one of the members of which erected the mausoleum in the churchyard. From that period it has been in the possession of several individuals, and is now a ladies' seminary. All the lovers of Isaac Walton must, at least in name, be familiar with Tottenham High Cross. It was originally only an elevated wooden wayside cross, but falling to decay it was removed, and the present light Gothic structure rose in its place. ANAX. 115 TO A VIOLET GROWING ON A GRAVE. Meek, lovely, unobtrusive flower, Why art thou doom'd to these dark shades? Than that the gloomy cypress spreads? And, fragrant Violet, must thou bloom And waste on Death thy sweet perfume- A flower that blossoms in the shade, May bind thee to this native scene Where life's warm blood was wont to flow; And rush'd to meet thy country's foe; Or gently heav'd in placid breast, Or burn'd where inspiration blest, A substance which could once absorb Infinity within its orb, Grasp space, and heaven and earth survey, A substance, which, perchance, has been A gazer on this lonely scene. This scene, this very spot, might be And thou, perhaps, didst fondly choose This oft, the bed of thy repose. And "dust to dust" compound again. Cripplegate Church-yard. J. L. |