Huddersfield Chronicle (04/May/1895) - The Frost, the Snow, and the Wintry Woods

The following is a transcription of a historic newspaper article and may contain occasional errors. If the article was published prior to 1 June 1957, then the text is likely in the Public Domain.

THE FROST, THE SNOW, AND THE WINTRY WOODS.

(From Our Correspondent "Cid.")

It is so warm that I am soon compelled to unbutton my coat and wipe the sweat from my brow. I know that outside this sylvan retreat the snow on the everlasting hills is being hardened and re-bound, or turned into granulated crystals by the frost, while here the keen winter’s breath is softened to the freshness of spring and new summer’s glow. This is truly a long and trying time for the poor birds, as well as for poor and ill-fed and worse clad humanity; but still even the latter would be as well and as happy out here as huddled in hopeless helplessness in the over-crowded towns. The very poorest of mankind by training their appreciation and cultivating their vision might often assuage their worst troubles by contemplating the beautiful, and rob their pangs of their keenest poignancy by searching out and finding that even winter has its compensating charms. In any case they would find as much sympathy and ready relief in the country as in the town, for out here I know there is practical charity, that with open heart and hand is ever willing to assist, with no other thought than the common touch of nature which makes the whole world kin, and which pulses with one common welling heart. I now cross into the open, and no sooner reach the higher ground than I am quickly compelled to button my coat again, as the biting blast pierces to the very marrow of my bones, but by hastening I am soon among the trees again, and as soon wondering at the breathlessness of the wood and the warmth that I once more realise. I pluck a few remaining berries from the leafless wild rose tree, tear through the prickly brushwood, examine a perfect specimen of a thrush’s nest of last season in the holly, and push aside the bare boughs of the maple, the hazel, and the elder trees. Another scene of pillored blackness and carpeted whiteness, relieved by still fairer bracken, presents itself, if possible finer than the other just described, while scarcely a cold breath reaches me or sways the branches overhead. In the field beyond there is a fine snowdrift, fully 5ft. deep, rising from the middle of the meadow, and in the fairest inclined plane leading to the copings of the wall, over which it hangs in a tide-like festoon, wind carved and so accurately arched as to be able to lean over into the wood for 10 or 12 yards, and make a snowy recess, without falling. Nothing could be more beautifully formed or so truly curved, or so gracefully fair as this piled up coalescement of white winter rain. When on my rambles I often wonder why I am not more frequently stopped, arrested, and imprisoned, but whether there is something about me that tells the jovial, the splenetic, or the suspicious landlords, or the stout and brusque gamekeepers, that I am no thieving poacher, but a harmless rambler, a true lover of nature’s sweet solitude and living, active beauty, I trow not. I am, however, very seldom turned back, and whenever I undergo that experience, I do it so cheerfully as to make the imperious administerers of the law fancy they have turned me in the direction I wanted to go, or I enter into conversation with them, and by deftly tapping the information they are well stored with am sometimes invited to remain or go with them to their huts in the woods and spend the rest of the afternoon with them, and be heartily and hospitably invited to come that way again whenever I like. I never disappoint them and am never disappointed by them. There is no subject on earth that holds such common ground as natural history, and I always find the practical knowledge of a gamekeeper to put my theoretical gleanings to shame. I have several such teachers, and as I accept my information as I do my food and drink thankfully and appreciatively, no matter what the kind may be. I gather my mental “gear by every while that’s justified by honour.” If I am stopped by relentless authority I am like most other animals chary of going that way again. Looking towards Kirklees I remember being turned back there when on my way to have a look at the reputed grave of Robin Hood, but notwithstanding its grand and stately surroundings I am not now tempted by them. It is always delightful to look to the sky from the woods, especially when, as now, the white robed clouds move along all but imperceptibly and lay bare long loops of opaline beyond and above them, and when in opposite directions they tell of a double current aloft which makes them seem like pleasure yachts scattered over an aerial ocean; now as grand fleets, then as single battleships, anon as cockboats in the zenith, then as full-sailed argosies, and then as crowded steamers homeward bound or disappearing to some foreign port. As light and heat pulse between earth and heaven the air and the cloud mediums through which they pass must to some extent be affected by their mystic influence, and if man can so magnify sound as to be able to speak through seas and land, and so control the subtle and all-powerful electric force as to make it his servant, who dare say that he may not yet catch the music of the spheres and send back on the universal ether the greetings of mankind, so that all who have ears to hear may be able to catch the strains and join in the harmony of the universe? Just as I reach an open avenue in this thin woodland the sun slants its full light upon me and almost blinds me with a sudden burst of molten light, and at the same time melts the many cloud-drifts near it into invisibility, while its excessive light turns the dark tree tops into bisecting lines, or burns their shades to naught. The late storm must have come before our winter birds and animals had satisfied their hunger for the day, for I notice in many directions little footprints on the newly-fallen snow that must have been lately made. Birds have alighted and skimmed over it, the hare and rabbit have left their well-known marks, the wood shrew has stitched its surface with scarcely perceptible indentations, while dog and man have preceded me and left their tell-tale identity upon it. At right angles a giant foot has crossed my path, heedless of the right of way. If its owner’s intent were right the footprint is plainly seen, if wrong, it is still there. The maiden snow cannot be touched or have its fair chastity breathed upon by the admirer or the despoiler without receiving and unobliteratingly showing it in shame or sweet and pure acceptance. The virgin snow will not be touched by friend or foe without presenting a faithful impress as marks by which its outrager or admirer may be identified. So it is with human virginity. A foul thought or lustful breath, a whispered slander or a wordless grimace, a hinted innuendo or a false flattering remark that emanates from a black heart, a promise made deceitfully, a Judas kiss of professed constancy, the nameless consequences of an unholy embrace, when once imprinted on the warm lips, the glowing cheeks, and on the fair brow of chastity, engrave indelibly their woeful influences on the nascent heart of woman which can never be erased. It may be hidden from the world’s unsympathetic eye, but never from the outraged heart and memory. So also will the happy memories recurringly warm the maiden heart and make the pulse of hope’s expectancy beat more quickly, the clear eye of innocence look clearer still; the ready ears will catch the sound of love and the soul divine the approaching footsteps of the swain who has whispered truth and pure-souled constancy into them; the waiting heart will feel the advancing influence that lately in happy reality embraced her heaving bosom, and kissed her freely offered lips and as freely proffered cheeks. As in the other case nought can drive from the memory the joy begot of the hastening steps, the running eagerness of love in sight after her maiden heart has once received the impress and realised the trend of true affection. Long ere he arrives her deeper instinct prompts her to go and meet him; though out of sight she knows that she is the centre of his attraction, and therefore with sprightly modesty shortens the space between them, and as his youthful and manly form appears in the distance she unbosoms her charms and the unsullied eve of love and the untainted kiss of affection kindle to flame the ecstasy of both alike, and on the hearts of both impart a bliss that death itself cannot obliterate. Yea, like the new, sweet snow from heaven, the new, sweet womanhood must show the impress of the bad, the good, the pure, the foul, no matter how imprinted. If, therefore, the fair influence of truth and purity preponderates it will beget its like a thousandfold; if foulness and dread falsehood predominate they also will beget and give birth to unlimited revulsion and to undying wickedness.

“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,”
A thing of purity will charm as long,
A thing of ugliness all should abhor,
And hastily escape an impure throng.

Here is a scene of beauty, and to me a lasting joy. As I move the weather seems to change, now the biting blast and then the balmy warmth. Responsively to this the birds are silent or chirpy; anon sing out gladly, and then all at once cease their gay notes and sprightly hoppings as the chilling wind searches them out, and all but petrifies them on the trees. Yea, the frost indeed is all powerful. Where moisture is and air can penetrate there frost will follow, and resistlessly split rocks and giant trees. It will seize the bare roots, enter the crevices of the trunks, and thrust apart the stout, strong limbs that have for ages withstood unnumbered storms. It will break off the tree-like branches of the noble elms and beeches with as much ease and almost as little noise as the tiniest and tenderest twig. It heeds not man’s solicitude for his grand avenues, but lops and despoils these imposing ornaments by its expanding influence, apparently indiscriminately choosing its victims from the ash, the lime, the chestnut, the silvery birch, and the mighty sycamore. Yes, what the weight of snow fails to do the frost can irresistibly accomplish. It climbs the towering firs, and on their eerie tops performs its marvels as well as on the grass or among the roots below. What it along with one great storm may fail to do, it oft prepares for another to accomplish. It withers the once fair and erect boughs into pendant and helpless arms, leaving them limply swaying for the next gale to sweep to the ground. It holds in a stubborn grip the upright sapling, and inexorably refuses to let the twigs have their youthful liberty and swaying unrestraint. It paints the evergreens with sheen and makes them for a time seem to lose their own dark glow and put on the grey hime of age, blurring their prickly edges with the blanched pallor of decay and death. Frost and his wife, the impressionable snow, level all things and treat the good and the bad alike. Yet, both are things of beauty, and the remembrance of them makes them perennial joys. But why philosophise or limp in numbers when that fine line of Keats’ repeatedly recurs to me. Surely that sweet singer has said in rare, harmonious rhythm all that need be said. What can approach or reach these lines?

Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

(To be continued.)