The Ground-Ash E-Book

Mary Russell Mitford

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In "The Ground-Ash," Mary Russell Mitford masterfully weaves together a collection of poignant sketches that illuminate the interplay between nature and daily life in early 19th-century England. Characterized by a lyrical prose style, Mitford's vivid imagery and keen observations draw readers into the pastoral world she depicts. With an acute eye for detail and a heartfelt understanding of rural communities, each sketch serves as both a narrative window and a sociocultural commentary, reflecting the Romantic era's fascination with nature and its inherent beauty. Mary Russell Mitford, born in 1787 in Alresford, Hampshire, was a prominent English novelist and dramatist known for her affinity for rural life and landscapes. Her deep connection to her surroundings and her experiences in the English countryside undoubtedly shaped her literary voice. Mitford'Äôs work often prominently features themes of domesticity, nature, and the everyday lives of ordinary people, fundamentally influenced by her upbringing and the societal constraints of her time. This collection is a treasure for readers seeking both artistic beauty and an authentic representation of rural England. Mitford's warm prose invites you to lose yourself in her richly detailed world, making "The Ground-Ash" a compelling read for anyone passionate about literature that intertwines nature with human experience.

Leseprobe

Mary Russell Mitford

The Ground-Ash

Published by Good Press, 2020

[email protected]

EAN 4064066106041

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

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Amongst the many pleasant circumstances attendant on a love of flowers—that sort of love which leads us into the woods for the earliest primrose, or to the river side for the latest forget-me-not, and carries us to the parching heath or the watery mere to procure for the cultivated, or, if I may use the expression, the tame beauties of the parterre, the soil that they love; amongst the many gratifications which such pursuits bring with them, such as seeing in the seasons in which it shows best, the prettiest, coyest, most unhackneyed scenery, and taking, with just motive enough for stimulus and for reward, drives and walks which approach to fatigue, without being fatiguing; amongst all the delights consequent on a love of flowers, I know none greater than the half unconscious and wholly unintended manner in which such expeditions make us acquainted with the peasant children of remote and out-of-the-way regions, the inhabitants of the wild woodlands and still wilder commons of the hilly part of the north of Hampshire, which forms so strong a contrast with this sunny and populous county of Berks, whose very fields are gay and neat as gardens, and whose roads are as level and even as a gravel-walk.

Two of the most interesting of these flower-formed acquaintances, were my little friends Harry and Bessy Leigh.

Every year I go to the Everley woods to gather wild lilies of the valley. It is one of the delights that May—the charming, ay, and the merry month of May, which I love as fondly as ever that bright and joyous season was loved by our older poets—regularly brings in her train; one of those rational pleasures in which (and it is the great point of superiority over pleasures that are artificial and worldly) there is no disappointment. About four years ago, I made such a visit. The day was glorious, and we had driven through lanes perfumed by the fresh green birch, with its bark silvery and many-tinted, and over commons where the very air was loaded with the heavy fragrance of the furze, an odour resembling in richness its golden blossoms, just as the scent of the birch is cool, refreshing, and penetrating, like the exquisite colour of its young leaves, until we reached the top of the hill, where, on one side, the enclosed wood, where the lilies grow, sank gradually, in an amphitheatre of natural terraces, to a piece of water at the bottom; whilst on the other, the wild open heath formed a sort of promontory overhanging a steep ravine, through which a slow and sluggish stream crept along amongst stunted alders, until it was lost in the deep recesses of Lidhurst Forest, over the tall trees of which we literally looked down. We had come without a servant; and on arriving at the gate of the wood with neither human figure nor human habitation in sight, and a high-blooded and high-spirited horse in the phaeton, we began to feel all the awkwardness of our situation. My companion, however, at length espied a thin wreath of smoke issuing from a small clay-built hut thatched with furze, built against the steepest part of the hill, of which it seemed a mere excrescence, about half way down the declivity; and, on calling aloud, two children, who had been picking up dry stumps of heath and gorse, and collecting them in a heap for fuel at the door of their hovel, first carefully deposited their little load, and then came running to know what we wanted.