It is, perhaps, rather a subject for reproach to English people that the swallows and butterflies of our social system are too apt to forsake their native woods and glens in the summer months, and to fly to 'the Continent' for recreation and change of scene; whilst poets tell us, with eloquent truth, that there is a music in the branches of England's trees, and a soft beauty in her landscape more soothing and gracious in their influence than 'aught in the world beside.' Whether it be wise or prudent, or even pleasant, to leave our island in the very height of its season, so to speak--at a time when it is most lovely, when the sweet fresh green of the meadows is changing to bloom of harvest …
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