in the sunshine and amongst the flowers; but after all, it must go—there is no escape from the knife-grinding! Poor little brook, it should have hidden its happiness deeper amongst the grasses; it should have muffled its merry song! me. It was some time before I had courage to garden in this new land. The thought of another garden, lying in a green nook of memory, daunted A pretty place it was, that old E- garden of mine-small, but so full of flowers, with a long arcade covered with creeping plants, and a smooth velvety meadow at the bottom, dappled over with cows, and bordered with wild-rose hedges. And the little river, a winding thread of silver, in the middle distance, and a great black patch of oak and elm and chesnut shutting in the view. It was the setting of the garden, rather than the garden itself, perhaps, that was the chief charm, but it was certainly the bloomiest little nook that can be conceived, and so calm and happy-looking! From the parlour window you looked through the apple-trees straight across the fields, and saw in the summer evenings the great broad moon rise-a disk of red fire, behind the belt of woods, and then pale and pale as it climbed higher and higher, till the tree-tops were edged with silver, and all the grassy levels grew white as with new-fallen snow. How I worked in that garden! reclaimed it from the bush, as it were, -turned it from a savagery into a pleasance, from a lurking-place for slugs and snails into a playground for butterflies and a paradise for dainty devices. And how the hamadryads, if such there were, must have groaned at my irreverent loppings of the immemorial trees-my breaches in the dense black wall of shade-my long lines of loopholes, whereat the sunshine might flash through. I destroyed nothing, but I curtailed-swept away the rank undergrowth, ventilated the leafy chambers, left doors open for the breezes to flutter in at, and opened skylights to give entry to the rains and dews. And so, little by little, the grave, morose old visage of the place changed and brightened-wrinkle by wrinkle was smoothed down, smile by smile conjured up-decay was overgrown by youth, and youth held festival and twined garlands and quaffed nectar. Out of an age of iron had sprung, for my garden, a new golden age, and which, alas! seems doubly golden now to me, who have nothing left in these later days but to sigh amongst other places and other men, "I too in Arcadia!" My boyhood from my life is parted; My footsteps from the turf that drew The garden is deserted. Deserted indeed! Gone are the poets that under its boughs "discoursed most excellent music." Gone the cordial presences, the hearth-side friends, with whom I paced its paths in many a pleasant gloaming! All, all are gone, the old familiar faces! Gone, and in their stead, who? Nay, when I come to that I cast off memory as a nightmare, choosing rather to listen to the petulant plaint of my little brook as it leaps and struggles and dashes the foam of its passion against the great droning wheel. July-VOL. CI. NO. CCCCIII. 2 B IV. A GARDEN APOLOGUE. PACING up and down the garden paths one day, I gathered some stray flowers and fancies, which I sorted thus: Once upon a time, many centuries ago, the little flowers, that flourished, peaceful and unmolested, in the glades of an old forest, took it into their heads to complain of their solitude and isolation. "What is the use," said they, "of being fresh and pretty and gaily attired, living and dying as we do in the depths of this wood, and giving to the winds alone (that know not what use to make of them) our richest perfumes? "How happy are the flowers of the gardens! Everybody admires them, and their life is a perpetual holiday: surely our exile has endured long enough; let us cry aloud, and entreat of Him who made us to take us from this dreary place, where we shall droop and fade from very weariness!" "What! my children," replied a flower, already a little wan and withered, and who seemed to have some experience of life, “do you think of quitting this safe retreat to go into the world? Believe me, that which God does He does well, and if He has planted us in this quiet place, it is because it is the fittest for us. Where is happiness to be found, if not under the shadow of these beautiful trees, whose green, thick foliage protects us against the chilling winds and scorching heats, and divides above our heads only to give us glimpses of the blue sky beyond. And where, I pray you, can you hope to find a carpet of moss so soft as this, or one that sets off our colours so well! You complain of loneliness; is it nothing to pass the livelong day in the company of butterflies, who are always sportive and joyous, and to be visited at night by the merry spirits that haunt these dells-the elves and fairies, that tell us their secrets, and sing us their sweetest songs? The world, my children, is full of snares for the poor flowers,-happy they who, like ourselves, live in such a retreat as this, into which the breath of evil has never entered." A little giggle passed from flower to flower at the close of this long disIt is easy to divine all that was said on the occasion, and with what irreverence the pert young flowers listened to the sage counsels of their faded sister. Youth is everywhere the same, and headstrong always. course. Some, however, the more reasonable amongst them-the virtuous mint, for instance, the honest plantain, and the constant asphodel-said (but it was in a rather low tone)-that they thought it would be better to reflect-that it was too late-time to go to bed, in short-that it was a grave matter to decide hastily, &c., &c. They spoke, indeed, just as people are wont to speak when they are a little timid and wish to gain time. But the most impatient of the flowers said that it was never too late to do what was right-that life was short, and the present moment theirs to enjoy and not to waste, and much more to the same effect. Youth, as we said just now, is every where the same, and headstrong always. "Ugh!" groaned a tall nettle to a bramble close at hand-" I thought that old stick of a darnel would never come to an end !" “Plague take old people!" said one of those little yellow plants that are eaten in salads "plague take old people! they all tell the same story." As usual, those who talked the loudest were those who should have held their tongues. During this discussion night came, and with night, sleep. These two spread their wings over the world. Soon the wild wood-flowers drooped their heads and began to sink into slumber. Some, indeed, were already fast asleep. But their restless desire, nevertheless, kept watch within them, and issued from the depths of their little sorrowing hearts together with their sweetest perfumes. The perfume of flowers is their prayer-the incense that they offer up to Heaven. That evening it rose with more than its usual fragrance, and uplifted on the wings of ministering angels it reached the gate of Heaven. And the prayer, and the desire that was interwoven in the prayer, pleaded softly and plaintively, until at last it was heard and answered; for a voice issued from the gate of Heaven, and floated downward from star to star through the dewy air-downward, till it came to the dark old wood, with its twisted branches and thick, murmuring leaves-and downward still, till it reached the sheltered nook where lay the little flowers, cradled soft in slumber. There the voice hovered, and each flower, in its dream, heard, as it were, a sound of sweet, low music that shaped itself anon into such words as these: "I have heard your prayers, O flowers,-be it unto you even as ye will!" Then the voice ascended up again to the Heaven-gate, and in an instant all the flowers that had repined at their destiny were transplanted, as by miracle, into a great and fair garden in the midst of the world; and when they woke the next day, and, after shaking the dewdrops from their little robes, discovered that their dearest wish was realised, they were so lost in wonder that they could scarcely credit the good fortune that had befallen them. "What a delightful place!" cried they, as soon as they had recovered from their astonishment. "What a difference between this magnificent garden, glittering with sunshine, and the gloomy black forest we have left. Here we can enjoy ourselves at our ease, display our graces, and be admired and beloved by all!” Alas! they knew not, foolish ones, that to be admired is not always to be loved. It was a sad sight to see them all lifting up their heads proudly, and striving to rise to the height of their dreaded rivals-striving, but in vain! Providence had made them little flowers, and little flowers they remained. To crown their misfortune, they could not complain to each other, for they were all separated; sisters were far from sisters-lovers from those they loved-all the old ties were utterly annulled and broken. The symmetry of the garden required this; each flower had its place marked out for it; the being happy was not the question—the being a grace and an ornament, that was their duty there. And so, ere long, they grew very sad-sad, and a thousand times more lonely than they had been in the old wood. They consoled themselves, however, with the idea that they would soon be noticed, that their beauty would be observed and praised; and this pleasure did not seem to them too dearly purchased by what they had resigned. They longed for this time to come, and were continually preparing for it, by setting off their charms to the best advantage. But oh! wretched flowers! even this consideration failed them ;—they attracted no attention-were admired by none, and if they had not been enclosed and protected by the box edgings they would even have been trampled under foot. The flaunting rose, exhibiting its beauties without reserve or shame; the coarse dahlia, hiding its haughty nothingness beneath a robe of flaming crimson; flowers, whose sole charms were their gay colours, these alone were welcomed with delight, and treated as queens of the garden, receiving, as it were, the homage of an eager court, though appearing scarcely to care for it. And, indeed, what figure could they make? the simple pilewort, the quaint bird's-eye, the useful sage, the humble primrose, the innocent valerian, the solemn mandragore, the sentimental forget-me-not? How could they compare with hollyhocks and poppies, musk roses and cabbage roses, moss roses and perpetual roses, hundred-leafed roses and royal roses, and the seven thousand nine hundred and seventeen other varieties of roses,-to say nothing of camellias and hydrangeas, and narcissi and sunflowers, and carnations and gilliflowers, and-a host of others! Ah me! ah me! what tears were shed, what sighs poured out upon the sunshine! and how the little flowers regretted the deep wood-shadows and the moss, and the silence and the repose! And when the gardener came, with his great spade in his hand, what a fright they were in! They all shrunk and trembled like aspen-leaves, and wished themselves a hundred feet under ground. But they escaped with the fright; death had not yet overtaken them—a violent, a dreadful death-a death which they could not even conceive, for in the woods the flowers die softly and quietly, and only when it pleases Him, who is the Lord of every living thing. But though they were not yet dead, they were not far removed from it. The southern sun glared fiercely on them, and, unaccustomed to receive his rays, except through a veil of verdure, they were withered by the heat; and not a single spring or rivulet was there to minister moisture and freshness to their scorched roots. A little water, indeed, was sprinkled upon them from time to timebut what water!-and even this succour seldom came when it was most needed. More than once they were well-nigh killed outright by being watered at an unseasonable time. Then, there was not a single blade of grass, or tuft of moss, anywhere near them, and they were compelled to strike their roots into a black and arid soil, raked and tormented every day, lest some friendly plant should spring up in it unawares. 66 Ah, let us escape from this inhospitable soil!" said the gravest among them one fine morning. "Let us go." Go! alas, how? Once more they were all prayers and entreaties; each made his separate vow (the vow of the shipwrecked), while he waited for the miracle that was to liberate them from that accursed place. But miracle there was none. In vain they waited-good angels are not always ready to become the servants of the creatures of earth. Their guardian angels essayed, nevertheless, to win for the poor, exiled flowers a restoration to their native woods, but no voice made answer to their supplication-no gracious assent was vouchsafed. Since that time it has happened that wood-flowers are often found in gardens, and, as if the malediction of heaven still pursued their unfortunate race, the poor things never grow either taller or more beautiful; they are still, and will always remain, what they were at the moment they quitted their woods, and no cultivation can ever succeed in changing them. This is the judgment pronounced against them for their vanity and ambition, and thus it was that the sins which ruined the first of human race, ruined also those wild flowers of the wood. After tying up my bouquet in this fashion, I perceive that a heartsease (with a face like a full moon), peeping out from between a tuberose and a tiger lily, was about to put in a protest, and vindicate, probably, the wonders of cultivation-and that a double violet, ruffling with spite, was preparing to second the same, but knowing the conceit and perverted taste of these poor toys of the gardener, I discreetly put my fingers to my ears and left them to console each other. THE ANCIENT BRIDE'S LAMENT. BY MRS. BUSHBY. "WHY did I marry-why, oh why?" But small enchantment have I found; Some two, three years had quickly gone, Thrice at the altar did I stand- Just fresh from school when I came out, Bridegrooms in waistcoat-pockets bring. I deemed at every ball or rout Our servants never had to mount And wondered for what I was tarry- I could have told, but pride forbade- Thus passed away: and now my mother cross. But I was never at a loss |