1S69.] THE ROSE. 51 



improvements and large additions in every dejDartment of tlieir art. 

 The gardener, nevertheless, with all this wealth and skill, fails signally, 

 in my eyes, as to the laying out of his garden. He fails, because 

 he has to a great extent abandoned the English or natural system 

 for the Italian and Geometrical, because he must have a sensational 

 garden in spring, summer, and winter. His ancestors — poor floral 

 fogies ! — looked upon their gardens as quiet resting-places, fair scenes of 

 refreshment and of health ; and wandering amid these " haunts of 

 ancient peace,'' they loved the cool grot for contemplation made, or the 

 sunny walk through the glossy evergreens, in which the throstle sang. 

 They welcomed their flowers, as ^N'ature sent them, in their seasons ; 

 they did not upbraid her, nor essay to wake her, when she slept her 

 winter sleep ; they forgave her deciduous trees. They followed her in 

 all things as their teacher. They copied her lines, which were rarely 

 straight, rarely angular; and her surfaces, which were rarely flat. 

 Said to me a house-painter, whom I watched and praised as he 

 was cleverly graining one of my doors in imitation of oak, 

 "Well, sir, I must say I do think myself, that I'm following 

 up Natur close," and he ran his thumb-nail up a panel swiftly, as 

 though he would catch her by the heel. So did they reproduce her 

 graceful features. " I am now," wrote the Czarina to Voltaire in the 

 year 1772, "wildly in love with the English system of gardening, its 

 waving lines and gentle declivities ; " and so was all the gardening 

 world. Sixty years later, in my own childhood, there were in the 

 garden, before me as I write, and now little more than one subdivided 

 flower-bed, those bowers and meandering walks — many a pleasant 

 nook, where the aged might rest, young men and maidens sigh their 

 love, and happy children play. Ah, what delicious facilities for " I 

 spy " and for "hide-and-seek," where now there is but scant concealment 

 for the furtive hungry cat ! What lookings into eyes, what approxi- 

 mations of lips, where now it w^ould be bragian boldness to squeeze a 

 body's hand ! I look through the window, and I see the place where, 

 under drooping branches, we were kings and queens ; where we enter- 

 tained ambassadors with surreptitious food; where I was crowned with 

 laurel (the only bit of reality) as the great poet of my day ; and where, 

 for brilliant service, I was knighted scores of times, on my return from 

 India, with the handle of our garden-rake ! I see the place — it was 

 hidden behind the Yew-trees then — where we were so often shipwrecked 

 upon " Desert Island," and where my youngest sister would never be 

 induced to have her face adequately grimed for the performance of man 

 Friday ! I look — but I can see no more ! "A flood of thoughts comes 

 gushing, and fills mine eyes with tears." The playmates of my youth 

 —where are they 1 doleful memories ! blissful hopes ! 



