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The s other day I was looking through an old, old book (one 

 of those " Albums " so dear to the early Victorian heart) on 

 whose tinted pages gentle slender fingers, now for e\'er still, 

 had delicately traced sentimental verses, elaboratel}- stippled 

 pencil drawings, and still more elaborate "groups " of flowers 

 in water colour. 



If, as we are told, genius is "an infinite capacity for taking 

 pains," surely these little pictures have the stamp of genius 

 upon their shiny Bristol board surface, for how carefully and 

 laboriously has each little leaf and petal been shaded and 

 finished, and yet — how curiously unreal they are ! Were ever 

 there roses so round, so stiff, so " cabbagy " in shape ? And 

 were they always surrounded by those cold bluey-green leaves, 

 with their symmetrical veinings and serrations in a darker shade of 

 the same hue ? 



There is usually a gaily-striped tulip in the same group, perhaps also 

 a polyanthus, and some forget-me-nots, but they are all of them very 

 well-behaved little flowers, and " keep their places " with wonderful and 

 quite unnatural regularity, as if each floweret and leaf had been carefully 

 gummed or pinned into position. While as for hanging over the edge 

 of the elegant vase in which they are placed ! — they are much too staid 

 and stiff to be guilty of such an impropriety I 



There is a great charm in these little souvenirs of a bygone age, 

 with their memories, tender and sad, of those who have passed from our 

 sight; but it is a charm of sentiment and association, of veneration for 

 times of long ago. 

 As studies of 

 Nature they are 

 only of value in a 



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