ROBERT SOUTHEY i'^^ 



pleasure in gardens of this kind, which had nothing of a garden 

 but the name. They both dehghted in flowers ; the aunt because 

 flowers to her were 'redolent of youth,' and never failed to 

 awaken tender recollections ; Betsey for an opposite reason : 

 having been born and bred in London, a nosegay there had 

 seemed always to bring her a foretaste of those enjoyments for 

 which she was looking forward with eager hope. They had 

 stocked their front-garden therefore with the gayest and the 

 sweetest flowers that were cultivated in those days ; larkspurs, 

 both of the giant and dwarf species, and of all colours ; sweet- 

 williams of the richest hues ; monk's-hood for its stately growth ; 

 Betsey called it the dumbledore's delight, and was not aware that 

 the plant, in whose helmet, rather than cowl-shaped flowers that 

 busy and best-natured of all insects appears to revel more than 

 in any other, is the deadly aconite of which she read in poetry : 

 the white lily, and the fleur-de-hs; pceonies, which are still the 

 glory of the English garden : stocks and gillyflowers which make 

 the air sweet as the gales of Arabia; wall-flowers, which for a 

 while are little less fragrant, and not less beautiful; pinks and 

 carnations added their spicy odours ; roses, red and white, 

 peeped at the lower casements, and the jessamine climbed to 

 those of the chambers above. You must nurse your own flowers, 

 if you would have them flourish, unless you happen to have a 

 gardener, who is as fond of them as yourself. 



Eve was not busier with hers in Paradise, her 'pleasant task 

 injoined,' than Betsey Allison and her aunt, from the time that 

 early spring invited them to their cheerful employment, till late 

 and monitory autumn closed it for the year. 



' Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these ' ; 

 and Solomon in all his wisdom never taught more wholesome 

 lessons than these silent monitors convey to a thoughtful mind 

 and an understanding heart. 'There are two books,' says Sir 

 Thomas Browne, 'from whence I collect my Divinity; besides 

 that written one of God, another of his servant Nature — that 

 universal and public manuscript that lies expansed unto the 

 eyes of all. Those that never saw him in the one have dis- 



