no A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



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 ade- 

 quately grimed for the performance of man Friday ! 

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

 thoughts comes o'er me, and fills mine eyes with 

 tears." The playmates of my youth — where are 

 they ? O doleful memories ! O blissful hopes ! O 

 dreadful earthly darkness ! O dazzling heavenly 

 light ! The morning cometh, as also the night. 



But what do I see, as the mist clears ? A gar- 

 den which, like a thousand others, has obeyed the 

 command of imperious Fashion: — Away with 

 your borders, your mounds, and your clumps ! 

 Away with walks and with grottos, nooks, cor- 

 ners, and light and shade ! Down with your 

 timber ! To the rubbish-heap with your lilacs, 

 laburnums, and blossoming trees ! Stub, lay bare, 

 level and turf; then cover the whole by line and 

 measure with a geometrical design.* Do you 

 require examples ? Copy your carpet, or the 



* With wise instructions trom the best (in my opinion) of our 

 landscape gardeners, Mr. Marnock, and with very kindly help from 

 my friends, Mr. William Robinson, and Mr. Ingram of Belvoir, I have 

 recently restored and reclothed the plot of ground about my home, 

 which was, and is once more again — a garden. 



