MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 165 



dare say that the onion itself is de 

 stroyed, though you can weep over its 

 departed spirit? If there is any one 

 thing on this fallen earth that the angels 

 in heaven weep over more than another, 

 it is the onion. 



I know that there is supposed to be a 

 prejudice against the onion ; but I 

 think there is rather a cowardice in 

 regard to it. I doubt not that all men 

 and women love the onion ; but few 

 &quot;confess their love. Affection for it is 

 concealed. Good New-England ers are 

 as shy of owning it as they are of talk 

 ing about religion. Some people have 

 days on which they eat onions, what 

 you might call &quot;retreats/ or their 

 &quot;Thursdays.&quot; The act is in the nature 

 of a religious ceremony, an Eleusinian 

 mystery: not a breath of it must get 

 abroad. On that day, they see no 

 company ; they deny the kiss of greet- 



