MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 167 



mystic Mary Ann, eat of the common 

 vegetable. Their oaths are strong with 

 it. It is the food, also, of the common 

 people of Italy. All the social atmos 

 phere of that delicious land is laden 

 with it. Its odor is a practical democ 

 racy. In the churches all are alike : 

 there is one faith, one smell. The 

 entrance of Victor Emanuel into Eome 

 is only the pompous proclamation of a 

 unity which garlic had already accom 

 plished ; and yet we, who boast of our 

 democracy, eat onions in secret. 



I now see that I have left out many 

 of the most moral elements. Neither 

 onions, parsnips, carrots, nor cabbages 

 are here. I have never seen a garden 

 in the autumn before, without the un 

 couth cabbage in it ; but my garden 

 gives the impression of a garden with 

 out a head. The cabbage is the rose of 

 Holland. I admire the force by which it 



