20 A BOOK ABOUT THE GARDEN. 



with a terrible beak and a sinister eye, has been 

 gazing at you, as the vulture gazed on Prometheus* 

 wears quite a benevolent look. 



" Cras ingcjis iteralintus acquor " " to-morrow you 

 may go downstairs." You make a feeble joke (excused 

 in consideration of your debility) that you will be no 

 longer the prisoner with a Chill-on ; and next day, lan- 

 guidly, lacking the vigour and elasticity of the march of 

 the Cameron men, with a gait suggestive to an ill-in- 

 formed suspicion rather of alcohol than of toast and 

 water, with an incomplete smile upon your countenance 

 as you meet some member of your household, you des- 

 cend to an easy chair, which is set for you by a 

 glowing fire (though it is the last day in May), and 

 once more with a thankful heart survey the books, 

 the pictures, and all the beloved surroundings of your 

 study. How clean and bright and orderly the old 

 workshop looks ; but you are not to work. There are 

 piles of parcels, and envelopes of all denominations, 

 on a table near, and these you are permitted to open, 

 leisurely, casting with a savage disdain your rejected 

 addresses, invitations to take tickets in lotteries, to 

 borrow money, to invest in mines, to poison yourself 

 with golden sherries, tawny ports, creamy champagnes, 

 chiefly manufactured in London, to secure yourself 

 from all the ills which flesh is heir to by taking syrups 

 and pills, which are warranted to make old men young 

 tearing these tentative frauds into fragments and 

 flinging them into the capacious basket at your feet, 

 which seems to say, without words, " Eubbish may be 

 shot here." 

 = " Shapeless idleness ! " Is dolce far nienlc ever 



