236 THE GARDEN. 



and her wronged, her persecuting, her forgiving 

 Christian Prolesiants. 



I am not going to select a flower, and an indivi- 

 dual for this chapter. I take the whole garden for 

 my type, and Ireland for my departed friend. Alas ! 

 she lies among the dead : but the spirit of life will 

 re-enter, and she shall cast forth her grave clothes, 

 despite of Satan and of Rome. I remember, many 

 years ago, passing some hours in a garden, that 

 might serve as the very personification of Ireland. 

 It belonged to a noble mansion, the titled owner of 

 which had not for years inhabited it. The dwelling 

 was closed, but in no manner decayed ; and the 

 garden was deserted, not destroyed. There were 

 winding walUs, bordered with exquisite shrubs : 

 but the latter had attained a growth that stretched 

 their branches across the path ; and weeds of 

 enormous magnitude seemed to compete, on equal 

 terms, the possession of the soil. In one place, 

 my foot was caught by the tangled meshes of a 

 moss-rose-tree, straggling quite over the gravel 

 walk, and actually throwing me down in my at- 

 tempt to pass ; nor did I escape without scratched 

 hands and a torn dress. In another, I had to rend 

 my way, though reluctantly, by destroying whole 

 masses of honey-suckle ; and such was the diffi- 

 culty of proceeding, that only one of the party 

 would accompany me in my determined efforts to 

 explore the whole scene. It must not be supposed 



