308 THE IVY. 



but disfigured rose-lrees ; and proceeded to the 

 spot where my laurislinus, lifting its vigorous head 

 in calm defiance of every blight, was putting out 

 its white buds with more than their wonted profu- 

 sion ; and there I stood in happy reverie, thinking 

 of the spirit made perfect, of him whom the shrub 

 typifies in my imagination — that devoted old ser- 

 vant of Christ, Charles Seymour, who long glad- 

 dened the western wild of poor Ireland with the 

 riches of gospel promise, set forth in her ancient 

 tongue — until my eye wandered to the wall just 

 behind it, which, stretching to some distance on 

 either hand, wears a vestige of Ivy, the growth of 

 many years ; of bushy thickness towards the top, 

 where it crowns its supporter with the dark polished 

 berries that beautifully accord with the whole 

 character of the plant. The lauristinus, mingling 

 its upper branches with this ancient friend, appears 

 as of one family, yet different and distinguished in 

 a striking manner. I looked until my tears flowed, 

 for the power of imagination was irrisistible, and 

 the scene which opened on my mind was one of 

 overwhelming interest. 



I am not writing fiction ; the objects that I 

 describe are within my view at this moment, dis- 

 tantly visible from my window, and their relative 

 position is precisely what I have slated. But, 

 standing close beside them, under the influence of 

 the wintry air that had desolated the scene around. 



