1 84 PROSERPINA. 



Paris, remembered in Heaven, — there is no occasion 

 to change their names, as one may have to change 

 ' Waterloo Bridge,' or the ' Rue de l'lmperatrice.' 

 Poor Empress ! Had she but known that her true 

 dominion was in the straw streets of her fields ; not 

 in the stone streets of her cities ! 



But think how wonderful this imperishableness of 

 the stem of many plants is, even in their annual 

 work : how much more in their perennial work ! 

 The noble stability between death and life, of a 

 piece of perfect wood ? It cannot grow, but will 

 not decay ; keeps record of its years of life, but 

 surrenders them to become a constantly serviceable 

 thing : which may be sailed in, on the sea, built 

 with, on the land, carved by Donatello, painted on 

 by Fra Angelico. And it is not the wood's fault, 

 but the fault of Florence in not taking proper 

 care of it, that the panel of Sandro Botticelli's 

 loveliest picture has cracked, (not with heat, I 

 believe, but blighting frost,) a quarter of an inch 

 wide through the Madonna's face. 



But what is this strange state of undecaying 

 wood ? What sort of latent life has it, which it 

 only finally parts with when it rots ? 



Nay, what is the law by which its natural life 

 is measured ? What makes a tree ' old ' ? One sees 

 the Spanish-chestnut trunks among the Apennines 



