XXV111 MEMOIR. 



the blossoming plants in them, to believe that summer 

 had fairly arrived, we had uniformly found the spring to 

 be that laughing lie which the poets insist it is not. 

 There was no doubt longer, however. The country was 

 so brilliant with the tender green that it seemed festally 

 adorned, and it was easy enough to believe that human 

 genius could have no lovelier nor loftier task than the 

 development of these colors, and forms, and opportunities, 

 into their greatest use and adaptation to human life. 

 " God Almighty first planted a garden, and, indeed, it is 

 the first of human pleasures/' Lord Bacon said it long 

 ago, and the bright May morning echoed it, as we crossed 

 the river. 



I had read Downing's books ; and they had given me 

 the impression, naturally formed of one who truly said of 

 himself, "Angry volumes of politics have we written none : 

 but peaceful books, humbly aiming to weave something 

 more into the fair garland of the beautiful and useful that 

 encircles this excellent old earth." 



His image in my mind was idyllic. I looked upon him 

 as a kind of pastoral poet. I had fancied a simple, abstracted 

 cultivator, gentle and silent. We left the boat and drove 

 to his house. The open gate admitted us to a smooth ave- 

 nue. We had glimpses of an Arbor- Vitae hedge, a small 

 and exquisite lawn rare and flowering trees, and bushes 

 beyond a lustrous and odorous thicket a gleam of the 

 river below "a feeling" of the mountains across the 

 river and were at the same moment alighting at the 

 door of the elegant mansion, in which stood, what ap- 

 peared to me a tall, slight Spanish gentleman, with thick 

 black hair worn very long, and dark eyes fixed upon me 

 with a searching glance. He was dressed simply in a cos- 

 tume fitted for the morning hospitalities of his house, or 



