PROCEEDINGS OF THE HORTICULTURAL ASSOCIATION. C55 



more frequently? I have certainly sometimes thought even the organ-grinder 

 a godsend in the country, and have there listened with delight to the old 

 strains that I would have closed my ears against in the city, so much does 

 nature set off art, and the trees and flowers ask to be interpreted into mu- 

 sic. And as to poetry, we are all ready to be poets in tlie country; and if 

 our fancy is dull of itself, and has no Pegasus of its own to ride, it is quite 

 ready to mount upon the pillion of some favored son of the Muses, and ride 

 with him into the heaven of ideals. How much poetry has been written in 

 or about the garden, every library is proof, and Parnassus can never be a 

 paved city. Even the policies and passions, the lights and shades, and 

 follies and aspirations of city life come most to mind in the country, as they 

 see the battle best who look upon it from some tranquil hill away from the 

 din and smoke. The drama, too, belongs to the garden; and he who has 

 the true eye may see tragedy and comedy all about him in the airs and atti- 

 tudes, the loves and the quarrels of insects, reptiles, birds and beasts, and 

 the various play and mien of the more rational tenants and ramblers of the 

 domain, with their walks and talks, their work and play. It is a goml 

 place, too, for actual dramatic scenes, especially for pastoral life, and there 

 are many parts of our great dramatists that can be charmingly enacted in 

 groves or dells, or among flower-beds and grassy lawns. Last year a little 

 association of amateurs of letters spent a day with us in the country, and 

 amused themselves and us with recitations. Among other selections, they 

 gave us the melancholy Jaques with his companions in the great scene in 

 the Forest of Arden. The famous words "All the world's a stage" gave 

 our little dell, with its canopy of oaks, elms and walnuts, quite a Shake- 

 spearian dignity, and we were not at all ashamed to have such a scene 

 brought to such a theater. Nor would glorious Will himself have thought 

 the performance altogether poor. 



As to elo(iuence, the garden speaks for itself, and is sure to make its true 

 friends and lovers speak; and the finest of all speech — that which calls for 

 two parties only, and is very likely to fix the destiny of both — flows more 

 freely and willingly there in some charming arbor or shady walk than in 

 the city drawing-room or promenade. What sacred eloquence the garden 

 may inspire none will deny who revere Him who bade us consider the lilies 

 how they grow, and taught the hidden wisdom of the seed and the soil. 



I have been anticipating the last branch of our subject, and have implied 

 that the garden may be a gallery of elegant resort, a saloon of society and 

 conversation, \Vhy should not more stress be laid on this idea? 



There is something in the place itself that favors companionship; and 

 when left to ourselves, away from the distractions of the world, we make 

 friends of books or find them in our neighbors. We feel our social nature 

 more when less surfeited with society, and made to hunger and thirst for 

 its nurture and refreshing. There is something, too, in the ready walks 

 and various paths and scenes that invites conversation. The tongue in- 

 sists on alternating with or relieving the active foot, and the eye, in time 

 satiated with seeing, asks for the voice to give the listening ear its turn. 

 The garden makes Peripatetics of us all, and after we have walked half an 

 hour we are impatient to read or talk the next half hour, and keep up the 

 balance between body and soul. 



