320 



FLORA AND SYLVA. 



happy in his way of telling them. His 

 humour was at its best when acting as 

 chairman at a public dinner. As chair- 

 man Charles Dickens was very amusing, 

 and the late Lord Salisbury impressive, 

 but Dean Hole had all their good quali- 

 ties to which was added a charming hu- 

 mour. Our portrait is one done in his 

 mature life; of recent years the once 

 grand physique was sadly weakened. 

 He lies buried in the graveyard at Caun- 

 ton, near the manor, where most of his 

 days were passed. W. R. 



Beauty, not Size. — Not only those broad and 

 striking effects which belong to a great range 

 of field and wood, or to bold scenery, come 

 within the domain of landscape art, but those 

 lesser and ordinary graces that may be com- 

 passed within stone's throw of a man's door. 

 We do not measure an artist by the width of 

 his canvas. The panoramas that take in moun- 

 tains are well if the life and the mist of the 

 mountains are in them, but they do not blind 

 us to the merit of a cabinet gem. I question 

 very much if that subtle apprehension of the 

 finer beauties which may be made to appear 

 about a given locality does not express itself 

 more pointedly and winningly in the manage- 

 ment of a three or five-acre lawn than upon 

 such reach of meadow and upland as bounds 

 the view. The watchful care for a single hoary 

 boulder that lifts its seared and lichened hulk 

 out of a sweet level of greensward ; the auda- 

 cious protection of some wild vine flinging its 

 tendrils carelessly over a bit of wall, girt with 

 a savage head-growth — these are indications 

 of an artist feeling that will be riotous of its 

 wealth upon a bare acre of ground. Nay, I do 

 not know but I have seen about a labourer's 

 cottage in Devonshire such adroit adjustment 

 of a few flowering plants upon a window-shelf, 

 and such tender and judicious care for the little^ 

 matlet of turf around which the gravel path 

 swept to his door, as showed as keen and ar- 

 tistic sense of the beauties of nature, and of 

 the way in which they may be enchained for 

 human gratification, as could be set forth in a 

 park of a thousand acres. — D. G. Mitchell. 



The Lady Birch, — Up here, where no ham- 

 ' merhas resounded for generations, Dame Na- 

 ture has worked with deft and patient fingers, 

 weavingherslow tapestries of fern and lichen 

 on the tumbled boulders at the base, and 

 throwing up from many an inaccessible cleft 

 and cranny the sturdy slightness of the Lady 

 Birch. Sufficient unto itself, requiring neither 

 shade nor sustenance from other trees, rooted 

 apparently in nothingness, yet gathering into 

 its silvery bark astrength and steadfastness that 

 defies the ravages of time, this maidenhair 

 among trees makes lovely at all seasons of the 

 year our no-man's land at the edge of the forest, 

 and responds to the brisk salutations of the 

 west wind with a shower of drooping gold, 

 and music that might have served Oberon in 

 fairyland. — M. R. J. 



SONGS OF THE WOODS AND 

 FLOWERS : A Vision. 



I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way, 

 Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, 



And gentle odours led my steps astray, 

 Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring 



Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 

 Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 



Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, 



But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream. 



There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 



Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, 

 The constellated flower that never sets ; 



Faint oxlips ; tender bluebells, at whose birth 

 The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets 

 Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, 

 When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 



And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, 



Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured May, 



And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine 

 Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day ; 



And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, 



With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; 



And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, 



Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 



And nearer to the river's trembling edge 



There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, 

 And starry river-buds among the sedge, 



And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 

 Which lit the oak that overhung the edge 



With moonlight beams of their own watery light ; 

 And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 

 As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 



Methought that of these visionary flowers 



I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 

 That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 



Were mingled or opposed, the like array 

 Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours 



Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 

 I hastened to the spot whence I had come, 

 That I might there present it ! — Oh ! to whom ? 



— Shelley. 



