January 9. 
THE COTTAGE GARDENER. 
283 
that hail ever crossed liis path. To a mind like liis, it had 
peculiar fearfulness; for lie was, alas! one over whom ; 
Divine Truth had no power. He was a free-thinker,—a 
fatalist. He knew nothing, believed nothing; and his popr 
mind scrambled about in darkness and ignorance, stumbling ! 
over this idea, trampling down that, and yet persisting in 
his inability to struggle against fate. Ah! if men would , 
but ask themselves what Jute really is ! If they would but 
I'ouse their reason to inquire what that unconquerable j 
power is that governs and subdues them, would not a light 
break into their dark minds, dim, yet appalling? Would 
they not feel the grasp of a Hand, the impulse of an Arm, 
plainly developed, though invisible ? 
During Sir Charles’ wanderings and sailings along the | 
romantic shores of Italy lie had attached himself, or rather 
engaged himself, to a beautiful girl, who had given him her 
whole heart, poor thing. She had attached herself to an 
infidel, as many a woman has done, before and since, and 
rued it. On being summoned to England, he had taken 
leave of Marrianne as his betrothed wife. He was to make 
all his necessary arrangements at home, and then hasten 
hack to take possession of his bride, and bring her to grace 
his home, and share his British privileges. He was the 
bearer of some letter, or message, from an acquaintance 
abroad to a family in England, which ho neglected to deliver 
till he was just going back again. Every thing was com¬ 
pleted ; his luggage packed up, and he only delayed, to 
deliver this letter with his own hand. He was sitting con¬ 
versing with the lady to whom the visit was made, when a 
young and very pretty girl entered the room, and was intro¬ 
duced as the daughter of his hostess. The fatalist said in his 
heart, “ That lady is decreed to be my wife,” and all else was j 
forgotten. Itaty, Marrianne, vows, affections, honour, even 
common humanity, were thrown overboard. He staid at the ! 
house; offered his base, infidel heart to another; was I 
accepted, and married! Oh ! if woman knew the serpent I 
she often fosters! Oh! if she knew the mysteries of 
iniquity that are mantling and creaming behind the soft 
words and sighs she sits and smiles at! Oh ! if she would 
but search the opinions of the man that asks her, with a 
probe no longer than her own needle, she would find things 
that ought to make her shudder, and ask herself, “ what 
shall be in the end thereof.” 
Poor Miss S-, however, knew nothing, and, therefore, 
had she asked, she would not have understood the reply. 
How many there are, in high life, and in low, who know, 
understand, and care for—nothing ! 
Sir Charles and Lady Ii-began life with every earthly 
good. When we first became acquainted with them, they 
were living in a little poking house in a seaport town, with 
one dirty maidservant; shorn of all their beams ; obliged to 
leave house, land, and friends ; involved with some, who had 
taken them in, and others who had ill-used them. Sir 
Charles had an ineoherency in his way of talking, that 
would never admit of any one understanding his affairs. 
He began ; rambled on ; never heard or answered questions; 
jumped from one tiling to another, and seemed to be 
hunting a subject in his own mind, steeple-chasing it, and 
heeding nothing that interrupted him. From Lady B-- 
alone could any conclusion be arrived at; and her brother, 
and a mischief-making wife, seemed to be deeply involved 
in the mystery, though poor Sir- Charles, with liis fatalism 
and wrong-headedness, had helped to work out his own ruin. 
Family affairs are difficult to make plain ; but it was all suffi¬ 
cient that the last baronet of his line was living unknown 
and unheeded, in a small house, built against the face of a 
cliff, so that you entered it upon the parlour floor, went down 
to the bedrooms, and deeper still to the kitchen, below which 
the sea dashed and trembled, and the sea-bird screamed 
and dipped its rapid wing, and the evening gun boomed 
from a fort built on a pile of rocks that stood out from the 
mainland. It was a scene of wild and stirring beauty, and 
Sir Charles loved to pace a little terrace walk in his narrow 
strip of garden at the foot of his tall house, when the sea 
dashed over the wall, and the moon “ walked in brightness.” 
What were his thoughts ? What could the thoughts of an 
infidel be ? Alas ! he could not, like Job, lay his hand upon 
his mouth, and listen to the Voice that spake in every object 
round him! He could not perceive Him “ without whom 
was not anything made that was made.” He might, indeed, 
feel that a “ consuming fire ” dwelt in the highest heaven ; 
but he could not approach Him ; he could not “sec the light 
of the knowledge of the glory of God;” because he beheld 
it not “ in the face of Jesus Christ.” I trust that none of 
my readers can understand the darkness of the mind that 
knows nothing, hopes nothing, comprehends nothing ! Such 
a mind may think that it fears nothing ; but where there is 
no sure hope, there must be deep and mysterious dread. 
Oh that men would turn from their wickedness and live ! 
“ The wise man’s eyes are in his head: but the fool walketh 
in darkness.” 
(To he continued.) 
NOTES FROM PARIS.—No. 5. 
CONSTRUCTION OF FRENCH BOUQUETS. 
If there is any way of doing a thing neatly, easily, and 
effectively, a Frenchman is sure to find it out. Nobody 
else so well understands the luxury of work, if I may so 
speak. Evidences of this fact strike the eye at every turn 
here, in every shop, in every atelier, and even in the very ' 
street. Some people say that there are many ways of doing | 
a thing, but the Frenchman believes there is only one way | 
of doing it well, and he spares no effort to get at it. Nor J 
will he allow any prejudice against what are sometimes 
called “new fangled schemes,” to deter him from adopting 
what he considers the best mechanical contrivance for any 
given purpose. No matter how trivial the work may be, no 
matter how insignificant the object, his first consideration 
is the best possible way of doing it. The question involved 
in Mr. Beaton’s remarks on one of my earlier communi¬ 
cations, might, to many persons, seem unworthy of notice, 
though I have viewed the matter jn a different light. What 
ingenuity or art can the simple process of putting a few 
flowers together admit of? “ Certainly there is some taste 
required to arrange the colours, and give the bouquet a 
particular form; but as for putting the flowers together, 
surely any person with two hands can do that.” This way 
of talking, for it cannot be called thinking, is common with 
those who believe there never was anything invented that 
proved so good us “ elbow grease,” and no skill in working 
equal to the art of putting one’s “ shoulder to the wheel; ” 
“ down with your contrivances and dodges.” But, now, as 
our old and long-tried wheel is getting every day more and 
more difficult to move, and, in fact, as it leaves us so often 
in the lurch, we may surely be excused if we turn, now and 
then, for help in another direction. Any gardener in 
England can put up a flower. It may be pretty, or it may 
not. The flowers may be well selected, and the colours 
tastefully arranged, but it is only necessary to look on for a 
few minutes, while the work is being done, to be convinced 
that the mere art of constructing it has never been thought of. 
There are, first, the painful twistings and groupings with 
one hand, while the flowers are put in their places with the 
other, and if the bouquet is large, it scarcely admits of 
being turned or shifted in the hand, so as to be examined. 
This circumstance has, probably, led to the sloping one¬ 
sided form which is generally given to English bouquets. 
And, then, after being propped on all sides with twigs and 
branches, it must be kept upright, otherwise the flowers are 
apt to fall out. Mr. Beaton has compared the constructing 
of a bouquet to the building of a house. Now, as the test 
of a well-built house is its resistance to wind and rain, 
suppose we continue the figure, and try a bouquet in the 
same way. Suppose we tie our bouquet to a string at the 
handle, and twirl it in the air once or thrice, as a boy twirls 
a sling. If the flowers do not fall out, it may be concluded 
that the bouquet has been well made; but I question if 
many bouquets constructed in the ordinary way would 
stand this test. Very true, a bouquet is not made to bo 
treated in this manner; but when we find that the French 
bouquets will suffer such treatment, the most reasonable 
inference is, that the mode of constructing them is some- i 
what different to that adopted in England. 
What, then, is the Parisian’s secret of making up a 
bouquet? Nothing can be more simple, and, when atten¬ 
tively considered, nothing would seem more indispensable 
than the machinery used—a bit of string. That is all that 
