THE LINNiEA BOREALIS. 
Zb 
91 
can go no further, according to their views, since to subjugate or level is the whole aim of man’s 
ambition. Once levelled you may give to ground, or even to a whole landscape, according to their 
theory, as much beauty as you like: it is only a question of expense. This is a fearful fallacy, how¬ 
ever ;—fearful oftentimes both to the eye and purse. 
It is not less fearful to see a fine varied outline of ground utterly spoiled by being graded for the 
mansion and its surrounding lawn, at an expense which would have curved all the walks, and filled 
the grounds with the finest trees and shrubs, if the surface had been left nearly, or quite, as nature 
formed it. Not much better, or even far worse, is the fancy many persons have of terracing every piece 
of sloping ground—as a mere matter of ornament,—where no terrace is needed. It may be safely said, 
that a terrace is always ugly, unless it is on a large scale, and is treated with dignity, so as to become 
part of the building itself, or to be supposed, more properly, to belong to it than to the grounds_like 
the fine architectural terraces which surround the old English mansions. But little gardens, thrown 
up into terraces, are devoid of all beauty whatever,—though they may be rendered more useful or 
available in this way. 
The surface of ground is rarely ugly in a state of nature, because all nature leans to the beautiful; 
and the ceaseless action of the elements goes continually to soften and wear away the harshness and 
violence of surface. "What cannot be softened is hidden and rounded by means of foliage, trees, and 
shrubs, and creeping Vines, and so the tendency to the curve is always greater and greater. But man 
often forms ugly surfaces of ground by breaking up all natural curves without recognizing their 
expression, by distributing lumps of earth here and there, by grading levels in the midst of undula¬ 
tions, and raising mounds on perfectly smooth surfaces; in short, by regarding only the little he 
wishes to do in his folly, and not studying the larger part that Nature has already done in her wisdom. 
—A. J. Downing, in Horticulturist ( U. S.) 
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THE LINNJSA BOREALIS. 
HI7E have received the following communication Rom the author of the series of papers on The 
Culture of Alpine Plants, at present in course of publication in these pages :— 
In my paper on The Culture of Linncea borealis,* I casually alluded to what seems to be a some¬ 
what prevalent belief, that the Linnsea is not a cultivable plant. If the rarity of its cultivation 
were any proof of this, then the belief would be justified, for it is one of those plants we seldom meet 
with even in good collections of Alpines. I did not dwell upon this point; but since my remarks 
were written, a poem has appeared in Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal on the Linncea borealis, which 
has a decided tendency to foster the erroneous idea of this interesting plant not being capable of 
cultivation, and therefore it may be advisable to offer one or two observations on the subject. I rejoice 
that Linnsea has at last been introduced to the realms of poesy, and I should be the last man in the 
world to pick holes in a poet’s fancy; but I fear the present one may have a practical influence on 
practical men, to avert which is the object of these remarks. 
The poem is prefaced by an apt text from “ Rambles in Sweden and Gottland,” by Sylvanus, to 
amplify and illustrate which is its object:—“ Linne selected a tiny wild-flower that he discovered, of 
exquisite beauty and delicious odour, to bear his name, —one that refuses to exchange the silent glen 
and melancholy wood for the more gay parterres of horticulture .” 
THE LINNiEA BOREALIS. 
’ Tis a child of the old green "woodlands, 
Where the song of the free wild bird, 
And swaying of boughs in the summer breeze, 
Are the only voices heard. 
In the richest moss of the lonely dells 
Are its rosy petals found, 
W r ith the clear blue sky above it spread, 
And the lordly trees around. 
In those still, untrodden solitudes 
Its lovely days are passed ; 
And the sunny turf is its fragrant bier 
When it gently dies at last. 
But if from its own sweet dwelling-place 
By a careless hand ’tis torn, 
And to hot and dusty city streets 
In its drooping beauty borne, 
* Garden Companion, pp. 34—5. 
