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APRIL. 105 
identify itself with any internal seriousness, and glows in its amazing 
joy and radiance, as though protesting against the whole proceeding, 
and contradicting every word of the service. 
And was not that same hilarious visage a sore trial and stumbling- 
block, when, in days that are past and a gallery that is pulled down, 
Joseph Grundy performed on the bassoon? He was but poor company 
as a musician, was Joe, but thoroughly conscientious ; and though I 
never knew him to finish with the choir, he always played out his verse 
honourably, and came in a few notes behind, blown, but extremely 
gratified. We have an harmonium now, and the bold bassoonist sings, 
and sings well, in the choir. Drowsy indeed must that believer be 
who does not start in his bed upon Christmas morn, when Grundy, 
lustily and with a good courage, bids his brother “Christians, awake!” 
Lustily, and with a good courage, is his rule in all things. It does 
one good to see him at his work, and I think of the American’s striking 
words, of ‘‘ the nobility of labour, the long pedigree of toil,” as I watch 
him, manfully accepting that irksome destiny, which the first gardener 
hath entailed upon us all. A right honest Spade is Joseph. His no 
‘‘lubbard labour,” of which Cowper, in ‘“‘The Garden,” speaks as 
*« loitering lazily, if not o’erseen.” If you come upon him when he is 
resting awhile, he does not hastily resume his labours, and so confess 
that he has been idle, and does not deserve relaxation (I always distrust 
those demonstrative gentlemen who are so excessively energetic when their 
employer is present), but he stands at ease until he feels himself 
refreshed, and then plies his spade once more, with a determination and 
energy which induce the idea that he has solemnly pledged himself to 
dig to the Antipodes before tea-time. It is good, I say, to watch him 
at his work, for ‘‘ daborare est orare,” work is prayer, is as true a text 
this day as when it cheered the hearts of those toilsome monks, who 
were long the only, and always the best, gardeners. 
So we, having seen Joe Grundy dig, were glad to admit him into our 
Society of Spades. He is not scientific, it is true. I recall mistakes in 
his nomenclature of plants, discreditable to his etymology. I have 
heard him speak, for instance, of Yallermandies, Cameleons, Dol- 
phiniums, and the like. 1 know that in spelling Cactus he leads off 
with the letter K.; and I am quite sure that he could no more repeat 
some of the delightful titles which are given to flowers (let me mention, 
by way of a nice little specimen, Siphocampylos Manetticeflorus) than 
an Ephraimite could say Shibboleth. But there is a nobler language, 
my friends, than is to be found in Botanical Dictionaries, grand words of 
Truth, Goodwill, and Honesty; and these Joseph Grundy speaks. 
There is a higher task appointed than the precise orthography of tallies, 
that we “learn to labour and to wait ;” and he studies this lesson well. 
In his little intervals of leisure, the semibreve rests of his solo on the 
spade, during which, to quote his own expression, he is engaged in 
« eatching his wind,” he is wont to survey with much contentment the 
pleasant garden around him. It freshens him, he says, to have a peep 
at the flowers, and to see things looking comfortable and happy, as 
though they thanked him for his trouble ; and, indeed, to look upon that 
smiling pleasaunce is a ‘‘ refreshment to the spirit of man.” It is laid 
