make tolerably plump handfulls; such, for
instance, as London's Encyclopaedia, and that
jolly fat little volume the Bon Jardinier,
which looks like two good gardeners (single
and without incumbrance) rolled into one,
Others are wonderful, if true; others, again,
are simply stupid. To begin with stupidity,
let us open Hervey's Reflections on a
Flower-Garden; a well-meant piece of platitude
and fine writing—popular, while
milliners' girls read Minerva-press novels at
a penny per night, but now for ever shelved
with them. " Emblem, expressive emblem,"
"motive, engaging motive," is the favourite
form of speech with which consecutive
sentences open. " What colours, what charming
colours are here! Fine, inimitably fine, is
the texture of the web on which these
shining treasures are displayed. What are
the labours of the Persian loom, or the
boasted commodities of Brussels, compared
with these curious manufactures of nature?
Compared with these, the most admired
chintzes would lose their reputation; even
superfine cambrics appear coarse as canvas in
their presence."

It is a long time before Hervey lets us
get to the flowers at all. He stops, first,
to shake hands with St. Paul, a "judge who
formed his taste on the maxims of Paradise,
and received the finishings of his
education in the third heavens." And last,
the snowdrop " breaks her way through the
frozen soil, in order to present her early
compliments to her lord; " and " the kine
bring home their udders distended with," not
milk,—O dear, no! nothing so vulgar, but
with "one of the richest and healthiest
liquors in the world; " whatever tap that
may be drawn from, and which may or may
not be forbidden to be publicly sold, when the
Maine liquor-l aw comes into force in England.
To serpentine only half an inch further; this
take-for-granted-you-knowstyle of description;
is complacently illustrated by a guide-book in
my possession. It tells me that a certain town
contains several manufactories, which are
duly described; but that its peculiar branch
of industry is an object of charcuterie " whose
name is too well known to be mentioned here."
Now, I have patiently traversed the streets
of that town, without discovering whether
that special object of pork-butchery be pies,
sausages, chitterlings, pettitoes, brawn, or
tripe. I don't know to this very day.

The marvels in my garden-library would not
merely fill to overflowing a double volume of
Household Words, but would literally inundate
the office itself. To confine ourselves to
trees alone; at Fierro, one of the Canary
Islands there is a wonderful water-tree, whose
leaves continually distil pure water; it is a
single tree, as big as a middle-sized oak. In
the night a thick cloud or mist always hangs
about it, and the water drops very fast and in
great quantities. There are lead-pipes laid
from it to a great pond, which is paved with
stone, and holds twenty thousand tons of
water, yet it is filled in one night. There are
seven or eight thousand people, and many
more thousands of cattle, all supplied from
this fountain. The great pond communicates
its water to several lesser ones, which
disperse it through the whole island. There is
another water-tree, and again another; but
one is enough, unless the house catches fire.
One summer cannot contain two St. Swithins.
Seriously, the above is a neat concentration of
the fact that forest-clad hills are the sources
rivers. Read me again this riddle-my-ree.
"There is a plant here " (the Isle Sombrero),
"the use of it not known, yet hath a strange
quality. It is like a small tree; if you offer
to pull it up it contracts itself and sinks into
the ground, unless you draw hard enough to
prevent it. If you force it above ground, you
find a great worm lying at the root, and so
closely united to it as if it were a part of the
plant. As this worm grows less the plant
grows bigger, and when the worm is
consumed the plant is fixed and becomes a small
tree. When it is come to maturity, if you strip
off the leaves and bark, and lay it to dry, it
petrifies in a strong body hardly to be
distinguished from white coral." Do you give it
up? Surely, no; you must burn too warmly
to need any help in guessing.

Lastly, you shall have my plant of pluck,
in the way to Agra, which they honour with
some ceremonies. " It may well enough,"
says the author, "be call'd the tree of life
since it is so stubborn a nature, that it will
live in spite of all endeavours to destroy it.
It is a sort of wild fig-tree, which, having
rooted itself, continues to grow there, whatever
courses are taken to the contrary. Take
away the earth from about it, stock it up,
and manage any way, still some root wou'd
send up a fresh tree. Several of the Potane
kings and Moguls have tried it, and gave it
over as impossible work. The present Mogul
has taken a turn at it, but finding he is able
to do no good, he cherishes and makes much
of it." The East India Company are hereby
requested to demand from the representatives
of the present Mogul— who is now the late,
and no longer the great, Mogul-- a sufficient
number of sprigs of the pluck-tree, that every
Crimean hero, whether English or French, may
be able to decorate his cap with a leaf or two.

THE DARK SIDE.

THOU hast done well perhaps
To lift the bright disguise,
And lay the bitter truth
Before our shrinking eyes;
"When evil crawls below,
What seems so pure and fair,
Thine eyes are keen and true
To find the serpent there:
And yet—I turn away,
Thy task is not divine,
The evil angels look
On earth with eyes like thine.