Commodore; 'your honor will see a sight. It's my opinion, sir, that the
waters have cleared themselves of everything, and thrown them all bodily
on the land.'

'Bless my soul, Peter, what a scene! I fear many lives have been
sacrificed yonder, but it must have been more terrible still outside.
What is that, Peter? a ship ashore?'

'It is a ship, I believe, your honor, but she's not ashore, sir; there
is nothing much but her starn to be seen, but being pretty well
acquainted with the bearings hereaway, you see, your honor, the land
rises considerably north of the point there, and the trees into the
bargain, make quite a bluff to look across, and she would be hid
entirely before grounding; the channel runs near the shore, your honor.
But she has had a narrow chance, sir, and I see one of her masts is by
the board.'

'It is not one of your friends, the blockaders, I hope, Peter? they must
have had a lively time of it.'

'If it had only sent them all high and dry, your honor! but I think they
must have got a good offing afore the worst on it came; and your honor
knows that wind and waves ain't apt to hurt a good ship, if there's no
land interference no way: but that ship being there is a puzzle to me,
your honor.'

'Well, Peter? let me have my letters and papers in good season this
morning.'

'Ay, ay, sir;' and Peter hobbled away towards the town, and the
Commodore entered his dwelling with a good appetite for breakfast.

He has just finished his morning repast, when Mr. Rutherford entered his
office. He met with a hearty welcome, for the two gentlemen had, since
Mr. Rutherford's removal, been on terms of intimacy, although this was
the first occasion on which any subject bordering on business matters
had been introduced. Mr. Rutherford had resolved in his own mind, during
the night past, the peculiar circumstances in which he was placed, and
the necessity for prompt and efficient action. He felt the need of
counsel, and could think of no one who would be so likely to afford it
as Commodore Trysail: for this purpose he had therefore now come.

It will not be necessary for the information of the reader to repeat the
substance of his revelation to the Commodore. It was a story, however,
which excited much interest in the mind of the old gentleman; he
listened with profound attention to the whole recital, and when it was
finished, gave his box an extra rap, and politely handing it to Mr.
Rutherford--'It is, indeed, a singular event, my dear sir; and you are
placed in a situation that requires not only very prompt, but very
cautious measures. It would be a righteous thing, no doubt, to bring
these men to justice; but the first hint they had of such an attempt
would inevitably lead to the destruction of your papers! for although
this Mr. Foster might find it a profitable business for him to hold them
thus, as a rod over his accomplice Cross, yet he would never be so mad
as to risk the discovery of them in his possession: they would be
destroyed forthwith, sir. And as to bringing them to justice, it is a
very doubtful matter, as it appears to me, whether there is evidence
sufficient to convict either of them; they are men, it seems, of some
standing in society, if I am correctly informed--none of the immediate
actors in the scene are living, or at least to be found. The young man
Brown, who is very feeble you say, can only testify to the intention of
these men; and his mother does not feel qualified to swear that the
unhappy man who made a dying avowal of his guilt in this matter had his
full reason.'

'It is all just as you say, Commodore Trysail, and the difficulties of
the case presented themselves to my mind as I see they do to yours.'

'And they are serious difficulties, Mr. Rutherford. The probabilities,
indeed, would be very much against these men, and the public generally
might be convinced that they had committed the nefarious crime; yet
after all, a jury sworn to judge according to the evidence brought
before them, might not be able to convict them.' The Commodore was
suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Peter in a state of excitement
really alarming; he did not pause as usual at the threshold, and making
a low reverence, present his packet of letters and papers, with 'the
mail, your honor,' but he bolted straight into the office, crutches and
all, threw his hat down on the floor, took his quid from his mouth, and
had liked to have dashed that down too; but his senses came to him in
season to prevent such an enormity, so he put it back again as quick as
possible. He was very much out of breath, and his eyes flashed with a
vividness very unusual. The Commodore put his box away, and
straightening himself up, looked at Peter with great astonishment, to
say the least of it.

'She's come, your honor.' Peter had great difficulty to get the sentence
out, his voice trembled so.

'What has come, sir?' The Commodore had evidently departed from his
usual temper towards Peter.

'She's come, your honor, spite of blockaders, harricanes and all, God be
praised.'

The Commodore began to catch a glimpse of his meaning.

'You do not pretend to say that the ship has come, the--the--Lady
Washington?' and the Commodore started to his feet, and looked very
fiercely at Peter.

'It's the truth, your honor, she's riding in the outer harbor: the very
same we see'd this morning. A boat has just come ashore, your honor, and
I've see'd the men, and sich doins as they tell on you never heered,
sir. Captain Sam's blowed the enemy, and he's got twenty on 'em
prisoners, and he's give 'em leg bail, and has run into port, God bless
him, with that north-easter behind him.'

After delivering himself, Peter turned round, and in two jumps was out
of the room, and stumping it off at a round rate. The Commodore was
somewhat surprised at this last movement, and stepping to the door, was
in the act of recalling his excited valet, when he saw him, in a very
animated manner, urging along a person dressed in sailor's garb, and
whom the experienced eye of the old Commodore immediately recognized as
fresh from on board ship; his rolling, unsteady gait showed very clearly
that he had not yet got his land legs on.

'Here's a shipmate, your honor,' said Peter, stepping a little in front
of his companion, 'that has a word to say to your honor, but he feels
backward like.'

'Come in, my boy, come in; are you from the Lady Washington?'

'Just from aboard, sir.'

'Come in, come in, my good fellow.' And the sailor gave a spring up the
stoop as though he was about to mount the shrouds, and taking a step
into the office, put his hand into his tarred hat, took forth a sealed
letter, and handed it to the Commodore, who immediately broke the seal
and read as follows.

     'COMMODORE TRYSAIL:

     'Respected Sir:--I am very happy to inform you, that through the
     aid of Divine Providence, I have brought the Lady Washington into
     port. To prevent her driving on the beach, I was obliged to cut
     away my masts, but am busy rigging jury masts to enable us to reach
     the city, as I do not feel it safe to lie in the outer harbor,
     should the blockading squadron return to their cruising ground. We
     have received otherwise but trifling damage. I shall do myself the
     honor of waiting upon you the moment I place my ship in the hands
     of your consignees.

     'The bearer of this will tell you his own story. He has been a fine
     fellow on board, and whatever may have been his errors in past
     days, seems to have taken a new turn.

     'Your obedient servant,

     'S. OAKUM.'

The Commodore, having run over the letter, began to put sundry questions
to the sailor, who answered in a style that was perfectly intelligible
to the Commodore, but which would have been to ordinary listeners very
much like a foreign language. Our friend Peter was an attentive
listener. He was standing just without the door, with his head bent
over, and turned one side, so as to permit his left ear to have a chance
at what was going on. His long queue hung down over his left shoulder,
and he was pulling away at it in great earnest. Peter could stand
considerable in the way of excitement, but it is not in human nature to
stand every thing. To hear such a glowing description of the doings of
one that he loved as his own soul, given in a dialect that was
sufficient of itself to work up the mind of an old sailor; his feelings
got the better of his judgment, and no sooner was the tale over, than,
swinging his old hat, he gave three hearty cheers, and stumped it away
towards the mansion of Major Morris.

The Commodore had too much of the sailor in him to be surprised at this
outbreak of feeling. He smiled as he looked through the door, and saw
how Peter was excited, and then addressing himself to the seaman--

'Captain Oakum informs me, my good fellow, that you have something of
consequence to say to me on your own account.'

'I have, sir, if you can spare a few moments' leisure.'

The Commodore then excused himself to Mr. Rutherford, and taking the man
aside into a private apartment, 'Now, my good fellow, tell me your story
without restraint. I am an old sailor, you know, and have lost none of
my feelings for a shipmate in trouble.'

'God bless you, sir; but it is an ugly story I have to tell, and if you
can have patience to hear me out, you may do with the information what
you please.'

Ha then began and gave a short-hand account of his career; that he was
born and brought up in a place called Barrens, near by--that he had
gotten into bad company, and in the employ of a bad man--that at the
instigation of this man, he had been guilty of many improper acts, but
that one of these, and the last one in which he had taken a part, had
stuck in his heart like a dagger from the moment he did it--that he and
his companion, in order to escape punishment in case the crime was found
out, and to get away from the man who had exerted his power over them
for such shameful purposes, had shipped to sea--that his messmate had
taken sick and died, and that his last hours were full of misery on
account of what he had done.

'I have therefore, sir, made a clean breast of it all to Captain Oakum,
and I am on my way to see the man I once injured so much; but Captain
Oakum thought how as you, sir, could tell me what was best to do, and
that I might let you know, sir, just the whole on it.'

'But you haven't told me, yet, my man, what this crime you speak of was.
You have not murdered any one, surely?'

'God only knows, sir; but we fired a house while they were all asleep;
the man who hired us to do it wanted a tin trunk which stood in one of
the back rooms. We waited round to have folks give the alarm, but it got
well a-burning before any one see it. An old nigger then came and broke
the door open with an axe: the house was filled with fire and smoke. The
old black fellow--God bless him for a true heart as ever beat in a human
body,--went right through the flames, up the stairs, calling as loud as
his voice could scream, "Oh my missus and the children!" We hurried into
the back room, and feeling about found the trunk, but we had like to
have smothered afore we got out; but that old fellow's cry, sir, has
rung in my head louder than the loudest noise that the wind and the
waves have made, since I have been on the ocean. And, sir, I can't live
with it any longer.'

'Did you ever see the man whose house you fired?'

'No, sir, nor do I now remember his name; but he had a character, sir,
for being a fine man, far and near.'

'The person's name is Rutherford, and he is now sitting in my office;
the very gentleman you saw there.'

'The Lord forgive me! may I not see him, sir, just to ask his pardon,
and then let him do with me what he thinks best?'

'You shall see him; but first answer me:--Are you willing to go with me,
and meet face to face this man Cross, whom you say instigated this act?'

'I will, sir; only I hope I may be restrained from doing him an injury,
for there is that in me, when I think of the villain, that wouldn't mind
putting his daylight out, and trampling him in the dust.'

'That would do no good now, you know; it wouldn't rebuild the house, nor
ease your conscience, nor reform the man. But I am this morning
endeavoring to devise a plan with this gentleman, Mr. Rutherford, for
the recovery of this very trunk you have been speaking about. It seems
that, after all, it never went into the hands of Mr. Cross, but, by some
strange accident, fell into possession of as great a villain as he was,
one Michael Foster, who keeps it as a rod over Cross to force money from
him. Your presence may be of great consequence. Can your Captain spare
you?'

'He has let me ashore for this very business, sir. He thought may be I
might be of some use to this Mr. Rutherford; and if I can, God knows I
wouldn't value my own life a feather, sir.'

The Commodore told the man to be seated, and stepping into the office,
communicated to Mr. Rutherford the particulars he had just been made
acquainted with.

'This is a most unexpected turn to affairs, Mr. Rutherford; and I think
I can see a way now by which we can get hold of these papers, and get
rid of these villains at the same time, if you will leave matters to my
management.'

'I will, certainly, sir, and feel deeply--'

'Say nothing about that, if you please. I will call for you in about an
hour with my carriage. But first will you see this poor fellow, and set
him at rest if you can?'

So saying, he led Mr. Rutherford into the adjoining room. The man was
still seated, but was evidently in much agitation, for his countenance
wore a death-like expression, and he trembled violently.

'Did you wish to speak with me?' said Mr. Rutherford, stepping up to
him; 'you seem to be ill.'

'My body is well enough, sir; although I can't tell why it is in such an
ague now. I never trembled before through all the dangers I have been
in; but my mind is in a sad case, sir;--you see before you one of the
men who burnt your beautiful house;'--and the rough sailor burst into
tears.

'Do you truly regret having thus injured one who never did you any
harm?'

'God knows I do; but tell me one thing, sir, was any of your family--'

'Burned with the dwelling, you were going to say; no, thank God and the
faithfulness of my good old negro, they were not injured.'

'Thank God it is so, sir! and oh that my old messmate could have known
this before he left the world!--he died, sir, howling like a raving
man--"that he was a murderer!"'

The Commodore now took Mr. Rutherford aside, and making some further
arrangements for the accomplishment of his plan, the latter gentleman
departed, and Commodore Trysail ordered his carriage to be in immediate
readiness.

In about two hours after this interview everything had been completed,
and the party selected for the occasion was entering the barrens, and
Joe, the Commodore's coachman, was urging on his horses at a very
unusual speed, and one which the heavy fat beasts did not seem to
relish.

It consisted of Commodore Trysail, Mr. Rutherford, James Montjoy and the
sailor. The carriage stopped at the Widow Brown's, and some time was
spent in a very particular conversation with the Widow and her son, and
then off again to the north at the same rapid rate.

'Hold up a little, Joe, before you reach the tavern; and you may stop at
Cross's, and let them blow awhile. It will not be best for us to appear
to be in haste.' This latter sentence was intended by the Commodore for
the company seated with him.

As the carriage drove up to the long low tavern, the Commodore and James
Montjoy alighted; and as they stepped upon the piazza, Mr. Cross met
them with a polite bow, and welcomed them to his premises.

Mr. Cross had, for a long time, been anxious to get into the good graces
of both of them; for when he found that he could not destroy the young
firm, he was desirous of their good-will, that he might the better make
sales through them of his wood and timber; and the Commodore being so
distinguished a personage, that a nod from him in any public place would
be no small consideration for a man of Mr. Cross's standing.

Chairs and benches were immediately presented for their acceptance, but
as politely declined.

'Mr. Montjoy and I have a little matter of business to talk with you
about this morning, Mr. Cross, and would wish to see you in private.'

'By all means, gentlemen,' and the little fat man led them into a small
back room, and carrying chairs with him, even against the protest of his
visitors, placed them with much care, as to position and then closed the
door.

'Since you have taken the trouble, Mr. Cross, to bring us seats, I
suppose we may as well use them,' said the Commodore, taking up his
chair, and placing it as if by accident near the door. Cross saw the
movement, and from the sudden flush that deepened the purple hue of his
face, appeared to feel that, at least, it was a singular one. He however
took the stool which he had brought for himself, and placing it at a
respectful distance, sat down in a composed manner, tilting it back so
as to balance himself on two of its legs, and resting his hands one on
each of his knees, as they were spread out, the better to maintain his
position.

'Mr. Cross,' said the Commodore, 'when we have business on hand, the
fewer words by way of introduction the better. I have a serious charge
to make against you this morning, and therefore it is that I have chosen
to see you alone.'

Cross immediately dropped his stool on its four legs, and straightening
up to make the most of himself: 'If we are to be alone, sir, why have
you brought company with you?' looking significantly at young Montjoy.

'To set your mind at rest on that head, Mr. Cross, I will tell you that
Mr. Montjoy has, at my request, been deputized by the Sheriff, and acts
at present as an officer.'

Cross did not turn pale, for that could not well be, but his countenance
assumed a livid hue, and he immediately rose to his feet.

'You may as well be seated, Mr. Cross; this business has been committed
to me, and it must go forward, sir; but I have no disposition to treat
you with harshness--sit down, Mr. Cross.'

Mr. Cross sat down; there was something in the decided tones of the
Commodore's voice that carried with them the idea of implicit obedience.

'Without alluding to the serious crime which I have it in my power to
substantiate against you, I at once propose to you, Mr. Cross, that if
you deliver up to me the papers which were taken from Mr. Rutherford's
house by the men employed by you for that purpose, and at the same time
make a quit-claim to your son David of all your real estate, you may
then have twenty-four hours to make what other arrangements you please
in this vicinity, and nothing shall be revealed until the expiration of
that time; otherwise I shall immediately have you arrested for robbery
and arson. I give you ten minutes in which to make your choice.'

'It is a false charge, sir; the whole of it is a falsehood, started by
that old idiot the Widow Brown and her son; and I intend they shall
smart well for it--that they shall, sir.'

The Commodore then gave a signal to James Montjoy, who left the room,
and turning himself to Mr. Cross: 'It is a solemn thing for you, sir, to
violate the precepts of the Almighty, for sooner or later, the hour of
just retribution overtakes the delinquent. I am not sitting in judgment
over you, Mr. Cross; but I cannot shut my eyes against the marked tokens
of an overruling Providence, that have been exhibited in bringing to
light what you supposed was beyond the reach of detection.'

At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Rutherford, followed by James
Montjoy and the sailor, entered the room. Cross looked at them with
intense anxiety until his eye fell on the latter; he started as though
pierced by a ball, and then stood transfixed with amazement, until
gradually he settled down into his seat, and stared wildly on the floor.

'Your ten minutes has about expired, Mr. Cross; what do you decide?'

'I am at your mercy, gentlemen, do what you think proper. As to the
papers, they are not in my hands, nor ever have been.'

'We know that, Mr. Cross; but as you were intending to take possession
of them this evening, you cannot be very ignorant where they are to be
found.'

'Who told you that?'

'It is sufficient, sir, that we know the fact. As I have just said to
you, the searching eye of the Almighty has been upon you through all the
windings of your crooked way, and has brought out all your sin. The
wretched beings who have been dependent upon you as hirelings, and whom
you have ground to the dust, and trained for your wicked purposes; the
woman who has been in reality your lawful wife, although not known nor
acknowledged by you as such, the mother of your only child, yet treated
by you as the off-scouring of the earth; the son who, by your
instigation, had like to have been the ruin of a lovely girl--all are
ready to testify against you. Under such circumstances, Mr. Cross, the
mercy offered you is very tender in contrast with your iniquity.'

Cross was now indeed sensible that his hour of trial had come: large
drops of sweat stood upon his forehead, and he trembled like a reed in
the tempest.

'Michael Foster has the papers in his possession; but you must take him
by surprise and watch him close, for if he suspects what you want, they
will be destroyed before you can help yourselves.'

'He is a justice of the peace, I understand, Mr. Cross.'

'Yes.'

'You will please go with us, then, sir; you can execute the deed there,
which you know was one of the terms I stated to you. You have one made
out, have you not, Mr. Rutherford?'

'I have, sir.'

The Commodore, without further remark, signified his wish to be on the
way: and soon Mr. Cross was seated on an easy cushion in a fine
carriage, and with such company as he never had the honor of riding with
before; but I presume it was a matter of secret rejoicing with him that
the journey would be a short one--the soft seat and the good company
were thorns and fire to him.

Commodore Trysail alone left the carriage, and as Mr. Foster opened his
door, entered without waiting for any ceremony.

'Mr. Foster, I presume, sir?'

'At your service, sir,' making a low bow to the Commodore.

'You are a justice of the peace?'

'I am, sir.'

'Gentlemen,' said the Commodore--calling to those in the carriage--'the
Esquire is at home, you can come in.'

Mr. Foster began to be much surprised, not only at the peculiar manner
of his visitor in his own abrupt entrance, but at calling, without
leave, a coach-load of folks to follow: his looks however manifested
something more than surprise, when he found himself honoured with the
presence of those who now entered his apartment.

'Mr. Rutherford, that deed, if you please.' The tones of the Commodore's
voice assumed a harshness very unusual with him of late years; his keen
eye had penetrated into the character of the man he had now to deal
with. 'Mr. Cross wishes you, sir,' addressing Foster, 'to witness his
signature, and take an acknowledgment of his free act and deed.'

Foster bowed again, and without reply handed the pen and ink to neighbor
Cross. He then sat down and wrote very rapidly, although it was
impossible for him to conceal the agitation which his nerves suffered.

'And now, Mr. Foster,' said the Commodore, 'this matter being through
with, and Mr. Cross's business settled, your turn comes next.' Foster's
jaws, as we have seen, were rather long and flabby at best; but as he
dropped his chin and drew up his eyebrows in the surprise that came over
him as the Commodore turned upon him his keen, searching eye, he made up
altogether an expression rather wo-begone. 'You have had in your
possession for some time, Mr. Foster, a small trunk of papers, of but
little value to yourself, except as you have held them for the especial
benefit of your friend, Mr. Cross, here; but as he has wisely chosen to
give up doing business in these parts, they can be of no further use
either to him or to you; and as we have abundant proof of the guilt and
villany of you both, we shall therefore give you an equal chance,
provided you immediately surrender those papers. Twenty-four hours, sir,
you may have in order to settle up your business in this region; if,
after the expiration of that time, you are seen in this vicinity, I
pledge you my word, which has never been broken yet, that you shall be
arrested as an accomplice in the crimes of robbery and arson.'

Foster cast his eye at the downcast countenance of Cross, and read too
plainly in that the sad situation in which their affairs were placed.
Evasion would do nothing for his benefit in this case; he therefore,
without making the least reply, walked to a closet which opened into the
side of the large chimney, unlocked it, and began taking out sundry old
boxes, bottles, paper bundles, etc.; these he placed upon the floor,
until the whole cupboard was emptied. He then deliberately took from his
pocket another key, and applying it to the back of his cupboard, opened
another door there; and thrusting his long arm into the hole, brought
forth the long-lost trunk.

'What consummate villany!' exclaimed Mr. Rutherford, as he at once took
possession of his property.

'Open it at once, sir,' said the Commodore, 'and see that every thing is
right; for if but one paper is missing, they shall both swing for it
yet.'

But the papers were all correct, and both Foster and Cross felt in no
small degree relieved, even with the conditions then laid upon them,
when the party which had thus made each of them such an unexpected
visit, was again riding away. And here we may willingly, both for
ourselves and our readers, take leave of these two characters: they
suddenly disappeared--no one, excepting those in the secret,
understanding why; they have been blots upon the scene of our story, and
we bid adieu to them with pleasure.

CHAPTER XXXII.

There are spots in life, like bright days in the year, when all above,
around, and beneath, is so full of beauty, that the spirit bathes in the
luxurious scene almost to weariness.

Such a spot to Sam was the day of his return to his native village. The
cordial welcome of the good old Commodore, testifying his hearty
approbation of his gallant conduct by a commission that at once
established his independence; the warm embrace of friends who had grown
up with him from boyhood, and who exulted in his enviable prosperity;
the respectful consideration that was meted out to him on all sides; and
above all, the flow of ardent and almost overpowering affection that met
him in that home, where parents and sisters poured out into his own
glowing bosom the bursting fulness of their hearts--affection, respect,
honor, and independence, all in one united band, waiting upon him, and
doing all that in them lay, to make this hour of his life bright and
happy.

The meeting between Sam and the family of Major (now General) Morris,
was all that he could have asked. His old and first friend, the General,
was at a distant part of the country, engaged in active service; but
Lady Morris greeted him with the warmth of a mother, and Susan, that
once retiring and bashful little girl--a glance of whose eye filled the
heart of the little sailor-boy with rapture, who had refused bright
offers, and turned away from many an ardent lover--met our hero with a
manner so cordial, and with all the friendship of her heart unmasked,
that he could doubt no longer of the pure delight that awaited him.

Peter was almost beside himself with joy, and kept his crutches going
from morning till night, cutting off immense slices from his bundle of
"pig-tail," and stowing them away two at a time; talking to every one he
met, telling most incredible stories, and sometimes, when he thought he
could do it without being heard huzzaing, as though to let off
superfluous steam.

The Commodore, however, before the close of the day, damped his ardor
for a few moments, by bringing a serious charge against his favorite.

'It is all well, Peter. To be sure, Captain Sam has shown himself a man,
but what do you think about his letting prisoners slip out of his hands
in that way?'

'In what way, your honor?'

'By letting them go, and giving them one of the ship's best boats; and
finding them with compass and stores, and every thing so that they might
put off to sea, and hunt up their squadron--that looks too much like
comforting the enemy, Peter.'

'Pardon me, your honor, if I can't agree with your honor this time.
Captain Sam had good warrant for what he did.'

'Good warrant, Peter--from whom?'

'I heered our minister--God bless him--on the last Sabbath, and your
honor must have heered him too, say--and he took it from the good old
Book, your honor--"Love your inimies, do good to them that hate
you"--and more of the same kind.'

'But, Peter, you don't mean that we should deal with these men, whom you
have been so long wishing that the winds would blow high and dry,
according to the good Book, do you?'

Peter had to turn his quid over, and chew a little on it, for he
remembered having indulged some rather ungenerous feelings--especially
towards his blockading friends.

'It is hard, I allow, as your honor very well knows, to make a man's
conscience always jibe right when encountering an inimy to one's self,
or thinking of one that is dear to us that may be like to git into their
clutches; but when a man can catch a chance to show a little Christian
spirit towards them that seek his hurt, whether it be inimies to one's
country, or inimies to one's self, it will be better, as I take it, in
the long run, your honor, and at the last reckoning, that we should do
so.'

'Well, well, Peter, it is getting late, and you must be pretty well
tired to-day, you had better turn in.'

'Many thanks to your honor, and a long life.'

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Time is not only a destroyer; he is a healer too. Sorrow and joy attend
his flight; and each in turn commands the passing hour. The family of
Mr. Rutherford had laid aside the badges of mourning which, in token of
respect for the memory of one they loved, they had put on when William
Andrews died. The scene at his bedside had been ratified in secret, and
Henry Tracy felt every day more and more satisfied with the one he had
chosen. There was some little stir, indeed, when it was known abroad,
and some even hinted the idea that he had stooped a little in taking one
situated as Hettie had been; but none who really knew her ever thought
so. She was a bright star, dimmed awhile by clouds, and now to shine in
her true, simple lustre; her husband's heart, her husband's home, and
the circle over which his care rested, were now to feel her sweet and
womanly influence.

The pressure of trouble had done its bidden work upon the views and
habits of Mr. Rutherford; and then, by the same kind hand which brought
it, was it taken off. The recovery of his deed at once placed him in
possession of wealth; the immense value of the tract of timber was daily
becoming more evident, and he was in a few months enabled to commence
the joyful duty of liquidating the claim upon his homestead. He had
resolved, in time, to rebuild upon the ruins of his former house; but
prudence was his watchword now, and until every cent of the claim was
cancelled, he determined to remain in his present situation. He was,
however, for a few months occupying the beautiful mansion of Commodore
Trysail, at the special request of the latter, who was about to leave
for the south, where he and his lady expected to remain some time.

The pretty parsonage, which has been so long waiting for an occupant, is
at last full of life and bustle. The windows have been opened for some
days, and young female forms are seen moving about in all directions
through the house. Curtains are putting up and carpets putting down,
bedsteads are coming together, and large flat beds are lying about in
readiness to be put upon them; piles of chairs, tied together two and
two, are waiting to be released; and crates, boxes, and baskets, all
well filled, are being broken open and pulled to pieces, while from
them be borne off by nimble hands and feet all sorts of every thing, to
be arranged according to their different uses.

In the mean time there is a great stir at Mr. Rutherford's. Old ladies
and young ones have been much together there of late; vast quantities of
needles and pins and silk and thread have been in requisition; and then
the old family recipe-book has been for days lying on the large kitchen
table, with heaps of flour and butter alongside of it, and busy hands
have been violently engaged beating insides of eggs, and taking out the
insides of raisins, and stewing things together in all sorts of ways;
while at times a most savory smell would escape to the upper stories,
enough to set all the old women and young children running down stairs.

At length the meaning of all this bustle is unfolded. A wedding day has
come. Henry Tracy has been putting his pretty cottage in readiness to
receive the lovely girl, who has consented to be its mistress; and
Hettie, with the aid of her companions, and under the care of Mrs.
Rutherford, has been making preparations for the hour when she yields
herself in holy wedlock to the man she loves.

It has been a busy day with the family of Mr. Rutherford from early dawn
until near its close; and now, as evening approaches, lights are seen
glistening from every window in the large building, and through the wide
hall, flitting like fairies, young ladies are passing and repassing, and
going up and down with light and joyous steps, as though pleasure had
come down and shed her quickening charm upon them all. Carriages of
various kinds are landing groups of young and old, and then driving off
with speed. Attendants at the door in neat array, are leading the new
comers to the various rooms assigned for their reception. For a while
confusion seems to reign; then all subsides to quiet. The joyous laugh
and the lively call are hushed, and within the spacious parlor have all
assembled who are to be the witnesses of the solemn rite. Dazzling with
lights, scattered profusely round, and trimmed with evergreens and early
flowers, it seems a fairy bower; while, circling the room the
well-dressed guests, with staid and even solemn faces, are whispering to
each other, or eyeing with curious gaze the beautiful festoons that
grace the windows or sweep across the lofty ceiling.

It is the wedding day of the young pastor and his gentle bride, and
Henry Tracy enters the room, accompanied by his three bridesmen, Captain
Oakum, and James and Edward Montjoy. Soon after Hettie appears led by
Mr. Rutherford, who is to act as her father, and give away the bride.
She is simply dressed without ornament of any kind, but the long white
veil which falls in light and graceful folds from her head, and partly
hides her dark luxuriant hair. Her bridesmaids follow, Susan Morris, and
the sisters of the young Captain, and of James and Edward Montjoy.

'Before I present to you,' said Mr. Rutherford, addressing Mr. Tracy,
'this chief earthly treasure'--and he turned his eyes for a moment to
the blushing girl who was leaning on his arm--'I must beg your
acceptance of this paper, you will find when you look upon it, that you
are not taking to your home a portionless bride. She is as dear to the
hearts of Mrs. Rutherford and myself as if she were our own child, and
we have given to her the dowry of a daughter of our own. You chose her
as a poor portionless girl, and would have loved her as tenderly had she
continued so; but we all know that this is an uncertain world, and it is
as well to be prepared for its troubles. May God bless you both!'

One wedding, it is said, leads to another. Whether this is so or not, I
cannot say, but the signs are ominous; for James Montjoy and Mary Oakum
take long walks by moonlight, and Sam spends every evening at General
Morris's, and other tokens tell plainly what things are coming to.

But the long road which I and my readers have travelled together, must
here end: are you not glad of it?

J. OGDEN AND CO. LIMITED, PRINTERS. GREAT SAFFRON HILL, E.C.

THE LILY SERIES.

_Uniform with this Volume._

The design of this Series is to include no books except such as are
peculiarly adapted by their high tone, pure taste, and thorough
principle to be read by those persons, young and old, who look upon
books as upon their friends--only worthy to be received into the Family
Circle for their good qualities and excellent characters. In view of
this design, no author whose name is not a guarantee of the real worth
and purity of his or her work, or whose book has not been subjected to a
rigid examination, will be admitted into the "Lily Series."

    1 Leslie Goldthwaite.                 Whitney.
    2 The Gayworthys.                     Whitney.
    3 Faith Gartney's Girlhood.           Whitney.
    4 The Gates Ajar.                     Phelps.
    5 Little Women.                       Alcott.
    6 Good Wives.                         Alcott.
    7 Alone.                              Harland.
    8 I've been Thinking.                 A. S. Roe.
    9 Ida May.                            Langdon.
    10 The Lamplighter.                   Cumming.
    11 Stepping Heavenward.               Prentiss.
    12 Gypsy Breynton.                    Phelps.
    13 Aunt Jane's Hero.                  Prentiss.
    14 Wide, Wide World.                  Wetherell.
    15 Queechy.                           Wetherell.
    16 Looking Round.                     A. S. Roe.
    17 Fabrics: A Story of To-day.
    18 Our Village: Tales.                Mitford.
    19 The Winter Fire.                   Porter.
    20 Flower of the Family.              Prentiss.
    21 Mercy Gliddon's Work.              Phelps.
    22 Patience Strong's Outings.         Whitney.
    23 Something to Do.                   Alcott.
    24 Gertrude's Trial.                  Jefferis.
    25 The Hidden Path.                   Harland.
    26 Uncle Tom's Cabin.                 Stowe.
    27 Fireside & Camp Stories.           Alcott.
    28 The Shady Side.                    A Pastor's Wife.
    29 The Sunny Side.                    Trusta.
    30 What Katy Did.                     Coolidge.
    31 Fern Leaves.                       Fanny Fern.
    32 Shadows and Sunbeams.              Fanny Fern.
    33 What Katy did at School.           Coolidge.
    34 Shiloh.                            Jay.
    35 Pressing Heavenward.               Prentiss.
    36 Gypsy's Sowing & Reaping.          Phelps.
    37 Gypsy's Cousin Joy.                Phelps.
    38 Gypsy at Golden Crescent.          Phelps.
    39 Moral Tales.                       Edgeworth.
    40 Popular Tales.                     Edgeworth.
    41 Prince of House of David.          Ingraham.
    42 Anna Lee.                          Arthur.
    43 The Throne of David.               Ingraham.
    44 The Pillar of Fire.                Ingraham.
    45 Prudence Palfrey.                  Aldrich.
    46 Peep at Number Five.               Trusta.
    47 Marjorie's Quest.                  Gould.
    48 Our Village: Country Pictures.
    49 Woman our Angel.                   A. S. Roe.
    50 How Marjory Helped.                Carroll.
    51 Mabel Vaughan.                     Cumming.
    52 Melbourne House.                   Wetherell.
    53 Father Clement.                    Kennedy.
    54 Dunallan.                          Kennedy.
    55 From Jest to Earnest.              E. P. Roe.
    56 Jessamine.                         Harland.
    57 Miss Gilbert's Career.             Holland.
    58 The Old Helmet.                    Wetherell.
    59 Forging their Own Chains.          Cornwall.
    60 Daisy.                             Wetherell.
    61 Our Helen.                         May.
    62 That Lass o'Lowrie's.              Burnett.
    63 The Years that are Told.           Porter.
    64 Near to Nature's Heart.            E. P. Roe.
    65 Esther Douglas.                    Baskin.
    66 Knight of 19th Century.            E. P. Roe.
    67 Released.                          Baskin.
    68 Quinnebasset Girls.                Porter.
    69 Helen.                             Edgeworth.
    70 The Fairchild Family.              Sherwood.
    71 Freston Tower.                     Cobbold.
    72 Godwyn's Ordeal.                   Spender.
    73 Madeleine.
    74 Onward to the Heights of Life.
    75 Perry Harrison's Mistake.          "Pansy."
    76 Carl Krinken.                      Wetherell.
    77 Without a Home.                    E. P. Roe.
    78 Her Wedding Day.                   Harland.
    79 His Sombre Rivals.                 E. P. Roe.
    80 Odd or Even.                       Whitney.
    81 Julamerk.                          Webb.
    82 Martyrs of Carthage.               Webb.
    83 The Nun.
    84 The Basket of Flowers.
    85 Autobiography of a £5 Note.
    86 Pilgrims of New England.           Webb.
    87 Only a Dandelion.                  Prentiss.
    88 Follow Me.                         Prentiss.
    89 Nidworth.                          Prentiss.
    90 Nellie of Truro.
    91 An Original Belle.                 E. P. Roe.
    92 Barriers Burned Away.              E. P. Roe.
    93 Opening of a Chestnut Burr.        E. P. Roe.
    94 What Can She Do?                   E. P. Roe.
    95 A Day of Fate.                     E. P. Roe.
    96 A Face Illumined.                  E. P. Roe.
    97 He Fell in Love with his Wife.
    98 Driven Back to Eden.               E. P. Roe.
    99 What Katy Did Next.                Coolidge.
    100 Christine's Crook.                Hamer.
    101 Ben-Hur.                          Wallace.
    102 Four Girls at Chautauqua.         "Pansy."
    103 The Chautauqua Girls at Home.     E. P. Roe.
    104 Christie's Christmas.             "Pansy."
    105 True to the Best.                 Price.
    106 Drone's Honey.                    May.
    107 An Endless Chain.                 "Pansy."
    108 Ruth Erskine's Crosses.           "Pansy."
    109 Links in Rebecca's Life.          "Pansy."
    110 Mrs. Solomon Smith Looking on.
    111 The Earth Trembled.               E. P. Roe.
    112 The Gates Between.                Phelps.
    113 Found, yet Lost.                  E. P. Roe.
    114 Three People.                     "Pansy."
    115 Ester Ried.                       "Pansy."
    116 Ester Ried yet Speaking.          "Pansy."
    117 Julia Ried.                       "Pansy."
    118 The Fair God.                     Wallace.
    119 Sense and Sensibility.            Austen.
    120 Pride and Prejudice.              Austen.
    121 Emma.                             Austen.
    124 Honoured in the Breach.
    125 An Unexpected Result.             E. P. Roe.
    126 Naomi.                            Webb.
    127 Beulah.                           Wilson.

Transcriber's Note: Hyphen variations left as printed.


my forest walks. As is well known to all botanists, our sweet swamp
Azalea (Azalea viscosa) has its corolla covered on the outside with
innumerable clammy and glandular hairs. Each hair is a prolongation of
the cuticle, and is surmounted by a purple and globular band. In the bud
these hairs appear to cover the whole surface of the flower, but when
the corolla expands they are seen to occupy the midrib of the petals as
well as the tube of the corolla. These glandular hairs are efficacious
fly-catchers, but what the object is in thus securing insect prey I will
not pretend to state. I have been amusing myself, if any such
apparently cruel occupation can be considered entertaining, in watching
the capture of flies by the Azaleas. When I first brought the flowers
home, many small insects, as winged ants, were entrapped amidst the
hairs. These have remained alive several days, still vainly struggling
for freedom. As the house-flies are abundant in my room, it occurred to
me that I might extirpate the pests, and at the same time learn
something of the process of insect-catching. I have not noticed that the
powerful fragrance of the blossoms attracts the house-fly, although I
have no doubt that it does the smaller insects. It seemed to be
accidental when the house-flies were captured. I exposed a number of
buds and fully-opened blossoms on a sunny window-sill thronged with
flies. It was not many minutes before I had several captives. A mere
touch of a fly's leg to the glutinous hairs was sufficient for his
detention. A struggle only made matters worse, as other legs were by
this means brought in contact with the glands. These emit long glairy
threads, which fasten to the hairs of the flies' legs. They may be drawn
out to a great length and tenuity, still retaining their strength. If
two buds are pressed together, and then drawn apart, innumerable threads
may be seen to bind them. There is a complete network of them between
the various glands. They will confine the strongest fly; he is at once
held like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. Under the microscope the legs
of the fly are seen to be covered with the secretion, which is perfectly
white and transparent. In one attempt to escape, a house-fly lifted a
flower bodily from the window-sill, perhaps a quarter of an inch, but at
once sank back exhausted amidst the hairs. One, after long efforts,
escaped, but seemed incapable of using its legs; it flew away readily.
In one instance I have found the dried remains of a small insect
embedded amidst the hairs, but cannot say whether its juices were in any
way absorbed by the plant. If such assimilation takes place, what is its
purpose? Can this phenomenon of fly-catching be accidental, or is some
nice purpose concealed in it? I merely state the facts as I have
observed them; perhaps others can supply further information."

NOTE III.

ON THE SOLANUM TRIBE.

It is very curious to compare the two following passages of two great
masters of style--Ruskin and Michelet--both writing of the tribe to
which belongs the Tomato. Ruskin, in _The Queen of the Air_, p. 91,
says:--

     "Next, in the Potato, we have the scarcely innocent underground
     stem of one of a tribe set aside for evil, having the deadly
     nightshade for its queen, and including the henbane, the
     witch's mandrake, and the worst natural curse of modern
     civilisation--tobacco. And the strange thing about this tribe is,
     that though thus set aside for evil, they are not a group
     distinctly separate from those that are happier in function. There
     is nothing in other tribes of plants like the form of the bean
     blossom; but there is another family with forms and structure
     closely connected with this venomous one. Examine the purple and
     yellow bloom of the common hedge Nightshade;--you will find it
     constructed exactly like some of the forms of the Cyclamen; and
     getting this clue, you will find at last the whole poisonous and
     terrible group to be--sisters of the Primulas.

     "The nightshades are, in fact, primroses with a curse upon them,
     and a sign set in their petals by which the deadly and condemned
     flower may always be known from the innocent one,--that the stamens
     of the nightshades are between the lobes, and of the primulas
     opposite the lobes of the corolla."

Now for M. Michelet. In _La Sorcière_, p. 119, he writes of the herbs
used by the witches:--

     "Ce que nous savons le mieux de leur médecine, c'est qu'elles
     employaient beaucoup, pour les usages les plus divers, pour calmer,
     pour stimuler, une grande famille de plantes, équivoques, fort
     dangereuses, qui rendirent les plus grands services. On les nomme
     avec raison, les _Consolantes_ (Solanées).

     "Famille immense et populaire, dont la plupart des espèces sont
     surabondantes, sous nos pieds, aux haies, partout. Famille,
     tellement nombreuse, qu'un seul de ses genres a huit cents espèces.
     Rien de plus facile à trouver, rien de plus vulgaire. Mais ces
     plantes sont la plupart d'un emploi fort hasardeux. Il a fallu de
     l'audace pour en préciser les doses, l'audace peut-être du génie.

     "Prenons par en bas l'échelle ascendante de leurs énergies. Les
     premières sont tout simplement potagères et bonnes à manger (les
     aubergines, les tomates, mal appelées pommes d'amour). D'autres de
     ces innocentes sont le calme et la douceur même, les molènes
     (bouillon blanc), si utiles aux fomentations.

     "Vous rencontrez au dessus une plante déjà suspecte, que plusieurs
     croyaient un poison, la plante miellée d'abord, amère ensuite, qui
     semble dire le mot de Jonathas: 'J'ai mangé un peu de miel, et
     voilà pourquoi je meurs.' Mais cette mort est utile, c'est
     l'amortissement de la douleur. La douce-amère, c'est son nom, dut
     être le premier essai de l'homoeopathie hardie, qui, peu à peu,
     s'éleva aux plus dangereux poisons. La légère irritation, les
     picotements qu'elle donne purent la désigner pour remède des
     maladies dominantes de ces temps, celles de la peau."

Speaking of magical herbs reminds one of the "moly," which Mercury gives
to Ulysses, and which enabled him to withstand the enchantments of
Circe. This "moly" with its white blossom is particularly well known to
me, for, when I first came to my present house, the wood near the lodge
was so full of it that it seemed as if a dinner of onions was for ever
being cooked: I found it exceedingly hard to eradicate. "Moly" is none
other than the Garlic, and Circe had apparently the same objection to it
as had the wife of the Merchant of Bagdad in the _Arabian Nights_.

By the way, what could Mr. Tennyson have been thinking of when he
describes his lotus-eaters as

    "Propt on beds of amaranth and _moly_"?

Another poet too, now a well-known divine, once spoke of

            "--souls that pure and holy
      Live and love and prosper well,
    Leaning aye on myrrh and _moly_,
      Melilote and asphodel."

NOTE IV.

ON THE SUNFLOWER OF THE CLASSICS.

I have been much puzzled to know what was the Sunflower of classical
story,--in other words, what was the flower into which, according to the
legend, Clytie was so sadly changed.

I had always supposed, as nearly every one supposes, that it was what
_we_ call the Sunflower (the Helianthus), with its upright stem and
large radiated disc. But, first of all, I found, as a matter of fact,
that the Helianthus does _not_ follow the course of the Sun, and that
various blossoms of the same plant may at the same time be facing in
different directions. And then I found, what of course was fatal, that
the Helianthus is not a European plant at all, and first came to us from
North America.

Having consulted _Notes and Queries_ in vain, I determined to look into
the matter more closely, as it seemed to me a rather curious question.

If the Sunflower of the Classics was not the Helianthus, and if this, as
I imagine, only obtained its name from its flowers, which in some way
resemble the old pictures of the Sun, could it be the plant we know as
_Heliotrope_? The name of course means "turning Sunward," but again the
name is no guide to us; the scented flowers of the Heliotrope do not, so
far as I know, turn to the Sun, and in any case the plant is of Peruvian
and not of European origin.

I then fell back upon the classical authors themselves. I got nothing
very distinct from Theophrastus, and moreover it is Ovid, to whom we
chiefly owe our knowledge of the story. He tells us that when her lover
Phoebus left her, poor Clytie "still gazed on the face of the departing
god, and bent her looks on him. It is said that she remained rooted to
the ground; of her fresh bloom ('color'), part is turned by livid pallor
into bloodless leaves, on part a blush remains, and a flower most like a
Violet has covered all her face. Held firmly by the root, she still
turns to the Sun she loves, and, changed herself, she keeps her love
unchanged."

Pliny says the Heliotropium "turns with the Sun, in cloudy weather even,
so great is its sympathy with that luminary. At night, as though in
regret, it closes its blue flowers."

What then can this flower be, a blue flower, which turns towards the
Sun?

I next examined the magnificent volumes of Sibthorp's _Flora Græca_.
There is there indeed a European "Heliotropium," "Heliotropium supinum,"
but this surely cannot be the flower of Clytie; the blossom is quite
insignificant ("flore minimo") and _white_. Then there are two Crotons
(Tinctorium and Villosum) which are also locally called Heliotropium,
and which grow in Crete and Lemnos ("ex quâ paratur Tournesol"), but
their flowers again are hardly more noticeable and are _yellow_.

Foiled at every point, I thought I would at least see what in _England_
was the traditionary Sunflower, but I am hardly any wiser.

Gerarde says that Valerius Cordius calls the dwarf Cistus Helianthemum,
and Solis flos or Sunne-flower. He quotes Pliny as calling it also
"Heliocalliden, or the Beautie of the Sunne;" and adds, "which if it be
the Sunneflower, yet there is another of the same name, but which may be
taken for the right it is hard to tell (but that experience teacheth
us), seeing Plinie is so breefe."

Gerarde has also a chapter on the "Tornesole," and says, "there be five
sorts of Tornesole, differing one from another in many notable points,
as in greatnesse and smallnesse, in colour of flowers, in forme and
shape," and then he describes the varieties of "Tornesoles" or
"Heliotropium."

He says, "the Græcians call it Heliotropium;"--"it is named
Heliotropium, not because it is turned about at the daily motion of the
sunne, but by reason it flowreth in the summer solstice, at which time
the sunne being farthest gone from the equinoctiale circle, returneth to
the same;" but he adds that the French and Italians call it "Turnesol,"
and says, "it is also called Herba Clitiæ, whereof the poet hath these
verses,

    "'Herba velut Clitiæ semper petit obvia solem,
    Sic pia mens Christum, quo prece spectet, habet.'"

Cowley's Sunflower is called in a foot-note Chrysanthemum Peruvianum,
but is probably a form of Helianthus. The flower is supposed to speak,
and claims to be a _child_ of the Sun, for,

    "My orb-like aspect bound with rays
    The very picture of his face displays;

and again,

    "I still adore my sire with prostrate face,
    Turn where he turns, and all his motions trace."

So after all I am as much in the dark as ever. Was the mysterious
flower, as some suggest, a Calendula (Marygold), or an Aster? I cannot
tell, and only know that neither answers the description. On the whole
then I am disposed to wonder whether either Ovid or Pliny knew much more
about the matter than ourselves, and I may some day come to doubt
whether Clytie was ever turned into a Sunflower at all.[13]

  [13] One of our very best living authorities on such a subject has sent
  me the suggestion that the common Salsafy, or possibly the Anagallis,
  may be the flower, but he adds (agreeing with Gerarde), "the word
  Heliotropium does not mean a flower which turns to the sun, but which
  flowers at the solstice."

NOTE V.

FLOWERS AND THE POETS.

Both the flowers of the garden and what Campbell calls "wildings of
nature" have had their bards, and in the case of certain flowers the
association with a poet is so strong that the sight of the flower will
recall the verse. Of course this is chiefly so as regards the less
familiar flowers. No one, not even Sappho, has an exclusive possession
in the Rose; but who would care to dispute Shelley's right to the
Sensitive Plant, or Wordsworth's to the lesser Celandine? The poets,
however, have sometimes more of a love than a knowledge of plants, and
Milton talks of the "twisted Eglantine" in confusion between the
Sweetbrier and the Honeysuckle.

It is interesting to see the different ways in which flowers are
treated by the poets. Shakspeare, no doubt, loved them in his way, but
after all, there are but few passages in which flowers are used
otherwise than as an illustration or an emblem. There are, indeed,
Titania's flowered bank, and Perdita's garden,--redolent of herbs and
gay with Violets, Primroses, and Daffodils, but where no Gillyflower was
allowed to grow,--and poor Ophelia's melancholy blossoms, and the song
in _Love's Labour's Lost_, and that is nearly all. Shakspeare often
speaks of Roses, but almost always, excepting in the scene at the Temple
Gardens, by way of compliment or comparison. The _musk_-rose, indeed,
appears in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, and this Rose, which is now
quite unknown to most of us, was evidently a favourite in Elizabethan
gardens, for Bacon says of it that, next the white double Violet (which
is also almost lost), the musk-rose "yeelds the sweetest smell in the
aire."

But Shakspeare's favourite flowers seem to have been the Primrose, the
Violet, the Pansy, and, above all, the Cowslip. He must often have
recalled his boyish walks in spring along the Avon, and remembered how
the low-lying fields of Stratford were all sweet and yellow with the
Cowslip. And so it is within a Cowslip's bell that Ariel hides, and
Cowslips are Titania's pensioners on whose ears the fairies must hang
pearls, and when the fields of France are desolated the "freckled
Cowslip" does not grow there any more, and the mole on Imogen's breast
is "like the crimson drops i' the bottom of a Cowslip."

Before passing from Shakspeare, I should like to call the attention of
the directors or managers of New Place to the absurdity of the garden,
which they are supposed to keep up in remembrance of Shakspeare. I
chanced to visit it a summer or two ago, and, instead of finding an
Elizabethan garden with flowers associated with Shakspeare and his
times, I saw little but a wretched ribbon border of starveling
Calceolarias, scrubby Pelargoniums, and miserable Perillas. Such a
garden is a mockery, and would be more suggestive and more pathetic if
left wild to the growths of nature.

If Milton enjoyed more completely the luxury of gardens, it is safe to
say that he knew less of separate flowers than Shakspeare. He not only
speaks of the Eglantine as "twisted," but he calls the Cowslip "wan,"
the Violet "glowing," and the Reed "balmy." He makes Roses and Crocuses
bloom together in Paradise, and Hyacinths and Roses in the gardens of
Hesperus, while Lycid's "laureate hearse" is to be strewn with Primrose
and Woodbine, Daffodil and Jessamine. Paradise and the gardens of
Hesperus are, of course, ideal gardens, which may be superior to our
times and seasons, but the same excuse cannot hold good for the flowers
of the "Lycidas," and it is tolerably clear that Milton's special
knowledge was somewhat vague. But, on the other hand, what a sensuous
pleasure he has in gardens! He is not thinking of Elizabethan gardens,
but such gardens as he may have seen in Italy, or read of in Tasso or
Boccaccio. The west winds fling around the cedared alleys sweet smells
of Nard and Cassia, or the covert is of inwoven shade of Laurel and
Myrtle fenced by Acanthus and odorous shrubs. The rich rhythm of his
lines seems to breathe perfume and delight.

And the reason why, in later years at least, the scent rather than the
sight of flowers was dear to Milton, is known to all of us, for has he
not himself told us how,

                          "Not to me returns
  Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn,
  Or _sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose_?"

He could still drink in the perfumed air of gardens, though only memory
could recall the form and colour of those flowers, which he would never
see again.[14]

  [14] I remember how years ago I was struck with a beautiful little poem
  about a blind man, written by Mr. James Payn, the well-known novelist.
  The lines are quite worth repeating, and will be new to many:--

      "There an old man, far in his wintry time,
      Sits under his porch, while the roses climb;
      But the breath of its sweetness is all he knows
      Of the glory about the fair round rose;
      The lilies that sway in the brook beneath,
      So cold and white in the beauty of death,
      Are to him far less than the rushes tall
      When the wind is bowing them one and all,
      Like the voice of nature so soft and kind,
      That whispers how fair she is to _the blind_."

Only one English poet has surpassed Milton in his love of gardens. Like
Milton he probably knew little of particular flowers, but he revelled in
the scent and colour of Roses and of Lilies. It is Andrew Marvell; who,
it is to be feared, is far less remembered than he deserves to be.
Marvell's gardens are all of the true English character, and his
description of Lord Fairfax's, though somewhat quaint and fanciful, has
many touches as natural as they are graceful. That the flowers should
stand on parade, like soldiers, through the day, and fold up at night in
tents, in which bees remain as sentinels, is a far-fetched conceit
enough; but nothing can be better than many of his lines. Was it his own
garden at Highgate of which he thought, when he spoke of the garden in
which Sylvio's fawn was wont to hide?

    "I have a garden of my own,
    But so with roses overgrown
    And lilies, that you would it guess
    To be a little wilderness."

Cowley's love of a garden was of quite another kind. He cared about it
as a horticulturist, and knew the various plants and their qualities;
but he never luxuriated in it like Milton or like Marvell. His elaborate
poem is interesting, if only to show the flowers that were cultivated in
his day, and it is curious to find the Tomato (or love-apple) grown for
beauty and not for use, and the _Canna Indica_, which is hardly common
with us even now, mentioned as among the ordinary flowers of his time.
On the whole, however, there are very few lines of Cowley about flowers
(we are not speaking of anything else) which are worth quoting or
remembering.

Herrick's use of flowers is very different. He loved them, no doubt, and
is always talking about them, and making them useful.

    "He twists his coronals of fancy
    Out of all blossoms,"

if I may so misapply a line from Lord Houghton's _Letters of Youth_. He
makes moralities out of Daffodils, and compliments from Carnations, and
warnings from Rosebuds. Charming as many of his poems about flowers are,
it is impossible not to feel that the motive of the poem is not the
flower itself, but the Anthea or Sappho or Julia, to whom the flower is
to teach a lesson of the power of love or the uncertainty of life.

It is, of course, impossible to speak of all the poets who have written
about flowers, for probably the list would include them all; but the
five I have mentioned are perhaps the most characteristic, though there
are memorable lines in Chaucer, Spenser, Burns, and Keats, and more
especially in Wordsworth.

From Byron there is singularly little to quote; but no English poet has
given so perfect a description of a garden as has Shelley in "The
Sensitive Plant." How delicately he paints each flower, and how he makes
us see them all, as we tread with him

            "The sinuous paths of lawn and of moss
    Which led through the garden along and across;
    Some open at once to the sun and the breeze,
    Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees."

Of living English poets perhaps Mr. Tennyson alone shows any real love
for flowers. And this love is scarcely shown so much in the well-known
song in "Maud" as by little touches here and there--the "long green box
of mignonette" which the miller's daughter has set on her casement
edge,--the "wild marsh-marygold" which "shines like fire in swamps" for
the happy May Queen,--or the water-lilies which blossom round the island
of Shalott. And who can forget the stanza in "In Memoriam"?--

    "Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
    The little speedwell's darling blue,
    Deep tulips dasht with fiery dew,
    Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire."

Of American poets, Mr. Longfellow has, rather strangely, written nothing
very memorable about flowers; but there are some pretty verses of Mr.
Bryant's, and an occasional good line of Mr. Emerson's, as where he
speaks of the Gentian as "blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover."

As we once again look round upon the poets that have sung, it is clear
that their favourite flowers have been the Rose and the Daisy,--the one
recalling all the delights of the summer garden, the other all the
freshness of the open field,--the one loved for its beauty, the other
cherished for its constancy.

    "The rose has but a summer reign,
    The daisy never dies;"

says Montgomery, in one of the best known of his poems. Cowslips,
Violets, Daffodils, and Pansies are probably the next favourites.
Painters have done more for Lilies than the poets have; and Carnations
and the later flowers of the year have never made much place for
themselves in the poetry of England. The English garden of to-day still
awaits its laureate, and, except where, in Mr. Allingham's "Therania,"

    "Vase and plot burn scarlet, gold and azure,"

I scarcely know of a description of modern "bedding-out," and sincerely
hope that the present fashion may disappear before the thankless task is
undertaken.

           LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.

Transcriber's note:

  In general every effort has been made to replicate the original text
  as faithfully as possible, including possible instances of no longer
  standard spelling and punctuation, and variable spelling (notably,
  Shakspeare/Shakespeare). Variations in hyphenation and compound words
  have been preserved.

  The following changes were made to correct apparently typographical
  errors:

  p. x "Mowing--Brds--The Swallow" Brds changed to Birds
  p. 50 "There is another Lancahire" Lancahire changed to Lancashire
  p. 66 "bed of Clematis Jackmanni" Jackmanni changed to Jackmanii
  p. 92 "epithet of _filamentosa_."" quotation mark removed
  p. 96 "can undertand how appropriate" undertand changed to understand