The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 337, October 25, 1828

The infinite variety of roses, including the Guelder Rose; the Rhododendron, and other plants of similar growth, are fitted for the saloon, but they please best in the library. They should be intermingled with the bookcases, and stands filled with them should be placed wherever practicable. They are a wonderful relief to the student. There is always about them a something that infuses a sensation of placid joy, cheering and refreshing. Perhaps they were first introduced at festivals, in consequence of their possessing this quality. A flower garden is the scene of pleasurable feelings of innocence and elegance. The introduction of flowers into our rooms infuses the same sensations, but intermingles them more with our domestic comforts; so that we feel, as it were, in closer contact with them. The succession might be kept up for the greater part of the year; and even in winter, evergreens will supply their places, and, in some respects, contrast well with the season. Many fail in preserving the beauty of plants in their apartments, because they do not give them sufficient light. Some species do well with much less light than others. Light is as necessary to them as air. They should not be too often shifted from one place to another. Those who will take the trouble, may quicken the growth of some plants, so as to have spring flowers in winter. Thus Autumn and Spring might be connected; and flowers blooming in the Winter of our gloomy climate possess double attraction.

In the flower garden alcove, books are doubly grateful. As in the library ornamented with flowers they seem to be more enjoyed, so their union there is irresistibly attracting. To enjoy reading under such circumstances most, works of imagination are preferable to abstract subjects. Poetry and romance—"De Vere" and "Pelham"—lighter history—the lively letters of the French school, like those of Sevigné and others—or natural history—these are best adapted to peruse amidst sweets and flowers: in short, any species of writing that does not keep the mind too intently fixed to allow the senses to wander occasionally over the scene around, and catch the beauty of the rich vegetation. To me the enjoyment derived from the union of books and flowers is of the very highest value among pleasurable sensations.

For my own part, I manage very well without the advantage of a greenhouse. The evergreens serve me in winter. Then the Lilacs come in, followed by the Guelder Rose and Woodbine, the latter trained in a pot upon circular trellis-work. After this there can be no difficulty in choosing, as the open air offers every variety. I arrange all my library and parlour-plants in a room in my dwelling-house facing the south, having a full portion of light, and a fireplace. I promote the growth of my flowers for the early part of the year by steam-warmth, and having large tubs and boxes of earth, I am at no loss, in my humble conservatory, for flowers of many kinds when our climate offers none. The trouble attending them is all my own, and is one of those employments which never appear laborious. Those who have better conveniences may proceed on a larger scale; but I contrive to keep up a due succession, which to a floral epicure is every thing. To be a day in the year without seeing a flower is a novelty to me, and I am persuaded much more might be done with my humble means than I have effected, had I sufficient leisure to attend to the retarding or forcing them. I cover every space in my sitting-room with these beautiful fairy things of creation, and take so much delight in the sight of them, that I cannot help recommending those of limited incomes, like myself, to follow my example and be their own nurserymen. The rich might easily obtain them without; but what they procure by gold, the individual of small means must obtain by industry. I know there are persons to whom the flowers of Paradise would be objects of indifference; but who can imitate, or envy such? They are grovellers, whose coarseness of taste is only fitted for the grossest food of life. The pleasures "des Fleurs et des Livres" are, as Henry IV. observed of his child, "the property of all the world."

New Monthly Magazine

PRINCIPLES OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE

Shepherd. (Standing up.) It's on principles like these—boldly and unblushingly avoo'd here—in Mr. Awmrose's paper-parlour, at the conclusion o' the sixth brodd, on the evening o' Monday the 22nd o' September, Anno Domini aughteen hunder and twunty-aught, within twa hours o' midnicht—that you, sir, have been yeditin' a Maggasin that has gone out to the uttermost corners o' the yerth, wherever civilization or uncivilization is known, deludin' and distracktin' men and women folk, till it's impossible for them to ken their right hand frae their left—or whether they're standin' on their heels or their heads—or what byeuk ought to be perused, and what byeuk puttin intil the bottom o' pye-dishes, and trunks—or what awthor hissed, or what awthor hurraa'd—or what's flummery and what's philosophy—or what's rant and what's religion—or what's monopoly and what's free tredd—or wha's poets or wha's but Pats—or whether it's best to be drunk, or whether it's best to be sober a' hours o' the day and nicht—or if there should be rich church establishments as in England, or poor kirk ones as in Scotland—or whether the Bishop o' Canterbury, wi' twenty thousan' a-year, is mair like a primitive Christian than the Minister o' Kirkintulloch wi' twa hunder and fifty—or if folk should aye be readin' sermons or fishin' for sawmon—or if it's best to marry or best to burn—or if the national debt hangs like a millstone round the neck o' the kintra or like a chain o' blae-berries—or if the Millennium be really close at haun'—or the present Solar System be calculated to last to a' eternity—or whether the people should be edicated up to the highest pitch o' perfection, or preferably to be all like trotters through the Bog o' Allen—or whether the government should subsedeeze foreign powers, or spend a' its sillar on oursells—or whether the Blacks and the Catholics should be emancipawted or no afore the demolition o' Priests and Obis—or whether (God forgie us baith for the hypothesis) man has a mortal or an immortal sowl—be a Phoenix—or an Eister!—From the Noctes.

CURSES OF ABSENTEEISM

What is the condition of the country-seat of the absentee proprietor? The mansion-house deserted and closed; the approaches to it ragged and grass grown; the chimneys, "those windpipes of good hospitality," as an old English poet calls them, giving no token of the cheerful fire within; the gardens running to waste, or, perchance, made a source of menial profit; the old family servants dismissed, and some rude bailiff, or country attorney, ruling paramount in the place. The surrounding cottagers, who have derived their support from the vicinage, deprived of this, pass into destitution and wretchedness; either abandoning their homes, throwing themselves upon parish relief, or seeking provision by means yet more desperate. The farming tenantry, though less immediately dependent, yet all partake, more or less, in the evil. The charities and hospitalities which belong to such a mansion lie dormant; the clergyman is no longer supported and aided in his important duties; the family pew in the church is closed; and the village churchyard ceases to be a place of pleasant meeting, where the peasant's heart is gladdened by the kindly notice of his landlord.

It is the struggle against retrenchment, the "paupertatis pudor et fuga," which has caused hundreds of English families, of property and consideration, to desert their family places, and to pass year after year in residence abroad. At the close of each London season, the question too often occurs as to the best mode of evading return to the country; and the sun of summer, instead of calling back the landlord to his tenants, and to the harvests of his own lands, sends him forth to the meagre adventures of continental roads and inns.—Quarterly Rev.

SOLILOQUY

THE KING OF DARKNESS

On the Fallen Angels

They're gone to ply their ineffectual labour,—
To sow in guilt what they must reap in woe,—
Heaping upon themselves more deep damnation.
Thus would I have it.—Little once I thought,
When leagued with me in crime and punishment
They fell,—condemned to an eternity
Of exile from all joy and holiness—
And the first stains of sinfulness and sorrow
Fell blight-like o'er their cherub lineaments—
Myself the cause—Albeit too proud for tears,
Yet touch'd with their sad doom, I little thought
I e'er should hate them thus.—Yet thus I hate them,
With all that bitter agony of soul
Which is the punishment of fiends. Alas!
It was my high ambition, to hold sway,
Sole, paramount, unquestion'd, o'er a third
Of Heaven's resplendent legions:—Power and glory
Dwelt on them, like an elemental essence
That could not be destroyed.—I could not deem
That aught could so extinguish the pure fire
Of their sun-like beauty—yet 'tis changed!—
I gain'd them to my wish, and they are grown
Too hateful to be look'd on.—Thus I've seen
The frail fair dupe of amorous perfidy,
The victim of a smile,—by man beguiled—
Won to debasement, and then left in loathing:—
Alas! I cannot leave my fatal conquest!—
Man! would I were the humblest mortal wretch,
That crawls beneath yon shadowing temple's tower,
Under the sky of Canaan; so I might
Lay down this weight of sceptred misery,
And fly for ever from myself and these!
But Pride reproves the wish; and—it is useless;
The unatonable deeds of ages rise
Like clouds between me and the throne of Grace.
I may not hope,—or fear,—still unsubdued,
As when I ruled the anarchy of Heaven,
I stand in Fate's despite,—firm and impassive
To all that Chance, and Time, and Ruin bring.
—In that disastrous day, when this vast world
Shall, like a tempest-shaken edifice,
Rock into giant fractures—as the sound
Of the Archangel's trump, upon the deep,
Bids fall the bonds of nature, to let forth
Destruction's formless fiend from world to world,
Trampling the stars to darkness,—Even then,
Like that proud Roman exile, musing o'er
The dust of fallen Carthage, I shall stand,
Myself a solemn wreck, calm and unmoved
Among the ruins of the works of God.
And my last look shall be a look of triumph
O'er the fallen pillars of the deep and sky;
The wreck of nature by my deeds prepared—
Deeds—which o'erpay the power of Destiny.

Blackwood's Magazine

THE GATHERER

"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."
SHAKSPEARE.

ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER

By T. Hood

Why, Lover, why
Such a water-rover?
Would she love thee more
For coming half seas over?
Why, Lady, why
So in love with dipping?
Must a lad of Greece
Come all over dripping?
Why, Cupid, why