IT cannot be thought amiss, if one reflects a moment, that we endeavor, even in this ungracious and decaying period of the year, to throw open to his attention that most pleasant domain of Priapus, a ' garden. For what will insure a more substantial benefit? what is more disposed to lead the mind to a consideration of its destiny, than to contemplate Nature thus divesting herself of her many-colored and gorgeous attire, to assume for a season the icy robes of her wintry tomb?

Nature exhibits a yearly tragedy, which, (as a perfect tragedy is the noblest production of the human mind,) by virtue of its perfection and vastness, and springing, we may say, from the Eternal Mind, is highly worthy of our contemplation, among the many objects presented to us in the progress of our checkered existence. In early spring, the famous, actress, summoned, as it were, by the melodious orchestra of the birds, steps forth from her sepulchre and icy chains, as we may conjecture our Earth sprang from ancient chaos, with a brilliant chaplet of flowers about her head, and attired in a mantle of the noblest green. Hostile spirits of the air at once assail her, though many with wonderful benevolence comfort and bless. Some rob her of her cherished decorations; but others, through compassion, present her with unmeasured harvests of grain and fruit. And so she fares, until, completing a strange series of calamities and benefits, her desperate foes finally triumph, and wreath about her dismantled form a winding sheet of snow!

Here, as in the representation of a well-written and well-acted play, we love to view and investigate every scene, even to the final dropping of the curtains. And, while there are vastly many and instructive

subjects for investigation and reflection in this tragedy of Nature, which we have dimly pictured, her chaplet alone, so complete and beautiful, shall we subject to a particular review. We propose, then, after a quiet stroll in the natural, to pass for a second and more critical ramble into the intellectual garden.

Reader, if thou hast ever seen a garden in the full majesty of its blossoming, thou canst more than keep wing with my imagination, as it strives to erect the semblance of one, that may be pleasing, even amid the wailings of this dying year.

Now open the gate; and, passing through a dense vine-leaf shade underneath a bower-ach heavy with clusters, we enter upon the enjoyment of most delicious odors, and views of flowers, so manifold and illustrious, that they rise above even the perfect art of description. Here beds of roses bloom, that might most successfully vie with the "biferi rosaria Paesti"-bells, modest and charming as the lily-of-thevalley and lilies-of-the-valley too. There are tulip-cups of a thousand dyes, carnations and jessamines. Yonder innumerous blossoms of endless shapes and complexions mingle their beauties together, and spread a glory over the ground, that the eye does not often visit. On every hand flourish trees, in the prime of a full score of years, Nature's aviaries, which are preparing hereafter to overstore the fruiteries from their burdened boughs, and now diversify the prospect with green and shade. Bubbling rills from spouting lions and swans, "dryads and hamadryads," creep to every nook, and irrigate the thirsty plants, or, diffused in vapor, temper towards them the hot approaches of the sun, and in the still slumbering of the night crown them with dewy coro-* nals. Parterres of grass and scattered blooms, opening here and there, offer a grateful repose in their variegated laps; and most enchanting walks, fringed with the evergreen box and the choicest flowerets, invite our wandering. Latticed temples and arches, over which the vine and honeysuckle have clambered in exceeding luxuriance, disclose the attractions of a sumptuous retreat during a burning day, and a likelihood of decoying slumbers and pleasant dreams. In such a garden, thou, illustrious Bard of Mantua, didst long ago love to muse; in such, thou, Historian of rebellious wars in Heaven, and man's unmanly fall, else whence arose that miracle of Paradise, at sight of which he was well amazed, that fiend Archangel, although, when purity and love beamed in his eye and graced his heart, he had dwelt amid the perfect splendors of the City of God.

When I have entered upon such a scene, a conceit has often arisen within my mind, that I could not well expel from it. As I have contemplated the immense variety of the flowers-their beauty and perfection-so gloriously clad in the garments of the rainbow-how some bend their heads towards the east to salute the rising sun, or towards the west to view his departure, and, with the evening breeze, sigh a farewell-how some open with the opening, and close with the closing day-how others cast forth but one breath of fragrance on the air, and die ere the morning be fully awake-and the wonderfully fleeting existence of them all, I could but feel that they compose a superior order

of existence to the vast family of insensible creation, and that, could their delicate pistil-tongues express, they would display an intelligence of so great a compass, that one could while away many a pleasant hour with them in delightful conversation. If we were to interrogate them, they might tell us, in silver tones, that the same Omnipotence that built the mountains, fashioned them-that the same hand that paints the rainbow on the clouds, painted them-and that the same destiny that bears immortal man from his home beneath the skies, will soon withdraw their colors and their lustre, and give their withered substance to the dalliance of wild winds. Aye, I have questioned them, and their dumb tongues did seem to murmur. Methought I heard it all, as from spirits breathing in the air.

Here is a school for all, whose pure influences and chastenings will benefit the body, as well as the soul. The invalid may breathe a transient vitality into his crumbling "tabernacle," and the sceptic immortal vigor into his distempered spirit.

"The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;

The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown,
And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort,
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause
For such immeasurable woe appears,

These Flora banishes, and gives the fair

Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own."

True, and many a mind, ruffled like an angry sea, misanthropic as the Prince of Hell, incredulous of all things, save of its own dark beliefs, has received a calm and a comfort by the study of a simple flower. There has been more than Picceola since the decoration of Eden. Philosophy will here find wisdom; wisdom, faith; and faith, GOD.

That I deem a worthy avocation for man, which benefits and ennobles his being, and presents the sanction of virtuous antiquity. The cultivation of flowers is eminently such. Sufficient has been already remarked to show that it confers a dignity and tone on the mind and character, demanding our ambition. But this excellent power I would not claim for Horticulture alone. Nature, through all her parts, supplies and invites to fountains of unfailing purity, where the soul can quaff virtue and vigor eternal. And that famous injunction, which the oracular Pythia responded to the inquiring Cicero, may, in its true original import, be cast into the ears of all-" Study Nature."

But who could dishonor the hoary locks of antiquity? Who could despise the whisper that breathes from the tomb? Illustrious ancients! your footsteps, planted in wisdom, disclose, that the authority of your character may thitherward direct our feet. Hearken now to the voice of the past-consider the excellency of the days that are fled. They tell us of that Paradise, by Jehovah appointed and adorned, wherein was embraced,

"To all delight of human sense exposed,

In narrow room, Nature's whole wealth, yea more,

A heaven on earth."

Infinite wisdom stationed his first human creations in a garden; but after the devil, with hellish tongue of enchantment, had lured away their virtue and obedience, it was Infinite Mercy who drove them thence. The general beauty could have but contrasted so fearfully with their own great deformity, as to engender frenzy; and frenzy, death. I can well imagine how the poorest exhibition of an humble flower might inflict so sharp a sting on the corroded consciences of the depraved, as to make the strong man tremble.

They tell us, likewise, of the stupendous hanging gardens of Nebuchadnezzar, rising in colossal grandeur, arch on arch, to heaven; of the gardens of the Esquilae, where Virgil and Horace strolled, inhaling into their souls the ethereal power of "poesy divine;" of the gardens of the Hesperidae, prolific in ambrosial flowers and fruit of gold,"Hesperian tables true."

Return now from the shores of antiquity; and where, in these modern days, in regions temperate or torrid, in what illustrious city will you not find gardens for the public foot? Near what lowly cottage will you not find some spot consecrated to the daisy, the pink, or the glory-of-the-morning?

"E'en in the stifling bosom of the town,

A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms
That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled,
That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well

He cultivates."

Do not look upon this as a fable. Cowper was not wont to utter fables. Had this famous poet been born to grace antiquity, undoubtedly he would have been deified as the God of Truth and Virtue. Well, then, we witness everywhere, in the breasts of all mankind, a wonderful affection for Flora, displaying itself in their just regard for, and fond attention towards, her beautiful offspring.

But such extensive and magnificent scenes for floral enjoyment, as we have thus far endeavored to convey an idea of, wealth alone is heir to. Poverty, however, need not despair of a sumptuous banquet. The wise ever encompass their desires with their means, and such wisdom is the eye of happiness. A sprig of mignionette, or, it may be, a monthly rose, or pink, that flourish in a mutilated flower-pot, will bestow upon their possessor a more pure and perfect gratification than the rich lord can feel in his blooming acres.

In the cool of the morn

ing, at noon, and at evening, he enters, and, seated in the midst of his wilderness of sweets, whilst his soul revels in its wide survey of decorated Nature, his heart dilates with pride and consequence, as he thinks, "all this is mine." But that maiden, in her lowly poverty, visits her little jar-garden hourly, tends it with parental fondness and ardor, and, with a heart pure as a spring of crystal waters, esteems herself a queen, though of so small a realm. She watches the gradual development of her favorite with that anxiety, and exultation too,

that a virtuous prince would entertain, if witnessing the advance of his subjects in learning and goodness.

Addison, in his admirable remarks on this topic, rails at a taste, prevalent in England in his time, so fastidious in regard to the planting and general arrangement of gardens, that he denominates it the Gothic. How justly, we know not; but what a scene of complicated magnificence arises at the name! What labor, nicety, and art, have been exercised! What symmetry and exquisite grace characterize every part! How unlike the grounds of the Chinese, who, above all other people, as a traveler has informed us, disdain the line and measure, preferring to show a genius in imitating the fantastic irregularity and oddity of Nature, rather than to practice the rules of art, which all can aim after with success.

That most excellent author, it is very manifest, did not admire the garden whence rural Nature was wholly expelled; but, where an untutored rudeness and careless luxuriance were discovered, there was he frequently, and with great delight. A kind of artificial ruggedness, in his view, was perfection in horticultural attainments. In mine, however, he carried his antipathy to grace and elegance, in such matters, an iota too far. If we wish to contemplate Nature in her wildness and eccentricity, we must ramble through the unshorn fields, worship in the primeval forests, and climb the savage mountains. There she is, enthroned, uncivilized, yet majestic.

But a garden appears to me to be a kind of school for the training and development of those tender and beautiful offspring, that are her chief glory, the blushing flowers. Among the ten thousand blooming shrubs, that salute the senses of a prince in his pleasure-grounds, there is not one which does not, in one or another region of the globe, flourish spontaneous and wild. But there, unloved and uncherished, they "blush unseen, and waste their sweetness," and die. They are not even decorated with so much perfection, as when, though beneath another sun, human attentions inspire additional charms. Then they can admit of the same comparison with different members of their species, that still adorn their native fields, as the cultivated and enlightened youth, with the untamed denizen of the woods. The garden is then, as it seems, a school for floral education; and why not study a grace and elegance in their training, commensurate with the native qualities of these most charming daughters of Nature and the Year?

But we have lingered long enough amid these scenes, which, enchanting though they be, are yet most immeasurably surpassed, in respect of interest and of profit, by these other, to which let us now introduce ourselves. Come, let us go, to give it a brief inspection, into the intellectual garden; or, rather, as we are never out of it, let us look about us, and note the prominent features of what our eyes may come upon.

There is not a creation in the boundless universe, though replete with wonders, so wonderful as the mind. But it is glorious as it is wonderful, and incomprehensible as it is glorious. It embraces the