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have been felt in its integrity by such writers as Eliza Cook, Charles Mackay, Edwin Waugh, and W. C. Bennett. A volume lately produced by the latter gentleman, (*)


deserves a pleasant word or two from our pen,-the more especially as it was in the pages of the People's and Howitt's Journal, under our editorial sway, that some of the earliest and most popular of Mr. Bennett's poems appeared. These "songs" ring of the pure metal, and are full of true feeling and well-sustained power. Simple in style, they go home to the hearts and touch the warmest sympathies of their readers. Two of those included in the present volume, "Images! Images!" and "The Luck of Eden Hall," were originally published in this Magazine. The very fact, therefore, of our having so published them, must prove to our readers that we fully appreciate the charming simplicity and graceful tone for which their author is so justly celebrated. As a ballad writer, Mr. Bennett takes rank with the highest in the land.


is a very clever treatise on this ancient and noble game. By its means the amateur may soon become proficient in the "art and mystery" of this best of all indoor amusements. The author begins at the beginning, and leads the tyro, by almost imperceptible steps, to the practice of a Morphy or a Staunton. Besides telling all that is known of the history of chess, Captain Crawley gives practical illustrations of the various openings and endings of games and a collection of original problems, the study of which will doubtless be found of great utility to young players. The book also contains a chapter on Draughts that is both well written and instructive.

Just as we are about to close the preparation of "copy" for the October Magazine, we receive a parcel of books from Messrs. Routledge. Among others, are John Poole's excellent "Comic Sketches;" and Mrs. Eliza Winstanley's "Scenes from a Theatrical Life," an interesting tale well told. As our space is nearly exhausted, we can but afford a single paragraph.


These sketches of London life are the joint production of Mr. Frederick Town Fowler, the deceased manager of the Herald and Standard, a man of great ability and profound acquaintance of that useful kind of learning, a knowledge of life; and Mr. Frank Fowler, author of a most successful little book of Australian travel and manners, called "Southern Lights and Shadows." The brothers write so much in the same light, pleasant style, that it is difficult to tell which of the jottings have been jotted by the litterateur and which by the returned wanderer. The "Past and Last of Vauxhall" brings the series and the book to an appropriate end, for the style of both the volume and the place of entertainment is-to say it not unkindly-of a rather tinselly character. These three books belong to that excellent and cheap series issued by Messrs. Routledge, in which are to be found the principal fictions of Bulwer, James, Lover, Dumas, Maxwell, Marryatt, Disraeli, Cooper, Ainsworth, Hawthorne, Albert Smith, and a host of other scarcely less known popular writers. Our space is exhausted. And so, Vale!

(*) Songs by a Song-Writer. First Hundred. By W. C. Bennett, London: Chapman and Hall. 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.

(5) Chess: its Theory and Practice. By Captain Crawley, author of "Billiards," "Backgammon," ," "Whist," &c. London: C.H. Clarke, Paternoster Row. 18mo. cloth, elegant, 2/ (°) Dottings of a Lounger. By Frank Fowler. 12mo. Illustrated paper cover. 1s.



(Written expressly for the Odd-Fellows' Magazine.)

WHO amongst us does not love flowers, trees, and grass? We have only to cast our eyes around on the varied paths of life, and ample evidence will be afforded that there is an immortal influence in

"The pomp of groves and garniture of fields."

Mankind has ever revelled in the scent of the blossoms and shadow of the boughs, and ever will. The tawny savage of the backwoods strides over the wide prairie's purple bells, and gazes on the pine giants of his native forests with an exulting, although an indefinite joy. The ducal master of Chatsworth breathes among his choice exotics, and treads daintily beneath the branches of his ancestral oaks and beeches with infinite pride and pleasure. The same instinct dwells in each bosom-though one is girded by the ribbon of the Bath, and graced with the star of blazing gems; and the other is swathed in the buffalo's skin and chequered with the red tattoo. They both love flowers and trees. The Infinite and the Beautiful erects its altar alike in the hearts of the Indian Pawnee and the English


Most of us have our earliest recollections associated with "buttercups and daisies," cowslip bells, and palm branches. The "Field of the Cloth of Gold" that saw the meeting of Harry of England and Francis of France, bore no such extatic hearts and bounding limbs as Old Farley's meadow did when he allowed some dozen town-born children-myself includedthe free range of it in full buttercup season. What a memorable day it was! The meridian sun was blazing away in cloudless glory. The scarlet poppies along the hawthorn hedge banks seemed to have breathed their opium into the wings of young Zephyrus, and put a stop to his gadding for the day. The bees had been so thirsty that they had drank too much red clover wine, for they blundered against each other, and staggered and tumbled about with aimless indecision of place and purpose, and evidently did not know a corncockel from a dandelion. We heard a couple of them attempting to "hum" some snatch of melody-but the incoherent style of their performance left a doubt as to whether they intended it for "Jolly companions" or "We won't go home till morning."

The barn cat had found a shady spot in the romantic recess of a dilapidated pig-sty-so completely overcome by the heat that two audacious kittens were uninterruptedly playing at "scratch-cradle" with her tail, passing it from one to the other in the most intricate right lines and angles imaginable.

The cows and ducks had been in the pond since sunrise, and appeared thoroughly determined to pursue the hydropathic system until sunset. Everything was dry and dusty, or bright and burning. Old Farley expressed an opinion at the meadow gate that it would be too hot" for us; but our "rush" in a body-such as never tried a pit entrance on Edmund Kean's benefit nights, soon rendered that opinion null and voidaway we went, like the starters for the Derby, and the gorgeous yellow prairie was attacked with an onslaught that few blossoms, save the immortal buttercup, could provoke.


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How we danced, and jumped, and leaped about that beautiful field-now screaming with delight over a lot of brazen ox-eyed daisies, and pulling up handfulls of them at a clutch-roots and all; then shouting over a patch of sweet scented bind-weed, and then flying off to seize the tall fox-gloves, rather out of reach on the banks. Any rational looker-on would have imagined us to be compounded of the greyhound and grasshopper-such lithe activity-such uncalculating gymnastics were displayed. What boughs we pulled of hornbeam and dogrose-what bundles of ferns and dodder-grass-what_armfulls of sorrel, until, utterly exhausted, we flung ourselves down under the lop-elms, with countenances that amalga mated the delicate tints of a postman's coat and an over-ripe pickling cabbage, and with elfin tressses and excited skins that no Rowland's Maccassar or Kalydor could have made decently presentable. Well do we remember the tea and fruit we had that day-what delicious bread and butter, so moist and fresh-what luxurious cream, so white and thickwhat heaps of strawberries, real Elton pines-what baskets of cherries, true black hearts, which added vastly to the complexional beauty of our faces-what pottles of raspberries, all pulp and perfume and how we did eat-city aldermen would have been ashamed of us; and how well do we remember that the tables and chairs in old Farley's big parlour were covered with our gathered spoils, for the revelling joy of a fruit feast could not exclude our demonstrative admiration for the lovely "nosegays" we had collected. This heap of marsh-mallows was prominently held up to notice, and that lot of feather-grass claimed distinct praise. The bunches of buttercups and daisies were gigantic and countless, and the branches of nut-trees and silver-ash afforded no mean resemblance to the celebrated march of Birnam Wood. How carefully we tied them up-how zealously we guarded them on our way to town-how we loved those sweet and simple things-and how innocent and happy were those days, when green leaves and wild flowers formed a Paradise for us, with no worse serpent to ruin its character than a mother's gentle reprimand for bringing home such a "lot of rubbish ;" and yet we have seen that mother quite as great an idolator of them as we were, only in a more subdued style of worship; and many a time have we discovered her cherishing some of the lot of rubbish with fresh water, and arranging them with

tasteful hands.

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We meet Sunday morning idlers by dozens, strolling through the streets of our great city. Let us just glance at them. We see a brawny drayman who has evidently forgotten to shave himself, and not been too particular as to the set of his neck-tie. He has on the same rough, tough, dirty, thick, blanket-sort of jerkin in which he let down innumerable butts of Barclay's best" into dingy cellars during the week; but in a button hole of the said jerkin there is a splendid carnation. He has consumed some seconds of time in placing it safely and conspicuously, and walks slowly on, eyeing it every now and then with great self-satisfaction; and his satisfaction is not unshared, for, while observing his warm appreciation of the really exquisite blossom, we feel a degree of pride also that one of a class who had the courage to pelt Haynau, the woman-whipper, should love flowers. A little farther, and we encounter a grimy son of Vulcan, who is carrying off a large bunch of all sorts, beginning with "old man" and ending with "prince's feathers;" he says his "little Polly, who ain't over well, fikes the smell on 'em ;" whether the smell may be very beneficial to the young sufferer we will not inquire, but the tendency to "love flowers" claims our admiration under any circumstances. A lank pale woman has spent an extravagant halfpenny on a dozen brilliant sweet-peas, which she declares will "keep beautiful for a whole week, with plenty of water."

A charity boy has picked up a bit of double-stock, and, with earnest endeavour, fixes it above his badge of poverty-and then as earnestly bends his head to try and get a whiff of its odorous breath. There, at that stall yonder, are a decent man and his tidy wife, who have suddenly discovered that they have an "odd penny" out of the shoulder of mutton which the man carries in a flag basket, in immediate conjunction with a monster cabbage and it is as suddenly imagined that the odd money cannot be better laid out than in one of those tempting clusters of roses, as they happen to be just "a penny a lot" and away the couple go, to gladden the eyes of their young Tommy and Nancy with the sight of real, smelling, lovely roses. Aye! ye children of Toil; ye "love flowers."

We loiter on, and down a close iron-railed area we see a goodly number of half-dead plants, with their brown leaves supported by green sticks, in pots of extreme brunette complexion, some of which plants are so totally devoid of "character" in their foliage that their "order" is a mystery. These are the especial and treasured property of the cook, who is never known to abuse her favourite tabby-a matchless mouser-save when he surreptitiously nibbles at the white pinks; she has serious thoughts of rubbing them with mustard, to deter him from the indulgence, having tried pepper without any success. In the balcony of the drawing room above we perceive snowy camelias and gorgeous cactuses and oleanders standing up in their rich china vases, in attractive and splendid magnificence. They belong to the young heiress, who tends them daily with her own delicate and jewelled fingers, and who dispensed as decided and vulgar a box on the ear of her juvenile sister, for destroying the bud of a matchless arum, as could have been bestowed by the most unrefined of exasperated young ladies. It is plain that those above and those below "love flowers."

The old red night-capped cobbler, who labours continually in a cubbedup shed at the corner of a street in our neighbourhood, has a beloved idol by his side in the shape of a pot of mignionette; sown by himself, watered by himself, put in the sunshine by himself, and carefully preserved from all the incidental damage likely to ensue in such limited space. We suspect that the cubbed-up shed, with its abominable effluvia of strong horsehide and stronger wax-ends, is rendered a degree more cheerful to the eyes and senses of the inhabitant by the presence of that poor pot of mignionette, The old cobbler, though he is accused of making too frequent "morning calls" at the adjacent "Cow and Compasses," " loves flowers."

As for "gardens," they are as old as Paradise itself-and we see the original occupation of the "old Adam" peeping out still when the over-fed, gold-surfeited citizen betakes himself to a detached villa, "within twenty miles of London, and two of a railway station," where he puddles and pokes with spade and rake, in his loose jacket, and finds more exciting interest in grubbing up a few weeds, or planting a row of seedlings, than he ever experienced while cashing a heavy bill for Messrs. Needham and Co.

We happen to know an elderly gentleman who is a thorough representative of this numerous and increasing race. He has given up his smoke-dried, wall-surrounded house in Bedford Square, and ensconsed himself in a rural villa, twelve miles from town, with charming French windows opening to mossy lawns, sparkling flower-beds, mazy shrubberies, and a kitchen plot in the distance, large enough to supply the granivorous demands of the Reform Club. His wife has confidentially informed us, that his temper is not nearly so irritable since he has taken to "doing a little gardening," and that his attacks of gout and indigestion are much lighter. Her confidence also enlightened us as to the standard roses being extremely expensive-that the "Duchess of Sutherland" (a fine imposing

blossom, certainly) and the Imperial Blush (very scarce) cost as much as her last new dress; and that, at a random estimate, the cabbages averaged sixpence per head, and the carrots threepence per tail, to say nothing of the unknown quantity of money sunk in a pet pinery and a choice vinery. We were lingering about in his immediate vicinity the other morning with a pet volume of Leigh Hunt in our hand, when we heard the groom rapidly advance on the old gentleman's "whereabouts." "The photon is ready, sir," said John to his civic master; but the master was hoeing away at an obstinate dock-root, and perfectly oblivious of Threadneedle Street and "Bradshaw." The old gentleman had managed to "mess" the bottom of his trousers pretty considerably; his hands must be washedhis boots must be changed-his face is very moist and florid, owing to the inveterate obstinacy of the dock-root; and, after a rapid summing up of his condition, he arrives at the wise conclusion that he cannot go by that train. "I shall go by the half-past one, John," says the civic master; and he again applied himself vigorously to the dock-root, which he at length conquered. Elated with the feat, he stood for a few moments gazing on the annihilated weed with mingled triumph and delight in his somewhat purple countenance, and conceived a sudden fancy for clearing a contiguous herb-bed of "that nasty chickweed," setting to at the work as though his reputation depended on its performance. John came again, but the elderly gentleman had found another most imperative demand on his attention, and his opinion was decidedly expressed that it was "too late to be of any use in town," and he "should not want the phaton." He toiled on, in a state of intense heat and activity, until he was compelled to obey the dinner bell, and sat down to his fish and chicken, with a full conviction that he had materially added to the high state of cultivation so generally observed by those who visited his adored “garden,” while the head gardener expressed a strong private opinion that "master generally did more harm than good." Happy delusion! It is pleasant to see the primitive digging and delving tendency of childhood return in men, when all that Fortune can bestow and all that Ambition can achieve has served but to teach that it is possible to have "too much of a good thing," and that a bit of grass plot and a rood or two of carth may take us as nigh to heaven as a banker's counter. Not far distant from our friend's villa, is a low mud-walled cottage, with a tiny patch of ground attached, probably about thirty feet by fifty; but the tiny patch is crammed with nasturtiums, rockets, sweet-williams, larkspurs, hen-and-chicken daisies, scarlet runners, honeysuckle, apple trees, currant bushes, and Flora and Pomona know best what. It is a perfect floral kaleidoscope; and it is suspected that the civic gentleman covets a slip of that wonderful jasmine which runs over the old wooden porch. The rich merchant and the poor peasant both "love flowers."

Gardens are pleasant places. They were so when under the classical patronage of Semiramus and Alcinous, and they form charming, attractive "green spots" in the world's arid choking waste in these modern days, past and present, bearing the patronymics of Ranelagh, Vauxhall, Versailles, Tuilleries, Kew, Rosherville, Kensington, or Cremorne. There is something refreshing in the very word "garden." Whether the style be Italian or Dutch, it is of little consequence as far as the general impulse of humanity is concerned. We admit that we perfer to ramble where Nature and Art keep up a becoming family feeling of union-yet, when we find ourselves shut up with perfect Euclidian right lines and angles, and peacocks cut out of box trees, whose only merit is that they do not screamyet, we say we cannot quarrel with the place they disfigure. We feel that a"garden" was intended, and that is enough to sanctify the most atrocious

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