  Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth, Unseen, both when we sleep, and when we wake. Milton. I.It was a scene of unrivalled beauty; yet might some marvel wherefore it was thus created, so far removed from mortal ken, so severed from the habitations of sin and death, that foot of man had never sullied the pure fresh green of the velvet grass; mortal hand had never culled the brilliant flowers, gemming each silvery stream; corporeal sense had never been regaled by their fragrant breath, or lulled by the sweet music of the waters. The leafy branches of the ancient trees stretched forth their deep green shadows, and hill, and stream, and valley, each clothed in its own peculiar beauty, derived fresh charms, as the seasons softly and silently sped by, leaving bright tokens as they sped. The stars still smiled at their own sparkling rays gleaming up from the gushing water; the pensive moon still touched the glossy leaves with her diamond pencil, still lingered on the verdant mount, leaving rich shadows on the luxuriant vales; the sun still sent forth its bright beams, to revive and cherish the glistening flowers, to whisper of his unfailing love; still did he bid them drink up the dewdrops, which, trembling beneath his earnest gaze, yet sprung up from their homes at his first call, eager to lose themselves in him. Day, in his mirth and light, gave place to silent and shadowy night; and night again to-day. Yet man was not there, and wherefore had such loveliness birth?—wherefore was it so continually renewed? Man would joy in the contemplation of beauty, such as this scene presented; yet his imperfect vision would see no further than mount and vale, and trees and shrubs, and streams and flowers; he would hear nought but the rustle of the leaf, the murmur of the breeze, the music of the brook, the luscious scents floating on the breeze, would be but indistinctly distinguished, and his fancy perchance yearn towards them, and long for perfume more defined, even as we sometimes seek to unite into sweet melody the thrilling notes, which, one by one, at dreamy intervals, linger on the distant air; and these things he would hear, and feel, and see, and dream not there were sights and sounds hovering around him too pure, too spiritual for earthly sense. There were glorious spirits—angelic beings floating on the ambient air, and lingering beside the waters, and sporting with the jewelled buds. There were rich tones lingering on the breeze—sweet thrilling voices mingling with golden harps and silvery flutes; there were luscious scents ascending to the arching heaven; even as if, guided by ministering spirits, each floweret sent up her grateful incense to the throne of her Creator. As the dazzling flash of the diamond, the softer gleam of the emerald, the radiant beam of the sapphire, the intense rays of the ruby, so shone these beautiful beings, as they fleeted to and fro on their respective tasks. Some replenishing the brooks with living waters from vases which seemed moulded from precious gems. Some tending the flowers, inhaling and bestowing fragrance, or whispering those sweet memories, with which man ever finds the flowers of the desert filled. Some lingering in groups upon the mount, crowning its flowery brow as with a circlet of living rays. Some flying downwards, agitating the valley with soft delicious winds, and others freshening the rich tints of the far-spreading foliage; and far and near their voices sounded in one rich hymn of praise, whose theme was love; and the golden harps prolonged the hallelujahs, sounding up through the blue realms of space, till they mingled with the deeper, mightier harmonies around the Eternal’s throne, bearing along its thrilling echo, joined by innumerable voices till the whole air seemed filled with song, and still that song was Love! Beautiful as were these celestial spirits—beautiful and blessed above all conception of finite man—yet they were not of the highest class of angels. Incapable of sin, unconscious of pain or sorrow, but not yet admitted to hover over the dwelling of man, to minister unto the afflicted, to tend the couch of the dying, to whisper of rest to the weary, hope to the desponding, joy to the mourner. Sensible of the Eternal’s presence, their bliss made perfect in His glory, their task was to watch and tend inanimate creation;—to sing His praises amidst the glorious shrines of nature, till His works proclaimed Him unto man. Activity and obedience were the sole virtues demanded of these celestial beings in the tasks above enumerated, and when these had been sufficiently exercised, they graduated to a higher order of angels, nearer the Eternal’s throne, who were permitted to receive His will and make it known to man. The desire to obtain this privilege was lively in all, but far removed from that grosser passion known to man as ambition. In them it did but add zest to enjoyment; give energy to love, inspiration to obedience. Faith they needed not; for to them the Eternal was revealed. Anticipation was lost in fulfilment—hope in completion. Their nature was not susceptible of a deeper sense of bliss; but as they ascended higher and higher in the scale of angels, the deeper, fuller, more glorious blessedness was met by a nature yet more purified, spiritualized, exalted, fitted for its reception, and strengthened to retain it. II.Reposing on a sunbeam lingering on the brow of a hill, a spirit lay, apart from his fellows. His brow was wreathed with the opal, emerald, and ruby; so blending their several rays that they seemed but as a circlet of ever-changing light. His long flowing hair shone as if each clustering ringlet had been bathed in the liquid diamond. His downy wings, woven of every shade, gently waved in air, wafting the richest perfume, and dyeing the sunbeam on which he lay in every brilliant tint. A light mist enveloped his angelic form—softening, not lessening, his resplendent loveliness. His eye shone as the midnight star; a bloom, softer, lovelier, purer than the earliest rose, played on his cheek; sparkling smiles wreathed his lips. He spoke, and his voice was music, though his golden harp lay silent by his side. “Love! love;” he murmured. “Hallelujah to the Lord of love! Let the full choirs of heaven chant forth the immortal theme; proclaim, proclaim Him Love! Earth! air! ocean! shout with your hundred tongues, send up your echo to the voice of heaven! Man, art thou insensible?—Hearest thou not these living tones?—Can doubt be thine, as I have heard whispered in the celestial courts? Created by Love—placed in a world of Love—distant as thou art, yet cherished and beloved by Love, destined for immortal union with the Love that gave thee being!—canst thou be faithless, canst thou be senseless?—when above, below, around, within, soundeth the deep eternal voice of Love! Oh, insensates, if such things be! Immortal glory, bliss unfading, can it be for ye!” Awhile he paused. A slight shadow passed athwart the brilliant rays with which he was encircled. He folded his wings around him, and laid his brow upon them. “My thought has been rebuked,” he said; “I have done ill. Enough for me the consciousness of love. Wherefore should I condemn, as yet unworthy to look on man? Let the hallelujahs sound forth again. Glory to the Eternal!—His works are wisdom, His thoughts are love!” He swept his hand across his harp—the shadow had departed from his wings;—his chaplet shot forth again its living light. Celestial music flowed forth from his voice and hand:—the spirit smiled once more. Suddenly the hallelujahs ceased. To the eye of man twilight had descended; the stars began to light up the dark blue heavens. Mortal vision might trace the semblance of a falling meteor of unwonted brilliance, dropping into space. The purified orbs of the seraph crowd knew that one of the highest class of angels was departing from his resplendent seat, and winging his flight towards them. Instantly they rose up from their several resting-places, forming in files of unutterable brilliance. Increased happiness shed a new lustre on their brows, and heightened the glowing iris of their wings. One alone felt penetrated with an awe, which slightly lessened the feelings of joy which the visit of an angel ever caused. He feared it was to him the celestial mission came: that his condemnation of beings, whose nature and whose trials he knew not, had exposed him to censure, perhaps to a longer banishment from the higher spheres of glory; and while his brother spirits thronged round the favoured minister, to bask in the resplendent brightness of his smiles, to list to the words of melody flowing from his lips, to gaze on the mild yet thrilling softness of his celestial features, Zephon stood aloof, for the first time shrinking from the glance and voice he loved. He saw not that the glittering helm and dazzling sword were laid aside, that his brow was wreathed with the softly gleaming pearl, his shining wings glistening through silvery radiance, bespeaking tenderness and mercy, and not now the wrath and chastisement of which, at his Maker’s will, he was at times the minister. His voice, melodious and thrilling as the silver trumpets of the empyreal heavens, sounded through space, as it called “Zephon!” The seraph paused not a moment, but darting through the incensed air, prostrated himself at the archangel’s feet. “Arise! and fear not, youthful brother,” spake the messenger of the Eternal, departing not from the grave majesty of his demeanour, but smiling with such ineffable sweetness, the seraph felt its reviving influence, and spread forth his silken pinions rejoicingly again. “I come, the harbinger of peace and love. Thine impassioned zeal was checked ere it became a fault—checked ere it led thee to desire forbidden knowledge. Charged with a message of love and mercy from the Most High, I have besought and obtained permission to take thee as my companion. To thine imperfect vision it seemeth strange that man, so especially the beloved, the cherished of the Eternal, framed to display, to uphold His stupendous power, to proclaim His might—His love—should ever fail either in obedience or adoration. Thou hast heard that such has been; for where sin hath so fearfully prevailed that an immortal spirit has been excluded from these glorious realms, a dim shadow hath spread over Heaven’s resplendent courts, and the celestial spirits of every rank have prostrated themselves before the invisible yet terrible Presence, adoring justice, while they supplicated mercy. Zephon! not yet may be revealed to thee the glorious mystery of the Eternal’s secret ways. Thou mayst gaze with me on the earthly beings I have charge to tend; but it is forbidden thee to ask or seek the wherefore of what thou seest. Thou wilt behold, even in this limited glance, enough to prove, that even if the human heart refuseth to send up its thrilling echo to the theme of Love, which thy zeal demandeth, the unfathomable love of its benignant Creator will receive and bless its faintest sigh; for to Him, and to Him alone is known the extent of its trial—the bitterness of its grief—the difficulty of its belief in an ever-acting love. Zephon! if still thou wilt, thou shalt look on the human heart: yet pause awhile;—is thy love sufficiently strong to uphold thee in the contemplation of decrees, whose motives thou art not yet permitted to conceive? In thy blissful dwelling, thou hast no need of Faith; thou knowest not even its name; but if with me thou goest, Faith must be thy safeguard. Here thine eye seeth, thine ear heareth nought but love; there it may be darkly hidden from thee. Yet if thy faith or thy love should fail, if thou demandest the wherefore of what thou seest, it is of our Father’s will, that thou shalt be banished unto earth—banished from this glorious abode, condemned to struggle with the ills and sorrows of mortality, till pure and perfect faith shine forth, and fit thee once again for heaven. Speak then, my brother; wilt thou depart with me, or still linger here? The choice is now thine own.” Awhile the seraph paused; the face of the archangel beamed on him with compassionating tenderness and redoubled love. The looks of his brother spirits, the soft fluttering of their wings, seemed to woo him to remain, to entreat him not to tempt the fate threatened if his love should fail, and therefore did he pause. “No, no! wherefore should I fear?” he cried; “I will go with thee, minister of love. I will look upon my Father’s dearest work, and despite of mystery and gloom—of sorrow—of pain, I will love and bless Him still!” A fuller, richer burst of melody filled the realms of air; thousands and thousands of voices swelled forth in triumphant harmony. A starry cloud descended, and, folded in its spangled robe, the departing spirits vanished into space. III.“Thy wish is fulfilled; the peculiar treasure of our Father is revealed. Zephon, behold!” the angel spake, as the shrouding cloud rolled away towards the fields of ether, and the celestial spirits hovered over the abode of man. A sudden, an indescribable consciousness of increased powers, of heightened intellect, shot from the starry eyes of the youthful seraph. Man in his majesty, his beauty—bearing in his every movement, his exquisitely-formed frame, his complicated economy of being, yet more impressive, more startling evidence of the might, the wisdom, the benevolence of his glorious Maker, than even the source of the river, the structure of the flower, the growth of the tree, over which the seraph had presided, finding even in such things ample scope for the soaring intellect which characterised his race. Man, proceeding from, destined for, immortality—the beloved, the peculiar care and treasure of the Eternal—man, beautiful man, stood revealed before him. Yet amidst the thronging multitude on which he gazed, but one HEART, in all its varied impulses, its hidden throbs and incongruous thoughts and ever-changing fancies—but one beautiful intellect, in all its secret powers and extent, was open to his inspection; and lovely, even to the eyes of a spirit, was the being in whom such glorious things were shrined. She was a young and noble maiden, perfect in form and face; her virtues scarce sullied by a stain of earth, although, from the spirit of Poetry, the living fount of Genius, dwelling within, open to grief and trial, even from the faintest breath too rudely jarring on the heavenly-strung chords with which her heart was filled. A deep, lowly, clinging piety was ever ready to check the first impulse of impatience, to turn to the sweet joys of sympathy and universal love the too vivid sense of sorrow either for herself or others. Humility was there, to lift up that young spirit in thankfulness to its Creator, and to devote that powerful intellect, ever seeming to bear all difficulties before it, to His service in the good of her fellow-creatures. Zephon saw that the praise of man was a source of pure, inspiring pleasure; but instead of filling her soul with pride, it ever bore it up in increased devotion to its God. He marked her graceful form, sporting to and fro amid the stately domains of her lordly ancestors. He marked the love of parents, brothers, friends, that ever thronged around her, and the fulness of joy that love bestowed. He saw, too, the impassionate longings for yet stronger love, the yearnings for fame; appreciation, not alone from the noble and the gay, but from the gifted and the good: the desire to awake, by the magic touch of genius, the same thrilling chords in other hearts, as the spell of others had revealed in hers. The seraph looked long and earnestly. Suddenly he saw her standing in the centre of a lordly room, and loving and admiring friends around her; her lip, her eye, her heart breathed joy, well-nigh as full and shadowless as the blessedness of heaven. After awhile the angel spake. “There is nought here to call for Faith,” he said. “Yon favourite child of genius but awakens deeper yet more adoring love. Her lot is blessedness; her heart so pure, earth hath scarce power to stain that bliss. But now look yonder, Zephon. Seest thou amidst the multitude a being equally, though differently lovely—equally powerful in intellect, equally the child of genius, as richly gifted, alike in wisdom as in virtue, as fully susceptible of joy and sorrow; the same feelings, the same desires, the same deep yearnings for love on which to rest, for appreciation, fame; the same strung heart, thrilling to melody as keenly as to neglect. Mark well, young brother, and thou wilt trace these things.” Anxiously the seraph gazed, and again he was conscious of sufficient power to read the human heart. Again, amidst the multitude, one gentle being stood unveiled before him; and, save for the difference in form and face, he had thought perchance it was the same on whom he had gazed before, so similar were their virtues, powers, temperament, and genius;—similar in all things, save that the sense of bliss in the one already appeared more chastened, more timid than in the other. He looked, then turned inquiringly towards his companion. “The will of the Eternal,” he said, in answer, “produced at the same instant these lovely beings, and breathed into both the spirit which thou seest. Their souls are twin-born—TWIN-BORN in sensation, in power, in beauty, formed of the highest, most ethereal essence, and thus creating that which earth terms genius; destined at the same moment to animate the beautiful habitation formed for each, and at the same moment depart from it. Until now, their fate hath been, with little variation, the same, differing only according to their station; the one standing amidst the highest and noblest of her land, findeth fit companions for that nobleness and refinement indivisible from genius; the other already feeleth there is that within her incomprehensible to those around her; yet is the consciousness of little moment, for freely and joyously she roams amid the varied scenes of nature. She mingles but with those eager and anxious to enhance her innocent pleasures—to give to her exalted mind and gentle virtues the homage naturally their due. She looks on the world from a distance, and hath peopled it with all things fond, and bright, and beautiful, which take their exquisite colouring from her own lovely and loving mind. She yearns for appreciation, as thou seest—for the praise of the multitude won by her talents, but she asks not to mingle with them. She seeks but the love of one, and the proud consciousness of doing good to many. She demands not a statelier home, a prouder station. Thus, then, thou seest the earthly fate of these twin-born spirits hath rolled on the same; but now it is the will of the All-wise, All-merciful, All-just, that a shadowy change should pass over the one, and bliss, fuller, dearer, perfect as earth may feel, be dawning for the other. Thou hast marked the quick throb of joy now playing on the heart of the noble child of genius. She beholds her first triumph in the book she clasps. The thoughts that breathe, the words that burn, have found their echo in the multitude, and loving friends throng around to proclaim her dawning fame. There are tears in those lovely eyes; but ’tis a mother’s voice of love, of tenderness, that calls them there. See, clasped to a parent’s bosom, the swelling fulness of the spirit finds vent in tears, for joy, that pure, stainless joy, which is sent as the dim whisperings of heaven, ever turns to pain on earth, and had it not relief in tears, would bear the soul away to that world of which it speaks. She hath flown from the detaining throng, and hark!—hearest thou not the hymn of thanksgiving ascending upon high, till the tumultuous joy subsides, and peace is gained once more?” He ceased; a brighter radiance passed over his benignant brow, and the voice of the seraph spontaneously flowed forth in kindred harmony with the hymn of earth, bearing it on the wings of melody to the realms of song. ’Twas hushed, and the Hierarch again spake. “Behold!” he said, the music of his voice subdued and softened, “behold, yet murmur not! It is the will of the Eternal, and therefore it is well.” The seraph gazed on a changed and darkened scene.—As deep, as full as was the bliss from which his eye had that moment turned, so deep, so intense was the anguish he now beheld. The gentle being in whom that twin-born spirit breathed, knelt beside the couch of the dead. He marked the wrung and bleeding heart; he read its utter loneliness, its agonized despair; he read it was a mother’s loss she mourned—a more than mother, for by her, by her alone, her child’s ethereal soul, her fond imaginings, her strong affections had been known, and loved, and fostered; to her, her beautiful had ever come, to seek and find that sympathy which she found not in another—and she was gone, and the dark troubled strivings of that desolate heart not yet could deem it love. “She weeps, and shall we condemn, young brother, that not yet her voice may join in the universal hymn? She weeps, yet knows not all her woe. The stability, the honour, the strength of her father were derived from the mild counsels, the gentle unobtrusive virtues of her mother; in him they have no stay. That moral evil, too darkly prevalent on earth, once more will gain dominion, and the joys of the innocent, the helpless, are blighted ’neath its poison. On earth she stands alone—yet hark! What means that burst of triumph in the skies?” Ineffably brilliant was the smile on the countenance of the angel; and Zephon, startled, yet entranced, looked again on that bleeding heart. The dark and troubled waves within were stilled; there was no voice—no sign; but the lamp of faith was lit; her soul had murmured Love! and bowed, adoring and resigned. IV. Again did the youthful spirit gaze down on earthly joy, chastened in its fulness, yet ecstatic in its nature. Love, pure, perfect, faithful love, had twined around that fair and gifted child of earth, and filled the blank which yet remained; though fame, appreciation, triumph, sympathy, affection, all were hers. She had found a kindred soul, round which to weave the clinging tendrils of her own; virtues to revere, piety to support, uphold, and cherish the soarings of her own. She had found one whose praise might still those passionate yearnings, the which to satisfy she had vainly looked to fame;—one, from whose lips how sweet became the praise of the world;—one to give new zest to her exalted genius; for by him it was most valued, most beloved; Zephon looked on the beautiful blossoming of genius, the expansion of intellect, the flowering of every budding hope; and he saw, too, the chastened humility, the unwavering love, which traced these rich gifts to their source, and lifted up her heart in universal love and grateful adoration; and again his voice joined hers in thanksgiving. Once more, at the voice of the archangel, he sought and found the kindred essence, and love was on that heart, deep mighty, whelming love, bearing before it for awhile even the sere and withered leaves, with which its depths were strewed. He looked on the wreck of that which he had seen so lovely—the wreck of all save the gentle virtues, the meek submission which had characterised her youth; the rosy dreams, the glowing visions presented but a crushed and broken mass; their bright fragments seeking ever to unite, but ever rudely severed. Genius, in its deep, wild burnings, its impassioned breathing, feeding as a smothered fire upon her own young heart, seeking ever to find a vent, an echo—to be known, acknowledged, loved; but falling back with every effort, till even genius seemed increase of sorrow—and hope yet glimmered there, pale, sickly, shadowy, in its faint rays emitting but increase of light, to be immersed in deeper gloom. And love was there, intense, all-mighty, yet it brought no joy. “She loves—she was beloved,” again spake the angelic voice; “but the sin of the father is visited upon the child. A little while he appeared devoted unto her, and to the memory of the departed; and though he led her from the scenes she loved, to mingle more closely with the world, his affection soothed, his hopes inspired; but he knew not the ethereal nature of that soul, and the scenes which earth terms gay and joyous touched no answering chord in her, and led him once again astray. Yet, for a brief while, happiness was hers, banishing those vain yearnings, ever proceeding from a soul too sensitive for earth; but the same hour which awoke her to a consciousness of love, given and returned, turned back that fountain of bliss upon her seared and withered heart, and changed it into gall. The child of a dishonoured parent was no fit mate for nobleness and honour, and earth is lone once more.” Tears, the sweet bright tears that angels weep, bedewed the eyes of the seraph; yet riveted their gaze on that one sad child of earth, as if in its dark and troubled chaos there was yet more to read. He saw, too, the slight and beautiful shell in which that spirit was enshrined quivering beneath the tempest till at length it lay prostrate and unhinged, and intense bodily suffering heightened mental ill. “’Tis the struggle for submission and resignation that hath done this,” continued the angel. “Seest thou no dream of unbelief, no murmur of complaint hath entered that heart; anguish may wither up the swelling hymn, may check the voice of love, but faith is there! And mark! though, in His unquestionable wisdom, the Eternal’s will is to afflict, though in impenetrable darkness, save to those beside His throne, He hideth the secret wherefore of that will, invisibly His ministers are charged to hover round His favoured child, to comfort and sustain, though lone and desolate on earth. Behold?” Bright, beautiful spirits, robed in light and glory, hovered round the couch of sorrow; yet earth hid them from their kindred essence. She saw them not; felt not the mild reviving influence of their spiritual presence, save that gradually and slowly the chains which bound those beautiful limbs were loosed. The whirlwind sweeping over that heart subsided into partial calm; and strength was given her to struggle on and live. Zephon looked on the child of sorrow, and a faint shadow stole over the brilliant iris of his wings; the living rays on his brow grew dim. V. Again did the seraph look down on earth, again did he gaze on the favoured child of joy. The ecstatic sense of bliss he had marked before had subsided into happiness as full, as pure, as thrilling, yet chastened in its fulness. There were young and lovely forms around her; a mothers love has added its unutterable sweetness to her lot. He looked on her heart, and marked how sweetly and beautifully its every dream, its every hope, had bloomed to full maturity. How softly its light cares were soothed by sympathy and love on earth, and trust and hope in heaven; how earnestly it sought to pour back its every gift into the gracious hand from which it sprung, and lead her children as herself, to the threshold of Eternal joy. He looked on that unveiled heart, as, wandering with those she loved amid the glorious shrines of nature, she found in every leaf, and stream, and bird, and flower somewhat to bid her children love, and add to the inexhaustible spring of poesie and genius which rested still within, and gave new zest, new brightness to her simplest joy. He gazed on her alone, amidst the books she loved, the studies her genius craved; he read the deep, pure, shadowless joy it was to feel that gift had done its work, and sent its pure and lucid flame amidst the unthinking crowd, and carried blessings with it; that its rich music had left its impression on many a thoughtless heart; had shed sweet balm over hours of sad, lonely sickness; had spoken its soft sympathy to the diseased and sorrowing mind, and sent new, brighter, purer joyance to the young, eager, and imaginative soul. It had done these things, and was it marvel she rejoiced? Zephon gazed; but the shadow passed not from his wings, and hastily and silently he turned once more to seek the kindred essence. The whelming woe had given place to a strangely complicated mass of cross and twisted strings, which tightly fettered down each glorious gift, each cherished hope, each fond aspiring, yet gave them space to throb, and live, and whisper still. The bright undying flame of genius never seemed to burn with mere o’er-sweeping power; yet the flashes that it sent but scorched the heart that held them. Hope still was there, sending forth her lovely blossoms; but to be nipped and blighted ’neath the close and icy strings that stretched above them. There were chains upon that spirit, binding it to earth, when most it longed to spring on high; and the shell, the lovely shell which held it was dwindling ’neath its withering spell. The seraph marked the tension of each vein and nerve, and pulse, till it seemed as if the very next breath of emotion, however faint, would snap them in twain; the painful effort to restrain the irritation of bodily and mental suffering, the agony of remorse which the slightest ebullition of impatience caused. He beheld her hour by hour, the centre of a noisy group of children, possessing not one attribute to call forth that torrent of love and tenderness with which her soul was filled. He marked the starting of each nerve, the hounding of each pulse, at every shout of rude and noisy revelry, the inward fever attending every effort to restrain and instruct. He saw her, when midnight enwrapped the earth, alone for a brief space, in a poor and comfortless room; the bright visions of genius thronging tumultuously on mind and brain; incongruous and wild, from there having been so long pent up in darkness and woe. He beheld the effort to give the burning fancies vent; the utter failing of the mortal frame; the prostration of all power, save that which yet would lift up heart and hands in the low cry: “Father, it is thy will; I know not wherefore; yet, oh! yet, if Thou willest it, it is, it must be well!” and he heard unnumbered harps bear up that voice of Faith, in melody overpowering in its deep rich tones. He marked the spirits of light and loveliness still hovering around, moulding those burning tears into precious gems, changing each quivering sigh to songs of glory; yet still his sight seemed strangely dim, the shadow passed not from his wings. “And man, her brother man, hath he no love, no tenderness, no thoughts for sorrow such as hers?” the seraph asked; “knows he not of the precious gifts, the gentle virtues that frail shell enfolds? Wherefore is she thus lone?—hath man no answering chord?” “Man sees not the interior of that heart, as thou dost,” rejoined the Hierarch. “When through disobedience sin entered yon beautiful world, man’s eyes became darkened towards his fellows, and but too often his rebellious and perverted mind wilfully refuses knowledge of his brother, lest sympathy should bid him share the griefs of others. In some envy, foul envy, the base passions which first darkened earth with death, wilfully blinds, lest the genius and the virtue of the poor should be exalted above the rich; in others it is ignorance, contempt, neglect, spring from that rank poison selfishness, or the loathsome weed indifference, which flings a thick veil over others’ woe, and so confines the gaze—it sees no farther than itself. To mortal vision yon gentle being is composed and calm. Man marks but the outward frame; love alone might trace the decline of strength, the failing of bodily power; but there is none near to love. Poverty hath flung those chains upon the heart, confining the ethereal spirit, dragging it down to earth, yet deadening not its power. Poverty, privation, have thrown her amongst those whose grosser, more material natures are incapable of appreciating the heavenly rays of genius; of comprehending its effect upon the temperament and the frame. They deem her lot a happy one, for they cannot know how much more she needs—what cause she has for sorrow. They would laugh in bitter scorn at those griefs which have their birth in feeling, whose intensity, whose depth of suffering are to them utterly unknown. No! man may not alleviate woes like hers. In the dark circle her fate is fixed; earth, mortal fading earth, is all; they have no time for dreams and thoughts of heaven. A spirit like to hers, bearing on its brow a stamp of glory not its own. Alas! my brother, man will not mark such things. Sin, foul sin, hath dimmed its gaze.” The seraph folded his beautiful wings around him. There was a strange dim sense of pain upon him, undefined yet sad, as the first clouding of mortal visions unto man, ere sight departs for ever. When he looked forth again, the scene was changed, and it was bright and beautiful, though death was there. The blessed, the loved, the cherished!—she lay there, calm, yet rejoicing,—though the loved around her wept. Recalled to its native home, ere age or sorrow dimmed the spirit’s glory, joyfully, willingly, she heard the call, for death had no pang for her. She knew she parted from her beloved to meet again, “where never sounds farewell.” She knew she was departing to that blissful bourne, whose glorious light had beamed so softly and beautifully on her earthly course, gilding MORTAL happiness with IMMORTAL glory; to that goal, where each bright gift would be made perfect, her finite wisdom find completion in infinity. Still, still the comfort of her voice consoled the hearts that wept around; her lip yet sent forth gentle words to soothe and bless when she was gone; the mind, the beautiful mind, yet shone in all its living light—death had no power to dim its lustre. Brighter and brighter gleamed the departing soul; and thoughts, sweet thoughts, came thronging on that heart, of duties done, of life that sought but good, of universal love, benevolence, and peace; and blessings of the poor, the needy, and the sorrowing hovered round her as angels robed in light. Joy! joy! oh, still was that gentle spirit wreathed in joy,—the grave had lost its sting, and death was swallowed up in victory! Irresistibly and rapidly the seraph sought the twin-born spirit,—which, at the same hour, was to wing her flight from earth. There were none to weep around her couch of loneliness and pain; but one, a kind and lowly hireling, was near to mark that spirit’s parting pang,—to smooth the pillow, and whisper of repose. No sign of luxury was there, no gentle hand, with luscious fruit or cooling draught, to tempt the fevered lip, the parched and tasteless tongue. Dark, close, confined, the chamber of the dying—but a few pale flowers, children of field and brook, alone stood beside her, to whisper ’twas a poet’s dying home. Save that, perchance, the treasured volumes still around, disclosed that the mind was bright, and strong, and lovely still. Her thin hand still clasped a book, her eyes lit up as they gazed upon the page, and for a brief space her cheek shone with a bloom that scarce could seem of death. Zephon looked within the heart and started. Hope gleamed up amidst its crushed and broken chords; hope, aye, and one bright flash of joy, darting forth as a sunbeam midst the shrouding mass of clouds, and momentary, coeval with that joy, the wish, fond wish to live. “Start not, my brother!” the thrilling accents of the angel once more spake. “She gazes on her own fond dreams, her own pure visions; she clasps their record in the volume that she holds. Acknowledged, sought, appreciated; her genius hast burst through the veil of obscurity and woe, and fame, undying fame, hath wreathed his laurels to adorn the dead. Man will weep upon her grave, will wreath her name with glory, will reverence too late the genius that hath gone, and therefore would she live. It is the last struggle, the last pang,—the spirit is too pure, too free, to fold too long the chain which earth holds forth, even though its links are joy. Behold!” The seraph looked once more. There had been a struggle—a brief and anguished pang; joy and hope lay crushed for ever, beneath the sickening consciousness; ’twas all too late, and she must die! There came one murmuring doubt, one painful question—wherefore she was thus called away, when earth gave promise of such sweet reviving flowers? And darkness spread forth her pall, and shrouded up that heart, but speedily it passed; a soft and mellowed light gleamed up; the blackened shade rolled up and fled; the ruin and its chains were gone, and PEACE, and FAITH, and JOY twined hand in hand together. VI.Zephon looked not on the abodes of man. The Hierarch alone stood before him, surrounded by a blaze of glory. Ineffable brilliance shone forth from his brow and wings, yet softened into compassionating tenderness was his radiant look, his thrilling voice. A trembling awe spread over the seraph, and involuntarily he bowed before him. “Thy will is accomplished, youthful brother, thou hast glanced on man,” spake the angelic voice; “yet know, that which thou hast seen is but as a single grain amid the spreading sands of the boundless desert; as a single spark of earthly fire amid the countless stars and blazing suns of heaven, compared with the scenes of woe yon world of beauty holds. When Sin entered, Joy fled trembling up to the heaven whence he came. Twined as he was with purity and innocence, without them earth could have for him no stay, no resting;—man reaps the fruit he sows,—for not in a guilty world may the Eternal mark the distinction between the righteous and the wicked. In that which thou hast seen there was no guilt, no sin. Twin-born in purity, as in their high ethereal essence, yet, from the imperfection of earth, so widely severed their mortal fates, so strangely parted, if such things are, is’t marvel that the hymn of love, of praise, from lips of man should be so faint and weak? Zephon, thou hast looked on earth; thou hast marked the dealings of our Father with His children. Speak then, my brother, oh, speak! will the song of joy, of adoration, still flow from thy lips—still, still canst thou proclaim Him Love?” The harps of heaven were stilled. The invisible choirs hushed their full tide of song. Darker and darker, for a brief space, became the shadow around the youthful seraph, and his radiant brow was buried in its shrouding folds. Deep, awful was that momentary pause, for it seemed as if the hosts of heaven themselves were hushed in sympathy and dread. A sudden flood of dazzling effulgence burst through the gloomy shade, dispersing it as a thin vapour on either side. Beams of living lustre illumined that glorious brow, and in liquid music his voice flowed forth. “Shall I be less than mortal—I, who serve my Father amidst His chosen choirs, who knew Him, unobstructed by the veil of earth? Let the full song burst forth; let the bright seraphim strike the bold harps again; let the rich hymn swell out in deeper glory; hallelujah to our Father and our King! His ways are dark, but His will is love! Praise Him, ye myriads of angels; praise Him, ye Heaven of Heavens; proclaim, proclaim Him Love! His ways are pleasantness, His paths are peace.—Praise Him, ye glorious hosts—hallelujah, He is Love!” VII.There was rejoicing amidst the heavenly choirs, rejoicing amidst the seraph band; for a bright and beautiful spirit, whose lot, even on earth, was joy, released from mortal chains, had joined their glittering files. Wafted from earth amidst strains of glory, lifting up her voice with theirs in thanksgiving, and consummating, in the centre of that glorious band, the hymn of beauty and of love commenced on earth. There was rejoicing amid the angelic choirs, beside the shrouding veil, which softened even from their purified orbs the transcendent glory of their Father’s throne—rejoicing amidst the archangelic choirs; for a bright and beautiful spirit, whose earthly doom had been shrouded in the impenetrable mists of darkness and woe, was wafted towards them on a golden cloud, amid a rich burst of glad triumphant harmony, rejoicing!—for mystery and gloom were removed from a child of God, and unsealed for her the secret of his ways. There was rejoicing in the angelic hosts,—rejoicing through the central choirs,—for a youthful seraph, springing up on the bright wings of faith and love, had joined their glittering files, and songs of joy and melody encircled him, rejoicing!—above, below, within, till each resplendent court of heaven darted forth rays of inexpressible brilliance, and the whole universe of space, peopled with its myriads of angelic and archangelic spirits, sent forth its mighty depths of harmony, its thrilling voice of song; and still, oh still, its theme was Love!—Eternal, changeless, unfathomable Love! THE END. NEW EDITION OF THE WORKS OF GRACE AGUILAR. This elegant Edition, large crown 8vo, is printed from new type, on paper made especially for the series, handsomely bound, and illustrated by the leading Artists of the day. HOME INFLUENCE. A Tale for Mothers and Daughters. Crown 8vo, Illustrated, cloth gilt, 5s. THE MOTHER’S RECOMPENSE. A Sequel to Home Influence. With Illustrations, Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. WOMAN’S FRIENDSHIP. A Story of Domestic Life. Crown 8vo, Illustrated, cloth gilt, 5s. THE VALE OF CEDARS; OR, THE MARTYR. Crown 8vo, Illustrated, cloth gilt, 5s. THE DAYS OF BRUCE. A Story from Scottish History. Crown 8vo, Illustrated, cloth gilt, 6s. HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES. Crown 8vo, Illustrated, cloth gilt, 5s. THE WOMEN OF ISRAEL. Characters and Sketches from the Holy Scriptures. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. Criticisms on Grace Aguilar’s Works. HOME INFLUENCE.—“To those who really knew Grace Aguilar, all eulogium falls short of her deserts, and she has left a blank in her particular walk of literature, which we never expect to see filled up.”—Pilgrimages to English Shrines, by Mrs. S. C. Hall. MOTHER’S RECOMPENSE.—“‘The Mother’s Recompense’ forms a fitting close to its predecessor, ‘Home Influence.’ The results of maternal care are fully developed, its rich rewards are set forth, and its lesson and its moral are powerfully enforced.”—Morning Post. WOMAN’S FRIENDSHIP.—“We congratulate Miss Aguilar on the spirit, motive, and composition of this story. Her aims are eminently moral, and her cause comes recommended by the most beautiful associations. These, connected with the skill here evinced in their development, ensure the success of her labours.”—Illustrated News. VALE OF CEDARS.—“The Authoress of this most fascinating volume has selected for her field one of the most remarkable eras in modern history—the reigns of Ferdinand and Isabella.... It is marked by much power of description, and by a woman’s delicacy of touch, and it will add to its writer’s well-earned reputation.”—Eclectic Review. DAYS OF BRUCE.—“The tale is well told, the interest warmly sustained throughout, and the delineation of female character is marked by a delicate sense of moral beauty. It is a work that may be confided to the hands of a daughter by her parent.”—Court Journal. HOME SCENES.—“Grace Aguilar knew the female heart better than any writer of our day, and in every fiction from her pen we trace the same masterly analysis and development of the motives and feelings of woman’s nature.”—Critic. WOMEN OF ISRAEL.—“A work that is sufficient of itself to create and crown a reputation.”—Mrs. S. C. Hall. Large Crown 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges, with a Coloured Frontispiece and Six Full-page Plates by eminent artists, price 5s. Contents: The Wandering Mason—The Golden Ram—Milton’s Golden Lane—One New Year’s Eve—A Night of Tortures—Going Hopping—Loitering by the Way—The Abbot’s Garden—The Elixir of Life—An Englishman’s Castle. Large Crown 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges, with a Coloured Frontispiece and eight Full-page Plates by Dalziel Brothers, price 5s. FOOTSTEPS TO FAME A BOOK TO OPEN OTHER BOOKS. By HAIN FRISWELL. Author of “The Gentle Life,” “Out and About,” etc. Contents: The Uses of Fame—Great Thinkers—Heroes—Rulers of Mankind—Leaders of Men—Lovers of their Country—Votaries of Science—Ploughers of the Deep—Pioneers of Science—Great Workers—Lovers of Nature—Searchers of the Skies—Watchers on the Shore—Patriots—Benefactors of their Kind—Workers and Thinkers. “Written not only to instruct and amuse, but also with the purpose of inculcating good and honourable principles. Its style is terse and elegant. The book betokens extensive reading, and the advice given is always kindly, often noble, and mostly shrewd and clever.”—Illustrated London News. “The title-page intimates that it is ‘a book to open other books.’ It will do that and perhaps more, for it may be the means of making other books, by inciting its younger readers to follow the examples of its heroes, and thereby making themselves famous enough to have their lives recorded in a book. ‘Footsteps to Fame’ is a book worth the reading and remembering.”—City Press. Crown 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges, Illustrated with Frontispiece, price 3s. 6d. CLIMBING THE HILL A STORY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD. By the Author of “A Trap to Catch a Sunbeam.” NEW EDITION OF THE WORKS OF ANNA LISLE. This elegant edition, large Crown 8vo, is handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges, suitable for presentation, and Illustrated by the leading artists of the day. In One Volume, Large Crown 8vo, Illustrated, price 5s. SELF AND SELF-SACRIFICE OR, NELLY’S STORY. BY ANNA LISLE. “A very beautiful story, with characters well drawn, scenery vividly described, and interest admirably sustained. The tendency of the volume is not only unexceptionable, but excellent in a Christian point of view. We have seldom seen a book in which the best and highest aim is so manifest without the attractiveness of the tale being at all lessened by the embodiment of religious principles.”—Eclectic Review. “The story is so delightful, and the whole spirit of the book so pure, that it compels our admiration.”—Daily News. “Since ‘Currer Bell’ we have read nothing more genuine, nor more touching. ‘Nelly’s Story’ has power to carry the reader right through with it, and can hardly fail to impress a moral of inestimable importance.”—Carlisle Journal. In One Volume, Large Crown 8vo, Illustrated, price 5s. QUICKSANDS: A Tale. BY ANNA LISLE. “It is a thoroughly woman’s book. We can fairly say that we have seldom met with a graver or more striking warning against the consequences of over eagerness about worldly position and advantages, more forcibly and, at the same time, gracefully conveyed.”—Literary Gazette. “Contains a great deal of quiet and powerful writing. Marty, the maid of Mrs. Grey, might pass for a creation of Dickens. The moral of ‘Quicksands’ is at once comprehensive and striking.”—Weekly Mail. MR. SHIRLEY HIBBERD’S BOOK ON THE IVY. Fcap. 4to, cloth elegant, Illustrated with Coloured Plates and numerous Wood Engravings, price 10s. 6d. THE IVY: A Monograph. Comprising the History, Uses, Characteristics, and Affinities of the Plant, and a Descriptive List of all the Garden Ivies in Cultivation. By SHIRLEY HIBBERD. Contents.—I. Preparatory Observations.—II. Historical and Literary Memoranda.—III. The Characteristics of the Plant.—IV. Uses of the Ivy.—V. The Cultivation of the Ivy.—VI. The Species and Varieties of the Ivy.—VII. Descriptive List of Garden Ivies:—1. Green-leaved climbing forms of Hedera helix. 2. Variegated climbing forms of H. helix. 3. Green-leaved arborescent forms of H. helix. 4. Variegated arborescent forms of H. helix. 5. Green-leaved climbing forms of H. grandifolia (canariensis). 6. Variegated climbing forms of H. grandifolia. 7. Green-leaved arborescent forms of H. grandifolia. 8. Variegated arborescent forms of H. grandifolia. 9. Green-leaved climbing forms of H. coriacea (colchica). 10. Green-leaved arborescent forms of H. coriacea.—VIII. Selections of Ivies, comprising the most Distinct and Beautiful in the several Sections. “Mr. Shirley Hibberd has performed an acceptable task in laying before the public, in this pretty volume, the results of his experience. The writer evidently found his task a pleasant one, and he has executed it pleasantly. He descants on the characteristics of the plant, the uses to which it may be put, and gives a long descriptive catalogue of the several varieties. Numerous illustrations are given which appear to us to be very faithful representations.”—AthenÆum. “Among the numerous gift-books of the season there is not one more truly elegant or more fitted, by its very beautiful coloured plates, and other well-engraved illustrations, to constitute a dainty present than Shirley Hibberd’s ‘Monograph of the Ivy.’ Until we read this charming book, enriched as it is with vignettes of old castles ivy-covered, we had no idea how much the ivy could be rendered permanently useful in the decoration of a room, or add to the beauty of a garden in winter. We would heartily recommend the purchase of the volume for its real value, as well as for its beauty.”—The Treasury of Literature. “In the charmingly attractive and lavishly, as well as beautifully illustrated, book before us, the subject has been so dealt with as to be exhausted. Everything that we desire to know, all indeed, that we can know, concerning the ivy, has been supplied to us by a most conscientious and intelligent guide. The best authorities are quoted; science and art have been valuable contributors; the aid of a hundred poets is evoked; and the result is one of the most pleasant and instructive books of the season.”—Art Journal. “The volume is charmingly got up, and the wood engravings, in addition to the coloured plates, are profuse.”—Standard. “A gracefully conceived, and well wrought out work, with excellent and faithful illustrations.”—Daily Telegraph. “Mr. Shirley Hibberd’s ‘Monograph of the Ivy’ is a fine work, and forms an enduring monument of his literary research, original inquiry, breadth of generalization, and patient and successful cultural skill; should the work become as popular as it deserves to be, ivy-hunting will become as favourite a pastime as fern-gathering.”—Scotsman. “This is a charming monograph. Throughout, Mr. Hibberd is a delightful companion, and even his hardest description is picturesquely written, and the eye is relieved and satisfied with abundant illustrations. Anyone who has a bit of dead wall to cover, a screen to make, or a window or trellis to adorn, can learn all he wants from it.”—Glasgow Herald. “It might be thought difficult if not impossible to fill a portly volume with a scientific and practical account of a single plant. This, however, Mr. Hibberd has done; and what is more, he has contrived to make a very captivating book, and to do good scientific work. His book is beautifully got up, and the illustrations, both coloured and plain, are simply admirable.”—Manchester Courier. Crown 8vo, cloth, price 6s. Illustrated with Coloured Plates and numerous Wood Engravings. THE AMATEUR’S GREENHOUSE AND CONSERVATORY: A COMPLETE GUIDE TO THE Construction, Heating, and Management of Greenhouses and Conservatories. And the Selection, Propagation, Cultivation, and Improvement of Ornamental Greenhouse and Conservatory Plants. “The approach of winter naturally turns the thoughts of the owner of a greenhouse or conservatory to the putting their houses in order, and Mr. Hibberd’s manual, brimful as it is of practical information, will be found a most useful guide, not only to the furnishing of the house and the treatment of its contents, but also to the construction of the building, and to all the appliances needful for the preservation and proper cultivation of the plants. It is a work which no amateur, at least, should fail to consult.”—Art Journal. “This book is well adapted for amateurs, being plain and not prolix. It points out, in its earlier chapters, the main considerations which affect the construction and heating of conservatories and greenhouses, this part of the volume containing many illustrations. In the fourth chapter the amateur is initiated in the routine of greenhouse work—potting, composts, propagation, &c., being discussed. Then follows a series of chapters in which the treatment of the different groups and families is explained. Greenhouse Herbaceous Plants, in alphabetical order, leading the way, followed by the Chrysanthemum, to which a chapter is given; Greenhouse Soft-wooded Plants; Pelargoniums; Fuchsias; Greenhouse Hard-wooded Plants; Ericas and Epacrises; Camellias, Azaleas, and Rhododendrons; Greenhouse and Conservatory Climbers; Oranges, &c. Hard-leaved Plants, as Agaves, DracÆnas, &c.; Succulent-leaved Plants; Orchid and Pitcher Plants; Greenhouse Roses, &c. One chapter is devoted to naming a general selection of Greenhouse Plants; another to summer Cucumbers and Seedling Pelargoniums; while others treat of Hardy Plants in a greenhouse, or afford reminders of monthly work. The volume is nicely printed and elegantly bound; and, so far as we have had the opportunity of testing it, seems to be sound as to its practical recommendations.”—Gardeners’ Chronicle. “Mr. Hibberd has put together a series of hints on greenhouses and conservatories and the fittest tenants for them, which we do not hesitate to pronounce more practical and practicable than those of his bulkier contemporaries. The value of this volume to amateurs of moderate means and appliances, cannot fail to be great.”—Saturday Review. Cr. 8vo, cl. gilt, price 6s., Illustrated with Coloured Plates and Wood Engravings. The Amateur’s ROSE BOOK, COMPRISING THE Cultivation of the Rose In the Open Ground and under Glass: the Formation of the Rosarium: the Characters of Wild and Garden Roses: the Preparation of the Flowers for Exhibition: the Raising of New Varieties: and the Work of the Rose Garden in every Season of the Year. By SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S. Contents: Wild Roses—Forming a Rosarium—Dwarf Roses—The Propagation of Roses by Buds and Grafts—Stocks for Roses—Garden Roses—Exhibition Roses—The Characters of Roses—Climbing Roses—Pillar Roses—Roses under Glass—Seedling Roses—Roses in Town Gardens—The Fairy Rose—Yellow Roses—Hedgerow and Wilderness Roses—Roses for Decorations—The Enemies of the Rose—Sending Roses by Rail and Post—On Buying New Roses—Curiosities of Rose Growing—Reminders of Monthly Work—The Rose Show—Selections of Roses—Roses and their Raisers. “We have great pleasure in thoroughly recommending to our readers Mr. Hibberd’s ‘Rose Book.’ It is written by one who has fully mastered the subject, and the directions he gives are of that practical utility so much needed.”—Journal of Horticulture. “Mr. Hibberd writes in such a clear, practical, common sense way, that we do not hesitate to affirm that it is the amateur’s own fault if he fail to profit largely by his study of the rose book. Every rose grower should possess it. It is an elegant volume. The coloured illustrations are beautiful.”—Literary World. “The work is eminently clear, earnest, and instructive. Every idea, plan, and notion of propagation and growing roses appears to be touched upon. A perusal of Mr. Hibberd’s pages will not only assist the amateur grower, but will also prevent many disappointments.”—Lloyd’s Weekly News. “It is a sound practical work, brimful of excellent advice, and possesses the merit of being as useful to the amateur of small as of large means.”—Leeds Mercury. Cr. 8vo, cl. gilt, price 3s. 6d., Illustrated with Woodcuts and Coloured Plates. The FERN GARDEN HOW TO MAKE, KEEP, AND ENJOY IT; OR, Fern Culture Made Easy. By SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S. Contents: Ferns in General—Fern Collecting—How to Form an Out-door Fernery—Rock Ferns—Marsh Ferns—Ferns in Pots—The Fern House—Fern Cases—The Art of Multiplying Ferns—British Ferns—Greenhouse and Stove Ferns—Tree Ferns—Fern Allies. “Mr. Hibberd’s books are always worth possessing, and this one is an excellent specimen of his work. All who love ferns, or who start a glass case or a rockery, should buy it.”—Publishers’ Circular. “A charming treatise. Ladies interested in the beautiful art of fern culture will find Mr. Hibberd’s book a pleasant and useful companion.”—Daily News. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, Illustrated with Coloured Plates and numerous Wood Engravings, price 6s. THE AMATEUR’S FLOWER GARDEN A Practical Guide to the Management of the Garden and the Cultivation of Popular Flowers. By SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S., Author of “Rustic Adornments for Homes of Taste,” “The Rose Book,” “Profitable Gardening,” “The Fern Garden,” “Field Flowers,” “The Town Garden,” etc., etc. CONTENTS:
The following Critical Notices have appeared of this Book. “It is practical throughout; the book will be useful and acceptable.”—Gardeners’ Chronicle. “For any one with tastes and opportunities for gardening, it may be recommended as of more enduring value than books of greater interest for the superficial reader.”—Standard. “An elegant and charmingly illustrated volume. It is intended for those who possess what may be called ‘homely’ gardens as distinguished from great and grand gardens; and it is wonderful to find under the author’s guidance how much may be made of ever so small a piece of garden ground.”—Leeds Mercury. “Ladies fond of gardening will find an immense amount of useful information in this handy and reliable work.”—Treasury of Literature. “No amateur should be without a copy. In fact he had better have two; one for use, and one for the drawing-room table.”—Fun. “No amateur can be at a loss, whatever exigency may arise, with Mr. Hibberd’s book at hand.”—Scotsman. “We have here one of the most useful works to the amateur that has ever been published.”—Sunday Times. “‘The Amateur’s Flower Garden’ will be hailed with delight by the multitudes who find intense delight in their flower gardens. The beautiful illustrations enhance immensely the value of the book.”—John Bull. “A first-rate present for all who, of any age or either sex, take pleasure in gardening.”—Daily News. “A charming gift-book for a lady, full of sound practical information, and liberally illustrated with beautifully coloured plates.”—Lady’s Own Paper. GROOMBRIDGE & SONS’ SERIES OF COLOURED PRINTS SUITABLE FOR Screens, Scrap-Books, and General Decorative Purposes, EMBRACING BIRDS, FIGURES, FLOWERS, FERNS, FRUITS, ANIMALS, INSECTS, SCENES, AND ARTICLES OF VERTU. Price 3d. each, or 2s. 6d. per Dozen. Post-Free for Stamps to amount of Order. Or may be procured by order of any Bookseller. A PRINTED LIST WILL BE FORWARDED POST-FREE UPON APPLICATION. In ordering from this List, it is only necessary to state the numbers prefixed to the Prints, and the quantities of each required. This large and unique Collection of Prints at present comprises:—
Complete List Post-free. GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, 5, Paternoster Row, London.
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