The examiner. [volume] (Louisville, Ky.) 1847-1849, 1848-06-24
The Gardens OF Dama-c1-.

But its gardens are the delight-the de-
light and the pride Of Damascus; they are
not the formal parteues which you might
expect from the Oriental taste; they rather
bring back TO your mind the memory OF
some dark old shrubbery in our northern
isle, that has been charmingly 'lln-kept up
fUr naouy end many a day When you see
rich wilderness of wood in decent Eng
land, it is like enough that you see it with
some soft regrets. The puzzled old woman
at the lodge can give small account Of the
family She thinks it is Italy that has
made the whole circle Of her world so
gloomy and sad. You avoid the house in
lively dread Of a lone housekeeper, but you
make your way on by the stables; you re-
member that gable with all its neatly nail
ed trophies Of fltchas, and hawks, and owls,
now slowly falling to pieces-you remem-
Der that stable, and that, but the doors are
all fastened that used to be standing aiar-
the paint Of things painted is blistered and
cracked-grass grows in the yard-just there
in October mornings, the keeper would
wait with the dogs and the guns--no keep
er now--you hurry away, and gain the
small wicket that used to open to the touch
Of lightsome hand-it is fastened with a
paddock (the only new-looking thing, and
is stained with thick, green damp-you
climb it, and bury yourself in the deep
shade, and strive but lazily with the tang
ling briars. and stop for long minutes to
Judge and determine whether you will creep
beneath the long boughs, and make them
your archway, or whether perhaps you will
lift your heel, and tread them down under
foot. Long doubt, and scarcely to be ended,
till you wake from the memory Of those
days when the path was clear, and chase
that phantom of a muslin sleeve that once
weighed warm upon your arm.
Wild as that the CHEST woodland of
deserted home in England, but without its
sweet sadness, is the sumptuous garden Of
Damascus. Forest trees, tall and stately
enough if you could see their lofty crests,
yet lead tustling life Of il below with their
branches struggling against strong numbers
Of bushes and wilful shrubs. The shade
upon the earth is black as night. High,
high above your head and ON every side all
down to the ground, the thicket is hemmed
in and choked up by the interlacing bOughs
that droop with the weight Of roses, and
load the slow air with their damask breath.
There are no other flowers. Here and there.
there are patches Of ground made clear from
the cover, and these are either careiessly
planted with some common and useful veg
etable, or else are left free to the wayward
ways Of Nature, and bear rank weeds, moist
looking and cool to your eyes, and freshen-
ing the sense with their earthly and bitter
fragrance. There is lane opened through
the thicket, so broad in some places that
you can pass along side by side-in some
so narrow (he shrubs are forever encroach-
ng) that you ought, if you can, to go on
the first and hold back the bough Of the rose |
Tree. And through this wilderness there
tumbles a loud rushing stream, which is
lalted al last in the lowest corner of the |
garden, and there tossed up in fountain by
he side Of the simple alcove. This is all. |
Eothen.