The Sister Sciences; or, Botany and Horticulture
Treasurer of several Learned Societies, and Professor of Asparagus at the University of Battersea.
Botany.
TO MARY, WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS.
Nay! say not faded—’tis despair
Has thus subdued them, for they see
That in themselves however fair,
They ne’er can hope to equal thee!
The Rose’s joyous blush has fled,
With which no other lip could vie;
The Heartsease turns aside its head,
Fearing to meet thy deep-blue eye.
More sad the Myrtle’s hue appears,
The Jasmine’s silver star is dim;
Surpass’d by thee, thou seest the tears
That tremble on the Harebell’s brim.
The Woodland Lily’s silver cup
Was never seen to droop as now,
It dares not lift its flowerets up
To gaze upon thy gentle brow.
How canst thou look thus calmly on,
And watch them slowly die the while?
Recal them yet, ere life be gone,
Enchantress, with thy sunny smile!
Horticulture.
TO MOLLY, WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT AND VEGETABLES.
Nay! say not shrivell’d—’tis despair
Has thus subdued them, for they see
That in themselves however fair,
They’ll ne’er be relish’d, love, like thee!
A deeper blush the Raspberry paints,
Pale is the ruddy Beetroot’s lip;
And e’en the red-cheek’d Apple faints,
As though it suffer’d from the pip.
Severely frown the Baking Pears;
The Artichoke’s bold crest is down;
The awe-struck Medlar wildly stares
To see thy cheek a swarthier brown.
The icy Cucumber is hot,
The freckled Cauliflower wan;
The Mushroom has no longer got
A single leg to stand upon!
See how the rich, round-shoulder’d Figs
Bow to thy figure’s graceful swell;
The sobbing Orange bursts its pigs
To find thee such a Nonpareil!
The Sister Sciences, female Siamese twins, having vanished from the scene, our correspondent, Mr. H. G. Adams, presented a second specimen of his curious
PHOTOGENIC PICTURES: A SCENE NEAR FOLKSTONE.
[Folkstone was made, says tradition, of the “odds and ends” left after the rest of the world was finished; and any one who has visited that jumble of heights and hollows, becomes impressed with the conviction that tradition sometimes speaks the truth.]
Some weather-beaten men with clothes all tar-ry,
Keeping a sharp look-out upon the ocean,
And little Tom, and Jack, and Bill, and Harry,
Making upon the beach a dire commotion,—
Dabbling, like dab-chicks, in the billows briny,
Hunting for crabs, and other things crustaceous,
While a Newfoundland dog, in sport called “Tiny,”
Wags his huge bushy tail, and looks sagacious:
Here wades a shrimper to his waist in water,
There swims a bather, snorting like a grampus;
And lo! James Muddle, with his wife and daughter,
All in a boat, and crying out, “Don’t swamp us!”
Far in the offing you may see a cutter,
Her white sails gleaming like the sea-gull’s pinions,—
She means to overhaul that craft, with butter
Laden, and cheese, from swampy Scheldt’s dominions;
I shouldn’t wonder if Schiedam—however,
That’s not my business;—turn our glances landward,
There’s Farley in his garden—well, I never!—
A-talking down the chimney, to my landlord;
He says, “I see you’ve got some greens for dinner,
“And pickled pork,” but can’t say more for coughing;
That smoke just serves him right—the prying sinner!
He’s always jeering folks, and at them scoffing:
White cliffs, and houses, underneath and over,
And roads that seem to lead to regions airy—
Old boats converted into roofs, that cover
Buildings, in shape and size that greatly vary,
Denote the place, which popular believings
Point out as being made of ends and leavings.
Here we were reminded by a particularly ample, and unprecedentedly flaring wood-cut, borne on an appropriate pole past the vehicle, and intended to describe the indescribable effects of the fireworks in the Surrey Zoological Gardens, of a pleasant discourse which we overheard in that suburban retreat. “Quite a gem,” cried a lady from Portland Place, contemplating the splendid pictorial model of Rome; “really quite a monument of the artist’s abilities.” “I see St. Paul’s,” said a lady from Shadwell, who was standing by, looking at the same time at the crowning feature of the picture, “I see St. Paul’s quite plain, but where’s the Monument?”
“How those butcher-boys do ride!” exclaimed an elderly gentleman in the further corner, as one of the blue-frocked fraternity, with basket on arm, and “spur on heel,” dashed past at headlong speed. “Ay, sir, they ride sharp enough,” replied his next neighbour, whose bronzed features and brawny shoulders bespoke him a son of old Ocean; “but of all the rough-riding I have ever seen, nothing comes up to