better understanding of this magic earth which are now neglected.

I think we have come upon hasty and heated days, and are too much
mastered by the god of hurry and the swift and greedy eye. We accept
flashing pictures of life for life itself; we rush here and rush there
and, having arrived, rush away again--to what sensible purpose? Be still
a little! Be still!

I do not mean by stillness, stagnation not yet lazy contentment, but
life more deeply thought about, more intensely realized, an activity so
concentrated that it is quiet. Be still then!

So it is that, though I am no worshipper of the old, I think the older
gardeners had in some ways a better practice of the art than we have,
for they planted not for the eye alone but for the nose and the sense of
taste and even, in growing such plants as the lamb's tongue, to gratify,
curiously, the sense of touch. They loved the scented herbs, and
appropriately called them simples. Some of these old simples I am
greatly fond of, and like to snip a leaf as I go by to smell or taste;
but many of them, I here confess, have for me a rank and culinary
odour--as sage and thyme and the bold scarlet monarda, sometimes called
bergamot.

But if their actual fragrance is not always pleasing, and their uses are
now grown obscure, I love well the names of many of them--whether from
ancient association or because the words themselves fall pleasantly upon
the ear, as, for example, sweet marjoram and dill, anise and summer
savoury, lavender and sweet basil. Coriander! Caraway! Cumin! And
"there's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember,...
there's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you: and here's