more than one bean into a hole. It seems to me, considering the
temptation, that not to clump is to be at the very pinnacle of human
virtue.

Another turn in the lane, and we come to the old house standing
amongst the high elms--the old farm-house, which always, I don't
know why, carries back my imagination to Shakspeare's days. It is a
long, low, irregular building, with one room, at an angle from the
house, covered with ivy, fine white-veined ivy; the first floor of
the main building projecting and supported by oaken beams, and one
of the windows below, with its old casement and long narrow panes,
forming the half of a shallow hexagon. A porch, with seats in it,
surmounted by a pinnacle, pointed roofs, and clustered chimneys,
complete the picture! Alas! it is little else but a picture! The
very walls are crumbling to decay under a careless landlord and
ruined tenant.

Now a few yards farther, and I reach the bank. Ah! I smell them
already--their exquisite perfume steams and lingers in this moist,
heavy air. Through this little gate, and along the green south bank
of this green wheat-field, and they burst upon me, the lovely
violets, in tenfold loveliness. The ground is covered with them,
white and purple, enamelling the short dewy grass, looking but the
more vividly coloured under the dull, leaden sky. There they lie by
hundreds, by thousands. In former years I have been used to watch
them from the tiny green bud, till one or two stole into bloom.
They never came on me before in such a sudden and luxuriant glory of
simple beauty,--and I do really owe one pure and genuine pleasure to
feverish London! How beautifully they are placed too, on this
sloping bank, with the palm branches waving over them, full of early