I had written thus far, when last night there came to see me an old village singer of nigh on eighty years, always to me a welcome guest. I seated him by the fireside on a settle, and we fell to talking about gardens, when he said, "I reckon, your honour, I know a rare old-fashioned song about flowers and gardings, and them like. If your honour 'ud plase to hear me, I'll zing 'n." Then he struck up the following quaint ballad, to an air certainly two hundred years old-- [Music: "IN A GARDEN SWEET." _Arranged by_ F. W. Bussell, Esq., M.A.] Two lovers in a garden sweet Were walking side by side, I heard how he the maid addressed, I heard how she replied. The garden it was very great, With box trees in a row; And up and down the gravell'd walk These lovers fond did go. "Said he, 'I prithee fix the day Whereon we shall be wed.' Said she, 'Thou hast a wanton mind, I like thee not,' she said. 'For now you look at brown Nancy, And dark eyes pleasure you; But next declare you like the fair Julian with eyes of blue.' "'O pretty maid, in garden sweet, Are flowers in each parterre, I turn and gaze with fond amaze At all--for all are fair. But one I find--best to my mind, Of all I choose but one; I stoop and gather that choice flower, And wear that flower alone.'" [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [4] Hare, _Walks in Rome_. [5] Having got rid of the wall, and finding that flowers now suffer from the wind, gardeners are fond of _sinking_ beds, and not a few gardens are thus furnished. [6] _A Reflective Tour through Part of France._ London: 1789. CHAPTER V. THE COUNTRY PARSON. [Illustration] Of no class of men can it be more truly said that the good they do dies with them, and that the evil lives--in the memory of men--than the country parson. Of the thousands of old rectors and vicars of past generations, how they have all slipped out of the memory of men, have left no tradition whatever behind them, if they were good! but the few bad ones did so impress themselves on their generation, that the stories of their misconduct have been handed on, and are not forgotten in a century. In the floor of my own parish church, in the chancel, is a tombstone to a former incumbent. The name and the date have been ground away by the heels of the school-children who sit over it, but thus much of the inscription remains-- "... The Psalmists man of yeares hee lived a score, Tended his flocke allone; theire ofspring did restore By Water into life of Grace; at font and grave, He served God devout: and strivd men's soules to save. He fedd the poore, lov'd all, and did by Pattern showe, As pastor to his Flocke, ye way that they shoulde go."