“These three did love each other dearly well; And with so firm affection were allied, As if but one soul in them all did dwell, Which did her power into three parts divide.” In the course of their story, a deadly quarrel ensued between the youngest of these three brothers and Camball, brother of the Princess Canace, which was assuaged by the goddess Concord, who gave them Nepenthe to drink. And what is Nepenthe?— “Nepenthe is a drink of sovereign grace Devised by the gods, for to assuage Heart’s grief, and bitter gall away to chase, Which stirs up anger and contentious rage. Instead thereof, sweet peace and quietage It doth establish in the troubled mind; Few men, but such as sober are and sage, Are by the gods to drink of it assigned— _But such as drink, eternal happiness do find_.” I can well believe it, good Mr. Spenser. Where can it be found? Did you ever drink of it yourself? or did you write thus feelingly because you sought and found it not? Oh! by what name shall we pray for it? “_The grace of God?_” * * * * * Here we are in the dog-days! and every one is complaining of the heat. Last night we had a thunder-storm, and Phillis was afraid to go to bed, till I told her that feathers were non-conductors. So then she thought, the sooner she was on her feather-bed, the better. Mr. Cheerlove used to be very fond of watching the lightning—of enjoying what Sir Humphrey Davy called “the sublime pleasure of _understanding_ what others _fear_, and of making friends even of inanimate objects.” I own I can never help starting at a very vivid flash. But I admire those who are superior to vain alarms. My garden is all-glorious with roses, from the China, Japan, Macartney, and Alice Grey, that embower the house and cluster the green palings with their crimson, pink, cream-coloured, and white blossoms, to the rarer yellow rose, and far more beautiful moss-rose, “queen of flowers!” I literally tread on roses as I walk from room to room, for every breath of air wafts the loose leaves through the windows, and scatters them about the carpets, making them, as Phillis says, “dreadful untidy.” The hay is pretty well carried, and I am glad to say that the hay-turning machine has not yet superseded hand-labour in this neighbourhood. The poor woman who, with her husband and baby, found nightly shelter in Cut-throat Barn, brought me some fine water-cresses at breakfast-time this morning:—a grateful return for some old linen and broken victuals. The young Prouts came in just now, bringing in yellow bed-straw, harebells, three different sorts of heath, and a bunch of flowering grasses that will make a graceful winter nosegay.