oes very well in poetry, to pen, in pretty phrase, the query
of your acquaintance with the

"Land of the orange and myrtle;"

but they are more than _poetically_ "emblems of _deeds_ that are done in
their clime," and gastric derangement from the former fruit, with
cutaneous affections from the sweet-scented vine, are not the only
proofs of a change in the properties of the Garden of Eden. "Latet
anguis in herba," of the most inviting natural lawn, and of its gayest
flowers, truly has the poet said, "the trail of the serpent is over them
all." The East is called the "land of the sun," and justly too, for he
reigns supreme there, and if you defy his power, soon brings you to your
senses, or rather deprives you of them, by a _coup de soleil_. Evading
his beams you seek the covert of a grateful shade, where the spreading
palm, with parasol-like leaves, forms romantic shelter, the cocoa-nut
in its triple cluster hanging invitingly in its crotch; away high up
upon its straight and graceful stem, birds of magnificent plumage are
flitting from tree to tree, making the grove vocal with their notes;
monkeys, mischievous, but not considered dangerous, dance overhead upon
the boughs, and with comic antics provoke a smile. With gentle breezes
wafting perfumes such as Gouraud never was gladdened with in his most
happy ambrosial dreams, and glimpses of the blue sky, seen partially
through the waving foliage, which gently moves with a composing sound,
reminding you that "Heaven is above all," you close your eyes, about to
sink into the arms of the "twin sister" of that mysterious deity, who
bears you thither, when--wiss-s-rattle, crack--down comes a cocoa-nut,
denting the ground within two inches from whence you had just jerked
your happy head, which had it hit would have transferred you from the
arms of one "twin" to the other; and a malicious monkey scampers off
chattering and grinning, as if he had performed a feat worthy of his
prototype--man!

"Oh know you the land of the orange and myrtle?" where the Thug crawls
cautiously with his strangling cord, and the tiger welcomes you with his
feline fangs!

But Anger--please pronounce it softly, as if written thus, Anjeer--Anger
is not so bad as described in the foregoing sketch; as I have stated,
there are no musquitoes there, and you are not much troubled with those
bumping, buzzing bugs, who "put out the light, and then put out _their_
light." Lizards crawl over the walls and c