oh,
wonderful!--to see her, with every innocent feeling fresh within her,
go out in the morning into her garden to play with the fringes of its
guarded flowers, and lift their heads when they are drooping, with her
happy smile upon her face, and no cloud upon her brow, because there is
a little wall around her place of peace: and yet she knows, in her
heart, if she would only look for its knowledge, that, outside of that
little rose-covered wall, the wild grass, to the horizon, is torn up by
the agony of men, and beat level by the drift of their life blood.

93. Have you ever considered what a deep under meaning there lies, or
at least may be read, if we choose, in our custom of strewing flowers
before those whom we think most happy? Do you suppose it is merely to
deceive them into the hope that happiness is always to fall thus in
showers at their feet?--that wherever they pass they will tread on the
herbs of sweet scent, and that the rough ground will be made smooth for
them by depth of roses? So surely as they believe that, they will
have, instead, to walk on bitter herbs and thorns; and the only
softness to their feet will be of snow. But it is not thus intended
they should believe; there is a better meaning in that old custom. The
path of a good woman is indeed strewn with flowers: but they rise
behind her steps not before them. "Her feet have touched the meadows,
and left the daisies rosy."

94. You think that only a lover's fancy;--false and vain! How if it
could be true? You think this also, perhaps, only a poet's fancy--

"Even the light harebell raised its head
Elastic from her airy tread."

But it is little to say of a woman, that she only does not destroy
where she passes. She should revive; the harebells should bloom, not
stoop, as she passes. You think I am rushing into wild hyperbole?
Pardon me, not a whit--I mean what I say in calm English, spoken in
resolute truth. You have heard it said--(and I believe there is more
than fancy even in that saying, but let it pass for a fanciful
one)--that flowers only flourish rightly in the garden of some one who
loves them. I know you would like that to be true; you would think it
a pleasant magic if you could flush your flowers into brighter bloom by
a kind look upon them; nay, more, if your look had the power, not only
to cheer but to guard them:--if you could bid the black blight turn
away and the knotted caterpillar spare--if you could bid the