it is stated that the first general planting of mulberries and making of silk in England was by William Stallenge, Comptroller of the Custom-house, and Monsieur Verton, in 1608.

The very names of many of our vegetable kingdom indicate the places from whence they came. There is the cedar of Lebanon; the small cos-lettuce which came from the isle of Cos; the cherries from Cerasuntis, a city of Pontus; the peach or persicum, Persian apples, from Persia; the damson or damascene plum from Damascus and the currant from Corinth.

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It is somewhat curious to observe on this occasion that there exists an unsuspected intercourse between nations in the propagation of exotic plants. Lucullus, after the war with Mithridates, introduced cherries from Pontus into Italy; and the newly-imported fruit was found so pleasant that it was rapidly propagated; and twenty-six years afterwards was introduced, as Pliny states, into Britain. Thus a victory obtained by a Roman consul over a king of Pontus, with which it would seem that Britain could have no concern, was the real occasion of our countrymen possessing cherry orchards. Yet to our shame it must be told that these cherries from the king of Pontus's city of Cerasuntis are not the cherries we are now eating; for the whole race of cherry-trees was lost in the Saxon period, and was only restored by the gardener of King Henry VIII., who brought them from Flanders.

The Romans entertained a high opinion of those persons who introduced into Italy exotic fruits and flowers. Sir William Temple remarks: "The great captains, and even consular men, who first brought them over, took pride in giving them their own names, by which they were known a great while in Rome, as in memory of some great service or pleasure they had done their country; so that not only laws and battles, but several sorts of apples and pears were called Manlian and Claudian, Pompeyan, and Tiberian, and by several other such noble names. Pliny has paid his tribute of applause to Lucullus, for bringing cherry and nut-trees from Pontus into Italy.”

We have also several modern instances where the name

of the transplanter, or rearer, has been preserved in this manner. Peter Collinson, the botanist, to whom the English gardens are indebted for many new and curious species, which he acquired by means of an extensive correspondence with America, was highly gratified when Linnæus baptised a plant with his name; and with great spirit asserts his honourable claim. "Something, I think," said he, "was due to me for the great number of plants and seeds I have annually procured from abroad; and you have been so good as to pay it, by giving me a species of eternity, botanically speaking-that is, a name as long as men and books endure." Such is the true animating language of these patriotic enthusiasts.

Some lines at the close of Peacham's emblems give an idea of an English fruit-garden in 1612.

"The Persian peach and fruitful quince,
And there the forward almond grew,
With cherries known no long time since,
The winter warden, orchard's pride,
The phillibert that loves the vale,

And red queen-apple so envied

Of schoolboys, passing by the pale."

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,-
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sire's "Islands of the Blest,"

The mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might yet be free; For standing on the Persian's grave

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis, And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations;-all were his! He counted them at break of dayAnd when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now—

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

"Tis something in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla.

What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise-we come, we come! 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain, in vain; strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call-
How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think ye
he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!

It made Anacreon's song divine:

He served-but served Polycrates

A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades !

Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind!

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown
The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-
They have a king who buys and sells ;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing save the waves and I
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die :
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

Lord Byron.

I call a complete and generous education that which fits a man to perform justly, skilfully, and magnanimously all the offices, both private and public, of peace and war. But here the main skill and groundwork will be to temper the learners with lectures and explanations at every opportunity, as may lead and draw them in willing obedience, inflamed with the study of learning and the admiration of virtue, stirred up with high hopes of living to be brave men and worthy patriots, dear to God, and famous to all ages.-John Milton.

BROEK, OR THE DUTCH PARADISE.

PART I.

There has long been a matter of discussion and controversy among the pious and the learned as to the situation of the terrestrial paradise from whence our first parents were exiled. This question has been put to rest by certain of the faithful in Holland, who have decided in favour of the village of Broek, about six miles from Amsterdam. It may not, they observe, correspond in all respects to the description of the garden of Eden, handed down from days of yore, but it comes nearer to their ideas of a perfect paradise than any other place on earth.