The season was then cold and ungenial, the trees
leafless; in short, it was about mid-winter, but the magic pencil of our
artist invested his scenes with all the pride of summer. Upon the present
occasion, our Engravings need not the aid of his creative fancy. The
Gardens are now
made glorious by the summer sun
--the weather and the public are all propitious, and hundreds of gaily
dressed folks are flocking to inspect the zoological and botanical
curiosities of the place.
During the six months since our last visit, Mr. Cross has been
indefatigable. The grounds have been laid out under the superintendance of
Mr. Henry Phillips, the author of _Sylva Florifera_, and it is almost
impossible to give the reader an idea of their beauty and variety. The
avenues to the various buildings are planted with forest-trees, and each
tree and new plant has its name affixed on a tally; a botanical garden, on
a small scale, is, moreover talked of.
But we are forgetting the zoological tenants. The visiter enters by a
broad walk, beside which Parrots, Maccaws, and Cockatoos are uncaged on
perches; so that we may almost say with Montgomery:--
The blossoms swung like blossoms on the trees.
To the right is a semicircular glazed house containing many beautiful
foreign birds, and two Boas, which, from their torpidity, appear nearly as
harmless as their shaggy namesakes that encircle many a fair neck.
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