Among the flowering shrubs we have now, also, many which demand their Spring welcome. And first the Lilac; for it was scarcely in full bloom last month; and it is its rich fulness that constitutes much of its charm, though its scent is delightful. Now, too, the Guelder-rose flings up its spheres of white light into the air, supported on their invisible stems, and looking, as the wind blows them about, like the jugglers' balls chasing each other as if in sport. The Mountain-ash, too, puts forth its fans of white blossom, which the imagination converts, as soon as they appear, into those rich bunches of scarlet berries that make the winter months look gay; and which said "imagination" would do the same by the Elder-bloom, which also now appears, but that its delicious odour, when scented at a sufficient distance from its source, tells tales of any thing but winter and elder-wine. Lastly, the Laburnum now hangs forth its golden glories, and shows itself, for a few brief days, the most graceful of all the inhabitants of the shrubbery. The blossoms of the Laburnum, where they are seen from a little distance, and have (from circumstances of soil, &c.) acquired their due dependent posture, can scarcely be looked at steadily without a seeming _motion_ being communicated to them, as if some invisible hand had detached them from their stems, and they were in the act of falling to the earth in the form of a yellow rain.
In the orchard, the loveliest of all fruit-blossoms, the Apples, are now in full perfection. These flowers are scarcely ever examined or praised for their beauty; and yet they are formed of almost every other flower's best. They are as fresh as the Rose, and more delicate; as innocent as the Vale Lily, and more gay; as modest as the Daisy, and less prim. And surely they are not the worse for being followed by a beautiful fruit; any more than a beautiful bride is the worse for being a rich one. I have been "cudgelling my brains" (which, to speak the truth, I am seldom called upon to do) for a likeness to this lovely blossom; and I can find none but that which I have used already. The Apple-blossom is like nothing, in nature or in art, but the Countess of B----'s face; which is itself not wholly in either, being a happy mixture of the best parts of both--the sweet simplicity of the one, and the finished grace of the other; and which--but I beseech her to take it away from before my imagination at once, if she has any desire to see these pleasant papers come to a conclusion; for if it should again open upon me from among the flowers, like Cupid's from out the Rose, I cannot answer for the consequences on the remainder of this history; for, though I am able to find in the Apple-blossom no likeness to any thing but _her_ face, if once I am put upon pointing out resemblances in _that_, it shall go hard but I will prove it to be, in some particular or other, the prototype of all beautiful things,--always excepting Sir Thomas's portrait of her; which, however _she_ may be like _it_, is _not like her_. Her face is like--