morn and eve, all decline and fall, all sunset
and autumn, are temporarily and provisionally
excluded, till at last old Winter comes
to wave his white wand again, and scatters
his hoar-frost over the earth, like burning
ashes.

Every flower is a favourite with somebody,
though everybody does not fix his affections
on the same identical favourite. As in
matters matrimonial, every Jack finds his
Jill (chacun trouve sa chacune); so, in floral
attachments, every object of attraction
bewitches its own special object whom its
influence attracts. Rousseau had his periwinkle;
Girofalo the painter, his gilliflower, whence
he derives his pictorial name. Linnæus fell
into a rapture of adoration the first time he
beheld the golden blossoms of the furze;
while Burns worshipped with fond devotion
that wee modest crimson-tipped flower, the
daisy. The late king and queen of Otaheite
wore sunflowers in their bosoms on drawing-
room days. There are memorial flowers;
the Flos Adonis, or pheasant's eye, sprang
from the blood that fell from Adonis's thigh,
when the savage boar inflicted the death-
wound; the hyacinth rose to perpetuate the
perishing beauty of another comely stripling.
The vergiss-mein-nicht, or forget-me-not, is a
modern remembrancer of lovers' vows. There
are dynastic flowers; the lily of the Bourbons,
the violet of the Bonapartes, and the
broom-twig, the planta genista, or plante des
genets, of our own vanished Plantagenets.
There are national flowers; the touch-me-not
thistle of Scotland, the delicate wood-sorrel
or shamrock of Ireland, the blood-stained
roses (both white and red) of England, the
perfumed rose of the orientals, the water-
lilies of India, the tuberose of Italy; to which
might be added the geraniums of the Cape,
the cactuses of America, the lilies of Guernsey,
the double pomegranates of Morocco, the
scarlet quince, and a hundred other beauties
of Japan, the chrysanthemum and a thousand
more charmers from China, the gentian of
the Alps, and the blushing crab-blossom of
Siberia. There are religious and super-
natural flowers;—the passion-flower, which
represents, in the parts of its inflorescence,
the material instruments of the Saviour's
suffering; the box which (when properly
blest and dipped in holy water) drives off, by
sprinkling, all evil influences—I have seen it
used effectually, with decoction of tobacco, to
exorcise malignant insects from tormented
and demoniacally-possessed wall-fruit trees;
—the mandrake, which, when torn up by the
roots, utters a wailing cry, and drives the
hearer mad. There is Shakespeare's "little
western flower;" and joubarbe, Jupiter's
beard, vulgò houseleek, "which," saith Sir
Thomas Browne, "old superstition set on the
tops of houses as a defensation against lightning
and thunder;" St. Anthony's white
lily, symbolic and virtuous; and a legend of
the Virgin worthier of belief than the
newfangled doctrine of her immaculate conception,
that when her votaries sought her body
in the tomb, they found that it had undergone
apotheosis, and that its place was filled
with a bouquet parfait, a mingled mass of
sweet-smelling blooms.

There are even blossoms of county repute;
hops in Kent, apples in Devonshire, barley-
bloom in Norfolk, gooseberries in Lancashire.
There are poor men's flowers (double-
daisies and wall-flowers), rich men's
flowers (orchidaceæ), weavers' flowers (tulips
and ranunculuses), shoe-makers' flowers
(auriculas and calceolarias); button-hole
flowers; flowers for the mouth; nay, some
enthusiasts (I cannot call them savages),
go so far as to stick flowers, in slits, in
their ears. There are barometric flowers
(the shepherds' weather-glasses); photometric
flowers (mesembrianthemums, or noon-flowers,
not to mention a star or two of Bethlehem,
and others); clock flowers (the white water
lily), which shut at certain hours of the day;
luminous flowers (tropæolum), from which
bright sparks have been seen to flash. There
are sweet-smelling flowers that intoxicate the
soul; and stinking flowers (stapelise) which
imitate putrid carrion so well as to take the
very blow-flies in. There are ticklish flowers,
which shrink and wince when you tickle
them. I question whether there are any
truly scentless flowers; but there are
paradoxical flowers, that exhale a powerful odour,
imperceptible nevertheless to most human
noses; thus completing the circle of our
imperfect senses. As there are sounds inaudible
to ordinary ears (the highest notes of insect
chirping, and the lowest tones of colossal
pedal pipes); as there are colours invisible to
ordinary eyes (we know them to exist from
the chemical action of the rays that
produce them); so there are vegetable perfumes
whose peculiar savour is not to be caught by
vulgar nasal nerves. That there are such
emanations, you will not doubt, after being
closeted for an hour or two in a snug apartment,
with sundry individuals of the cactus
family.

So, pray, which are your favourite flowers,—
the lily of the valley, the dandelion, or the
daffydowndilly, which comes before the swallow
dares to come, and meets the winds of March
with beauty? I will candidly tell you which
are mine. As Cowslip the dairymaid, when
pressed to patronise a bird (after the fashion of
Venus, Juno, and Minerva, who selected cloves,
peacocks, and owls respectively), answered,
"Well, I should like a nice roast duck;" in
like manner, if you put me to the question
about my flowers, I must confess that I have
a weakness for caper-buds, whenever there is
talk of boiled legs of mutton; for borage and
nasturtium-flowers to crown a salad; for
cowslips and cream, while the cuckoo singeth;
for a dish of cooked artichokes, whenever
they are to be had (I cannot even yet manage
them raw à la poivrade); for chamomile