STATE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 103 



who are charmed with a gay plumaged bird, or a gorgeous sunset, 

 and yet are ready to lift their hands in holy horror at sight of a 

 lady adorned with a bright ribbon, a gay feather, or a dress of 

 some vivid color. We are free to confess that in the matter of 

 color we were wont to deplore our taste as being at fault, until we 

 came to read the profound opinion of Euskin, on the subject. He 

 says, "The fact is, we, none of us, enough appreciate the noble- 

 ness and sacredness of distinct colors. Nothing is more common 

 than to hear it spoken of as a subordinate beauty; nay, even as 

 the mere source of sensual pleasure, while the fact is that of all 

 God's gifts to the sight of man color is the holiest, the most di- 

 vine, associated with profound and noble thought." So much 

 for the wisdom of Ruskin. 



We find that the love of color, by which "Beautiful Venice, the 

 bride of the sea," is known above all other cities in Italy, was not 

 grauted her in the days of her reckless festivity. Her resplendent 

 vestments of purple and gold were given her when first she rose 

 in all her majestic purity from the sea. 



The coat of many colors was the touching symbol of Israel's 

 love to his chosen son. 'Tis said of Fra Angelica, the celebrated 

 artist, a man pure in heart and life, that his pictures were like 

 rare pieces of jewelry, and the colors of his draperies as rich and 

 various as those of a painted window. The other extreme is 

 recognized in Salvator Eosa, a study of whose character reveals 

 the fact that he was given to dissipation and revelry, and that his 

 pictures seemed to borrow from his life the same gloomy shades 

 of color. At last we come to think that not to the coarseness of 

 plebian tastes but up to the rainbow hues and down to the flowers 

 may we trace this sacred love of color. 



As the eye grown dim with age, falls tenderly upon a tasteful 

 knot of old-fashioned blossoms, the soul is carried back, by the 



Sower of associative imagination, to the scenes of childhood. 

 aek to the humble cottage or the pioneer cabin. There are the 

 treasures of a mother's well kept garden, called by their old- 

 fashioned names. The border of Pinks, the Marigolds, the 

 Touch-me-nots, Holly-hocks, the Bachelor's buttons, with rich 

 little clumps of Johnny-jump-ups weaving their bright Mosaic 

 hues among the rest ; the whole made odorous with Sweet Brier, 

 Sweet Basil and Old Man. With this fragrant day-dream from 

 the Spice Islands of the Past is wafted memories of youth, and 

 bright eyes, and festive scenes, and ripples of laughter. Too 

 soon the vision changes, and the air is filled with a mournful 

 fragrance which speaks of blight, of disappointments, of deso- 

 lation, and of buried hopes, waiting to be called from the dust 

 of the tomb, to the splendor of Immortality. 



Can we not each recall some sacred, voiceless influence, some 

 tender dreamy association connected, it may be, with a bunch of 

 Pansies, or of Forget-me-nots, a withered Eose, a spray of Mig- 



