AN ESSAY ON FLOWERS. 



39 



secratetl into eralalems and auguries ; that the 

 willow, in its meek flexibility, was made the 

 insignia of desertion ; the cypress, in its 

 solemn and dense foliage, of death ; the en- 

 during amaranth, of immortality ; and the 

 classic shaped, and bright green leaves of the 

 laurel, of fame. — Not only in their native 

 traits, but in their almost sympathetic habits, 

 flowers come near our affections. How pa- 

 tiently the ivy binds the disjointed stones of 

 a ruined edifice, and the moss creeps over the 

 grey and time-stained roots and rocks, as if 

 to cover their decay, and relieve their sterility! 

 With what a wreathing protection clusters 

 the woodbine round the humble porch ! The 

 field flowers, some one has truly said, smile 

 up to us as children to the face of a father ; 

 and the seeds of those destined for birds, fly 

 on innumerable wings of down, to germinate 

 the more abundantly. The warm hues of the 

 dahlia would be oppressive in any other sea- 

 son than autumn ; and the glitter of the 

 ocean's strand is chastened by the gay weeds, 

 whose variegated tints are freshened by every 

 wave that dies along the beach. Even this 

 herbal, the repository of memorials gleaned 

 from hallowed scenes, or treasured as the 

 fragile trophies of joys as fragile, " strikes the 

 electric chain" of imagination and memory 

 with a deeper vibration than a sketch-book or 

 a diary. That little cluster of thin, pale 

 green leaves, with a shade of delicate brown 

 at the edges (called by the Italians the Hair 

 of Venus,) which clings to the page as if 

 painted on its surface, once hung from the 

 dark, rocky wall of the remarkable cavern in 

 Syracuse, called the Ear of Dionysius ; and 

 as I look upon it, the deserted bay, crumbling 

 tombs, and wreck-strewn camjiagiia of that 

 ancient site are vividly before me ; even the 

 flavor of the Hybla honey, and the echo of 

 the mule's tramp, return to my senses. This 

 weed, so common in shape and hue that it 

 needs a reminiscence to justify its preservation, 

 was plucked as I stood tip-toe on the edge of 

 a gondola, and held fast to old Antonio's 

 shoulder, while he checked his oar beneath 

 the Bridge of Sighs, and I snatched it from 

 the interstices of the arch. The piazza of 

 San Marco, the Adriatic glowing with the 

 flush of sunset, the lonely canals, and all the 

 grey quietude of Venice, are conjured by the 

 withered memento, "as at the touch of an 

 enchanter's wand." More costly acquisitions 



have yielded less zest in the winning than this 

 slender yellow flower, which, evading the 

 jealous watchfulness of the guard at Pom- 

 peii, I gathered to assure myself thenceforth 

 that I had actually walked the streets of the 

 buried city. How venerable seems this bunch 

 of grass and flowers that drew its sustenance 

 from the loamy walls of the Coliseum ; and 

 with how marvellous a freshness do I call up 

 the medieval architecture, exquisite campa- 

 nile, and mountain boundaries of Florence, 

 beholding again the anemone purloined, on a 

 fine Sabbath morning, in the gardens of the 

 Boboli I I cannot see this cassia blossom 

 without feeling a certain impulsion to monas- 

 tic life, as I think of the kind friars, the no- 

 ble organ, lava-heaped confines and soothing 

 retirement of the Benedictine convent, at Ca- 

 tania, whence I bore it as the memento of one 

 of those white days in the traveller's experi- 

 ence, that atone for a thousand discomforts. 

 Pleasant was the summer evening, at Messi- 

 na, when, in one of the palaces that line the 

 marina, we kept gay vigil in order to wit- 

 ness the blooming of this faded Cereus ; and 

 high beat the pulses of an entranced multi- 

 tude on the night this faded nosegay was 

 pressed to the lips of Amina, in that last 

 sce7ia, when her voice quivered with uncon- 

 trollable feeling, and carolled the " Ah ! non 

 givnge'' in tones of such pathetic delight as 

 brought a tear to the sternest eye. I will 

 not throw away this rusty-looking japonica, 

 but keep it as a talisman to guard me from 

 the fascination of heartless beauty, reflecting 



on the character of the brilliant , in 



whose dark hair it rested during the last ball 

 of her triumphant season, that bewitching 

 face displaying every phase of expression, 

 while not one look was inspired by a soul, 

 any more than this flower, in its graceful 

 prime, was imbued with fragrance. Far dif- 

 ferent is the association that endears the 

 scarlet honeysuckle and white holyhock be- 

 side it. Through peaceful hours that over- 

 flowed with unuttered tenderness, and an 

 ecstatic sense of geniality and recognition, I 

 watched beside one I loved ; the humming- 

 bird and the bee sipping the nectar from their 

 chalices, and compared the luxurious pastime 

 with my own. Nor will I cease to treasure 

 this orange-blossom given me by the dark- 

 eyed Palermitan, in the grove of her father's 

 domain, when the air was filled with the odor 



