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cedar to the hyssop, and could surprise him by pro- 

 ducing your hortus siccus to show how little he 

 knew ; and yet after all, you still have a list of de- 

 siderata, — something- to add to that mass of won- 

 ders which daily inquiry has been collecting almost 

 beyond the power of numbers and of names. If 

 you should ever be at a loss for the latter, and could 

 affix it to some plant of the Ivy tribe, or of any 

 climbing genus, which, like myself, wants to be 

 supported, I should rejoice to have my name re- 

 corded by your power of conferring immortality. 

 My great predecessor Adam would never have been 

 able to find names for an hundredth part of your 

 vocabulary ; but he lived in a garden with one friend, 

 and one enemy, who, like Buonaparte in our days, 

 was the enemy of peace. What wonders have 

 we lived to witness ! kingdoms raised and kicked 

 down like a child's house of cards. The mighty 

 empire of the Franks, one week given to the Bour- 

 bons, the next to the Buonapartes ! then taken 

 away, and now hanging in jeopardy, to be decided 

 by the Russian Cossacs ; while a Wellington and a 

 Blucher are supposed to have, according to a fa- 

 vourite French phrase, " covered themselves with 

 glory." Who but must see something beyond the 

 power of man, which has been operating by means 

 unaccountable, to produce these wondrous changes ? 

 and while we boast our conquests of kingdoms, and 

 our power and glory of victory, without the most 

 distant taint of Methodism, I am insensibly led to 

 consider whose are the kingdom and the power and 

 the glory. Such thoughts will naturally arise when 



