January The Great Mullein. 45 



swayed in the autumn storms. As to that head itself, 

 what a miracle of texture ! Warm reddish brown in 

 the sun, and at a short distance seeming soft as fur, but 

 nearer a delicate net-work. 



Another very fine plant in winter, happily very com- 

 mon in many places, is the great mullein, which, though 

 it does not equal the teazle in elegance, far surpasses 

 it in the expression of melancholy ruin. Still it retains 

 some rich, thick, pale, dusty, cottony leaves, between 

 the earth and the blackened raceme where the pale 

 yellow flowers once clustered so gaily in the sunshine, 

 but the large outer leaves have faded and lost form, 

 and become mere brown rags, like the tatters of mis- 

 erable poverty, drenched by the rains of winter, and 

 draggled on the mud of the cold inhospitable earth. 

 Of all the plants that grow, the mullein in its decay 

 comes nearest to that most terrible form of human 

 poverty when the victim has still, to his misfortune, 

 vitality enough for mere existence, yet not enough to 

 make existence either decent or endurable. Groups >of 

 them will be found together, still strong enough to bear 

 up against the bitter wind that tears their rags into 

 more pitiable raggedness, and flings foulness on their 

 wet and withered leaves, to stick there, like contumely, 

 till they die. Some freshness lingers yet within their 

 folds, like hidden and tender recollections, some soft- 

 ness and a little warmth, but their misery is like - that 

 awful destitution that stands clothed in the last shreds 

 and remnants of prosperity. 



The ferns and grasses bear the season better, and 



