8 [' THOUGHTS ON THE 



"Where a leaf never dies on the still blooming bowers, 

 And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers ; 

 Where only to feel that we breathe, that we live, 

 Is worth the best joys that life elsewhere can give. 



But merely to judge by the general aspect of vegetation would 

 be by far too vague, and there is a means of arriving at much 

 more satisfactory conclusions. Nature has assigned to all 

 plants certain limits which they cannot pass ; — they are limited 

 in their range by temperature, elevation, and also as to latitude 

 and longitude ; — and though the agency of man may carry 

 them beyond these latter limits, yet no art can cause them to 

 flourish without that degree of heat which is necessary to their 

 development. The olive, the peach, and other fruits carried 

 from Europe to the high plains of the Andes, never there 

 ripen their fruit, although they attain a greater growth than 

 even in their native country. The cause of this is, that they 

 require a much higher temperature during one portion of the 

 year (namely, the period of the growth and ripening of their 

 fruit), than is to be found in these elevated regions. The 

 temperature of these regions resembles more that of our spring 

 months, only less changeable ; and hence, perhaps, we may 

 be allowed to conjecture that their insects would be analogous 

 to the vernal ones of the neighbouring countries nearer the 

 poles. Now, if we know— and Humboldt has told us — the 

 temperature required by those plants most commonly cultivated, 

 we can, from the presence of two or more of these, deduce very 

 nearly not only the mean annual temperature, but also the 

 extremes of temperature. I say two or 7?iore, because any one 

 may extend over a very considerable range as to climate, but 

 by observing two or more, and comparing their limits, we may 

 arrive at very precise ideas on these points. Let us suppose 

 ourselves to be not more than ten degrees on either side of the 

 line, — 



Where the slumbering earthquake 



Lies pillowed on fire, 

 And the lakes of bitumen 



Rise boilingly higher; — 

 Where the roots of the Andes 



Strike deep in the earth. 

 As their summits to heaven 



Shoot soaringly forth. 



