60 A TOUR ROUND MT GARDEN. 



begins to show its form; but it is black. The rose-colours 

 begin to appear, then the red, lastly the blue, — all the forms 

 are distinct. Already the hemerocallis, a sort of yellow lily, 

 closed during the night, re-opens its corolla, and begins to 

 spread around a sweet jonquil odour. The dandelioij, with 

 its golden flower, had spread forth its numberless rays in the 

 grass, even before the hemerocallis; whilst the Easter-daisies, 

 still shut up, keep their little silver spikes gathered together 

 in close sheaves, of which they only expose the under part, 

 which is of a beautiful rose-colour. 



The birds awaken, and begin their morning song. The 

 heavens assume a rosy tint; the grey clouds become of a 

 clear lilac; the east expands into a luminous yellow; the 

 cherry-trees planted in the west receive upon their grey bark 

 a rosy tint, from the first ray which the sun launches ob- 

 liquely at them. There is the star of day ! the star of life, 

 ascending in all his glory and majesty — ^a vast globe of fire 

 mounting from the horizon. 



All the plants now awake, — the acacia, with its leaves 

 folded and placed one over the other. See, they separate, 

 and exhibit their graceful forms. The blue lupin, which has 

 leaves of a dusky green, shaped like hands, had closed its 

 fingers, and let its arms fall against its stalk; — now the leaves 

 spread, and rise to their proper position. 



The lupin has caused many pages to be written by the 

 learned. Virgil has somewhere said, tristis lupinus. Why 

 did Virgil call the lupin sad 2 The kind of which we are 

 speaking is of a charming appearance; the flower is of an 

 agreeable shape, and a beautiful colour; other kinds afford a 

 sweet perfume. Why did Virgil say that the lupin was sad ? 

 A vast number of reasons have been assigned by the learned 

 for it; many volumes have been perpetrated, as well by 

 learned botanists as by learned commentators upon this 

 subject, and yet they have never agreed. 



I remember a question which puzzled us at college, and 

 remains as undecided as that of the tristis lupinus. 



" Why," asked one scholar of another — " why is the salmon 

 the most hypocritical of fishes?" His companion reflected 

 for some time, but as he was not a savant by profession, he 

 said, "I don't know." A savant never says, "I don't know;" 



