FUM ARIA EXIMIA.— CHOICE FUMITORY. 
Class XVII. DIADELPHIA.— Order II. HEXANDRIA. 
Natural Order FUMARIACEiE. — THE FUMITORY TRIBE. 
Perennial root, which produces several stems about a foot and a half in height, terminated with nume- 
rous pink flowers at the extremity, which come out on short peduncles. Leaves of a blue green on the 
upper surface, of a paler green underneath ; they are on long stalks, springing from the base, and surrounding 
the flower-stalks. 
The leaves of this graceful little plant, form a handsome cluster close to the ground; while the flower- 
spikes, which rise to the height of about eighteen inches, are plentifully adorned with blooms during the 
months of May and June. The handsome style of growth renders this plant truly serviceable and a great 
favourite, either for borders of flower-beds or for tufts ; the latter of which become compact and very orna- 
mental when the plant is well established. The seeds rarely come to perfection in this country ; but by 
separating the roots in the spring the plant is easily increased. Light garden mould suits the nature of this 
herbaceous perennial. It was introduced in 1812 from North America. This interesting genus of plants 
has been divided into two other genera, Cysticapnoe and Corydalis, among which latter is included the plant 
here figured. The old name is however here retained, as that bywhich the plant is better known. 
Some of the species of this genus are noticed in the Phamacopoeias, The Fumaria officinalis , or Com- 
mon Fumitory, is used in cutaneous diseases, but no mention is made of the present species as being in any 
degree serviceable in the Materia Medica. It is the Funus terras of the older herbalists, so called from the 
light and smokelike cloudiness of its foliage. 
Looking about us (says a popular Author) during a walk to see what subject we could write upon that 
should be familiar to every body, and afford as striking a specimeu as we could give, of the entertainment 
to be found in the commonest object, our eyes lighted upon a stone. It was a common pebble, a flint ; such 
as a little boy kicks before him as he goes, by way of making haste with a message, and saving his new 
shoes. 
“ A stone !” cries a reader, “ a flint ! the very symbol of a miser ! What can be got out of that ?” 
The question is well put ; but a little reflection on the part of our interrogator would soon rescue the 
poor stone from the comparison. Strike him at any rate, and you will get something out of him : — warm 
his heart and out come the genial sparks that shall gladden your hearth, and put hot dishes on your table. 
This is not miser’s work. What fires, what lights, what conflagrations, what myriads of clicks of trigggers — 
awful sounds before battle, when instead of letting his flint do its proper good natured work of cooking his 
supper, and warming his wife and himself over their cottage fire, the poor fellow is made to kill and be 
killed by other poor fellows, whose brains are strewed about the place for want of knowing better. 
But to return to the natural quiet condition of our friend, and what can he do for us in a peaceful way, 
and so as to please meditation ; — what think you of him as the musician of the brooks ? as the unpretending 
player on those watery pipes and flageolets, during the hot noon, or the silence of the night ? Without the 
pebble the brook would want its prettiest murmur. And then, in reminding you of these murmurs, he re- 
minds you of the poets. 
A noise as of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. — Coleridge. 
Yes the brook singeth ; but it would not sing so well, — it would not have that tone and ring in its music, 
without the stone. 
Then ’gan the shepherd gather into one 
His straggling goats, and drovethem to a ford, 
"Whose coerule stream, rumbling in pebble-stone, 
Crept under moss as green as any gourd. 
Spenser's Gnat. 
Spenser’s Gnat, observe ; he wrote a whole poem upon a gnat, and a most beautiful one too, founded upon 
another poem on the same subject, written by the great Roman poet Virgil, not because those great poets 
wanted or were unequal to great subjects, such as all the world think great, but because they thought no 
care, and no fetching out of beauty and wonder, ill bestowed upon the smallest marvellous object of God’s 
workmanship. The gnat, in their poems, is the creature that he really is, full of elegance and vivacity, airy, 
trumpeted and plumed, and dancing in the sunbeams, — not the contempt of some thoughtless understanding, 
which sees in it, nothing but an insect coming to vex its skin. The eye of the poet or other informed man, 
is at once telescope and microscope, able to traverse the great heavens, and to do justice to the least thing 
they have created. 
