70 
nclies floral Sa/£inet *mtl BPiciorinl Some 
FLOWER PENCILLINGS. 
“ Oh ! the flowers look upward in every place 
Through this beautiful world of ours.” 
From the far-away shores of the ice-bound North, 
where the Rose Carnation and lovely Forget-me-not 
creep shivering from their crystal couch of snow, to 
the dreamy Lotus-land of the South, 
“ Where the sun with a golden mouth can blow 
Blue bubbles of grapes down a vineyard row ” ; 
from the spicy isles of the ocean to Araby’s “ land 
of the blest,” the air is filled with the redolent per¬ 
fumes and our eyes gladdened with the entrancing 
beauty of flowers. They peer at us from the way- 
side, the moss-grown lane, and the shadowy forest. 
At the foot of the mysterious pyramids, on the lonely 
Campagna, in the dwellings of the rich and the 
lowly cottage of the poor, everywhere are found the 
lovely harbingers, of hope, silent mementoes of an 
Eden lost and a paradise to be regained. Beautiful 
flowers! They wreathe the cradle, the marriage altar, 
and the tomb. The Persian writes his love in per¬ 
fumed nosegays, and the Indian child of the far West 
gathers with glee the luxuriant blossoms that deck 
the boundless prairies. The Arab stops a moment in 
his wild flight o’er the burning sands to pluck a leaf 
of the fragrant Myrrh for his dark-eyed mistress, 
while the sturdy “ Lap ” in his furry coat looks for a 
gleam of the blue-eyed Myosotis or sprig of the deli¬ 
cate Daphne for his fair-haired maiden. Who does 
not remember the touching story of Pellico, the 
Italian patriot, confined in an Austrian dungeon in 
the horrors of Spielberg. When the cold stone walls 
and cruel bars and iron guards shut out all hope from 
the poor exile, a flower became an angel, and its deli¬ 
cate beauty, creeping through the chinks in the court¬ 
yard stones, became a missionary and messenger of 
peace to his breaking heart. Our rarest flowers bloom 
with the greatest confusion in other lands. The 
charming Isle of Cyprus, famed alike in prose and 
poem, is brilliant with dazzling Hyacinths; the air is 
heavy with their misty perfumes, while every fountain 
and stream reflects again the image of the lovely 
Narcissus. At the Cape of Good Hope countless 
numbers of Callas (or, more properly, Richardia 
iEthiopica) grow in the swamps, lakes, and lagoons, 
while the delicate Smilax (Myrsiphyllum Aspara- 
goides) weaves its evergreen traceries amid the fo¬ 
liage and drooping bells of the Fuchsia. The latter 
beautiful plant was introduced into cultivation in 
rather a singular way. One of the most eminent 
florists of the day, Mr. Lee, of Hammersmith, near 
London, hearing of a wonderful flower of exceeding 
beauty belonging to an impoverished sea-captain’s 
widow, went at once to purchase it. She refused to 
part with it, however, as it had been brought her 
from abroad by her husband. The florist after many 
controversies finally prevailed over all her objections 
by promising her one of the young plants and the 
payment of eight guineas. He made cuttings at once, 
forced them in hot-beds, and the next season sold 
three hundred Fuchsias at a guinea each, keeping his 
lOmpiwiiari. 
promise to the widow also by taking her one of the 
first blooming plants. In ancient Egypt the favorite 
flower was the Lotus, or Rose of the Nile, the Nym- 
pliia Lotus of modern botany. It bore a large, fra¬ 
grant white blossom. So highly was it esteemed that 
distinguished guests upon their arrival in a city were 
presented with coronets of this exquisite flower as a 
conspicuous mark of honor. Woven in chaplets it 
played an important part in religious ceremonies. It 
crowned the head of Isis, that wonderful goddess 
whose very name is a romance. The first of all the 
heavenly deities, her many gracious gifts to mankind 
were represented by flowers interwoven with ears of 
corn. 0 trancing, soul-forgetting Lotus ! thy very 
name bears with it a charm, a weirdness that carries 
us away to the very borders of Lethe, until 
“ No more, no more the worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ; 
With dreamful eyes my spirit lies 
Under the walls of paradise.” 
Cleopatra, no doubt, crowned herself with this witch- 
flower when she wove her Circean spells about the 
yielding Anton} T . The Rose has been known, ad¬ 
mired, and cultivated from time immemorial, “Fondest 
child of dimpled spring, the wood-nymph wild.” It is 
the queen of every grove. 
“ Eye of gardens, light of lawns, 
Nursling of soft summer dawns, 
Love’s own earliest sigh it breathes, 
Beauty’s brow its lustre wreathes.” 
The name is of Celtic origin and signifies red. 
Anacreon, the celebrated Ionian poet, tells of the 
birth of the Rose in the following beautiful lines: 
“ When, humid from the silvery stream, 
Effusing beauty’s warmest beam, 
Venus appeared in flushing hues, 
Mellowed by ocean’s briny dews ; 
When in the starry courts above 
The pregnant brain of mighty Jove 
Disclosed the nymph of azure glance, 
The nymph who shakes the martial lance, 
Then, then, in strange, eventful hour 
The earth produced an infant flower, 
Which sprang, in blushing glories dressed, 
And wantoned o’er its parent breast. 
The gods beheld the brilliant birth, 
And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth. 
With nectar drops, a ruby tide, 
The sweetly Orient buds they dyed, 
And bade them bloom, the flowers divine 
Of him who gave the glorious vine, 
And bade them on the spangled thorn 
Expand their bosoms to the morn.” 
Who has not heard of the “Yale of Cashmere” 
with its roses, “ the brightest that earth ever gave ” J ? 
Feramors sings of its fairy charms to Lalla Rookh, 
of its flowers, its holy silence, interrupted only by 
the dipping o| the wings of birds in marble basins of 
purest water. 
“ Where the spirit of fragrance is up with the day, 
From his harem of night-flowers stealing away, 
And the wind, full of wantonness, woes like a lover 
The young aspen trees till they tremble all over ; 
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, 
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurled, 
Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes 
Sublime from that valley of bliss to the world.” 
Cicero slept on a couch of roses and violets, as did 
many other noble Romans ; and Propertius, a Roman 
poet, was buried in them, as he sings, that the earth 
may lie lightly on his grave. In the convivial festi¬ 
vals and Bacchanalian revels of the ancients they 
crowned themselves and lady-loves 
“ With buds of roses, virgin flowers 
Culled from Cupid’s balmy bowers, 
In the bowl of Bacchus steep 
Till with crimson drops they weep.” 
The beautiful custom of crowning the young 
bride with a chaplet of flowers has obtained in all 
ages. The choicest gems of Flora’s kingdom were 
culled to grace the marriage festivities. The an¬ 
cients fashioned the bridal wreath of the beautiful 
Myrtle, while now the Orange-Blossom is used al¬ 
most exclusively. The bride herself must gather the 
wreath in olden times, as to purchase was considered 
an ill-omen. Our brides of to-day do not seem to 
fear any such evil forecast, as the dainty wreaths 
and bouquets made so skilfully for their sovereign 
use are of the most costly description. We hope 
none of our readers will share the fate of the unlucky 
Proserpina, daughter of Ceres, the goddess of grain 
and harvests, who while gathering the Rose, the 
Hyacinth, and Crocus in the Nysian plains with the 
ocean nymphs, her sisters, beheld a Narcissus of ex¬ 
traordinary beauty. Reaching for it, she was caught 
up by Pluto and transported to Hades, where she re¬ 
mained until restored by Jupiter and the interven¬ 
tion of Mercury and Erebus. Proserpina signifies 
the seed corn, which, cast into the ground, is carried 
oft by the god of the lower world and reappears 
again in the waving grain or is restored to the mo¬ 
ther Ceres. 
“ Blossoms,” says Pliny, the Latin naturalist, “ are 
the ‘joy of trees,’ and wherever these beautiful crea¬ 
tures are found, they seem to say to us, Yes, be joy¬ 
ful too. The darkness of thy lot is only the avenue 
through which thou art passing. God, who is good 
to the flower and the blossom of the tree, will not 
forget thee.” Mrs. Theo. Butterwortii. 
Quincy, III. 
BEAUTIES OF LICHENS. 
And lo! what are these tiny, wondrous-looking, 
cup-shaped flowers of pale green which thickly 
spread over the moss carpet ? And, again, little 
trumpet-shaped corollas arise, with edges daintily 
notched, each bearing a pistil, and sometimes a sta¬ 
men or two. Occasionally, as if done by the hand of 
a “ child fairy,” one trumpet is placed within an¬ 
other trumpet, each rising above the other in perfect 
regularity, and putting forth one pistil and stamen at 
the top. In others delicate scarlet mould dots the 
top of slender stems, which, when seen through a 
microscope, resemble beautiful rosebuds. 
Lichens cling to the dark and barren breast of the 
old gray rocks, and make that which is unsightly to 
appear “ a thing of beauty.” Always clinging to 
the north side and softening its ruggedness, it re¬ 
minds us of that love which displays itself in adver¬ 
sity, softens defects, and beautifies life in its dark¬ 
est moments. 
Hans Hathaway. 
