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of the sentimental renown attached to it. The story is this— 
Two German Lovers were walking by a river (the Rhine, 
I believe), when the Lady seeing and wishing for a flower 
of the Myosotis Palustris, the Cavalier attempted to gather it 
for her, and in so doing slipped, and was drowned, exclaiming, 
as he sunk—“ Vergils mich nicht!” 
My next group is formed of natives and foreigners, namely 
three African and two wild British Heaths : the former 
splendid in colours and magnitude, and the latter dear in their 
luxuriant and wild simplicity. Though bonny Scotland claims 
the Heather as her own especial emblem, and her moorlands 
and mountains are richly and gaily clad with its verdure and 
bloom, yet England and Wales are alike enlivened by its 
merry hells along many a tract of country otherwise bare 
and barren. 
I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau 
If birds confabulate or no: 
’Tis clear that they were always able 
To hold discourse, at least in fable ; 
And e’en the child, who knows no better 
Than to interpret by the letter 
A story of a cock and bull, 
Must have a most uncommon skull. 
In like manner do I think it unnecessary to appeal either 
to philosophical authority or poetic licence for my frequent 
floral conversazioni, such as the Feuds atoong the Heather,” 
and the like, seeing we may quite as readily find sermons 
