Here you may see persons of all ranks, from the highest to the lowest, and I might say, of all colors, from the deep black of the negro, to the fair complexion of the Englishman. No trouble is spared to get as many lilies as possible, and the horsemen will even ride up the hills at the hazard of breaking their necks, and clamber to steep places, fit only for the wild goat to set its foot. It is a pretty sight to watch the people coming back loaded with flowers; some wreathing them in the bridles of their horses, some wearing them as garlands on their heads: the carriages are filled with them, and the crowd looks almost like a moving mass of flowers. Near the entrance of the valley, two chapels are erected, and adorned with streamers and ribbons. A little further on, booths and tents are set up for the refreshment of the people, and here the negroes and negresses, dressed as grandly as their masters and mistresses, dance to the sound of music. Some will even waltz before the carriages as they drive out of the valley, gliding in and out among the horses, apparently in danger every moment of being run over. Just in the midst of all this revelry is a table curtained round by crimson hangings, and decorated with flowers of the yellow amancaes. Here, strangely enough to our feelings, but quite in harmony with the rude habits of the country, is seated a waxen image of our Saviour, crowned with thorns; thus profanely representing Him who was "a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief," as presiding over a scene of mirth and jollity. There is a legend, which is firmly believed by the common people of Lima. They declare that the yellow amancaes springs up, as if by magic, on the very day it is wanted; and that, though up to the night before, not a single flower is to be seen, yet on the morning of the feast, it will punctually appear, and blossom in all its beauty. I will give you a few verses of a ballad, that for ages has been sung by the Spanish damsels, as they go to gather flowers, on the morning of St. John's day. "Come forth, come forth, my maidens, 'tis the day of good St. John, It is the Baptist's morning, that breaks the hills upon, "Come forth, come forth, my maidens, the hedgerows all are green, And the little birds are singing the opening leaves between; There's trefoil on the meadow and lilies on the lea, And hawthorn blossoms on the bush, which you must pluck with me." Chapter the Twenty-sixth. THE ORCHIS.* WHEN you have been walking in the meadows in spring, I dare say you have noticed, amongst the grass, a purple flower growing in a spike, and surrounded by a few spotted leaves. The country people call it King Finger; but it is the early purple orchis,† and belongs to a tribe of plants, containing some of the most showy and grotesque in the vegetable world. The root of the orchis is fleshy, and consists of two oval tubers, and a number of succulent fibres, that serve to nourish the plant. The stem rises from one of these tubers, and when it has flowered, and the seeds are perfected, it dies down to the ground. The first tuber is now exhausted, but the second is plump and flourishing, and the following year sends up a stem, that flowers and dies down in the same way as its predecessor; not, however, until a *Order-Orchidaceæ. + Orchis mascula. |