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I leave its teachings with you, reader, it is the language of truth.
The Weeping Willow! Who has ever seen its pensile form drooping over the streamlet or the tomb, without a feel. ing of sadness coming over his soul, and the touching remembrance of that time, when Judah's daughters sat down by Babel's waters and wept, and
"Silent their harps, each cord unstrung,
On pendent willow branches hung.” Thus the willow of Babylon, though a wanderer from its home in the far-off Levánt, bears on its leaves à tale of sor
In the early spring, the little Snow-drop bound in its icy chains, lies close to the frosty earth; but soon-the ascending sun melts the crystal links, and the little prisoner looks forth beautiful amid the desolation.
How like the weary, hope-lit spirit, bound in the bonds of mortal sense, and chilled by the rude blasts of a wintry world,
which would fain “fly away and be at rest;" and then, when that : greater Sun dispels the winter and the gloom, how calm, how
beautiful does the manumitted bloom in that bright, balmy blime of perennial spring, where there is no more change.
You have seen the Aspen Poplar conspicuous in the grove, with its silver livery of nature's putting on. Its thousand leaves, you know, will rock like cradles, and quiver at the slightest breath, as though a tempest shook a maple or a beech. How tremblingly alive!
What did the Aspen• tell you? Did it not whisper, that while some minds, like maples feel not the breeze, and bow only to the gale, there are others whose quick feelings are as keenly sensitive as its own leaves; hearts whom a look will agitate, a light word melt, a harsh one wither ? Thus then it counselled; “remember your companions; be careful, kind; remember—what? the aspen tree? no, rather the aspen-heart.
I presume that you have had such talks with the trees and flowers, (for what youth, what child has not ?) and I hope that now, if never before, you believe of the Language of Nature, in all her vast and beautiful departments, as did Charles of the piece he read, "if it is poetry, it is truth too."
A little floral dictionary-Language of the Nettle—The Bram
ble—The Olive-The Poppy-What grief will do— The Amaranth-The Mistletoe- What the author ventured to do for the sake of the dialogue - Why the flowers never told the reader a thought-A piece of advice which he will follow, if he please.
The language of this beautiful race is so intelligible, that vocabularies of the thoughts suggested by the different plants and shrubs have been written by individuals of several nations. Many a thought can be expressed in a nosegay, which will be understood equally well by the Spaniard, the Italian and the American; in fact, by all, who are acquainted with the habits and peculiarities of the several flowers which compose it; for, says the poet,
"In eastern lands they talk in flowers,
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers,
On its leaves a mystic language bears.” Gladly would I let him sing on; were it in accordance with
my design; but I have made a few selections of flowers and their language, which I will now give you. Such a list when complete, is called a Floral Dictionary. NAME. LANGUAGE.
NAME. LANGUAGE. Amaranth, Immortality. Lily, Beauty with InBeech, Prosperity. Bramble, Envy.
Liverwort, Confidence. Camomile, Good for evil. Mistletoe, I surmount all Columbine, Folly.
Domestic In. Palm, Victory.
dustry. White Pink, Ingenuousness. Hollyhock, Ambition. Poppy, Consolation. Hop, ,
Injustice. Sensitive Plant, Timidity. Honeysuckle, Affection.
Hope. Misplaced Af- Sun-flower, False Riches.
fection. Venus' FlyLaurel, Glory.
Trap,' Beware! Marigold, Grief. Wall Flower, Love in death.
Willow, Pensive sadness. Some of these sentiments will occur to you, as peculiarly appropriate. The Nettle, stinging at the slightest touch and piercing the hand with a thousand poisoned shafts, so minute as to elude the eye-a cruelty truly refined !
The Bramble, fair game for the farmer's hoe, and the gar. dener's hostility; how like envy; and in wide contrast, the Olive, whence the dove of olden time plucked the welcome token. What can it tell of, but peace ? Seldom in the his. tory of nations, has its lovely language been disregarded. How singular, that the green bough should be understood and respected, where even the white flag is unused and unknown. Upon many a shore pressed by the feet of strangers, it bears its glad, and I may say, heavenly mission, "Peace be with you."
'The Poppy, the slumber-bringing Poppy,* with its scarlet leaves; what has it of consolation ? Who does not know that sleep is the alleviator of sorrow; that the deep sobs of the child grow fainter and fainter as sleep comes on; that the aching heart is soothed, and the tearless grief of the man is assuaged, or at least forgotten in repose ?
How pure, how God-like is that benevolence, which since man would be “of few days and full of trouble;” since he will foster hopes that must be blighted, and engage in enterprises that must be defeated, thus brought out of grief, its own sure alleviation.
Hence it is, that men, in the prospect of an immediate and fearful death, sleep calmly and sweetly, till the dawn of the fatal day, whose setting is not for them, and whose dews will water the heaving turf-their last covering. Such is the fact, and however strange it may seem, not to resignation and peace, but to the deep anguish of their bosoms, they owe that peaceful night.1
I might allude to several others, possessing equal signifi. cance and force; as the Amaranth, that favorite with the po. fts. Milton wreaths the crowns of angels with Amaranth and gold;
" Immortal Amaranth, a flower that once
To leaven removed,” which latter fancy of the poet, one is more than half inclined to believe, upon finding a weed bearing a strong family resemblance to the pig weed, that worthy representative in the vegetable world, of its stubborn, troublesome namesake in the animal kingdom, dignified with the appellation of Amaranth!
Whence we have opium, &c.
#Dr. Rush on diseases of the mind,
It is an elegant foreign species however, which is referred to, that, surviving its faded sisters of the earth, still lives on, and whispers of immortality, to the beholder.
I might speak of the Fly-Trap, the Laurel, and the Wall Flower, that clings still closer to the crumbling ruin; of that little sailor, called the Gulf-weed,
"Sailing on ocean's foam,
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.". In the words of Mrs. Lincoln, how strikingly analogous this
poor weed to many a human being, blown about on the ocean of life, by every breath of passion or caprice! Who would not rather, like the mountain oak, meet the storms of life, firmly rooted in virtuous principles ?
I will mention only one other--the Mistletoe. What an example it affords to the young; what a language it speaks to all! I hardly wonder that old Britain's priests, the Druids, held it in such veneration. Do you ask why?
A.* See this little plant with lance-shaped leaves and snowy blossoms, which I hold in my hand. R.F Where did you pluck it? By the brook? I think I saw something like it, bending over the stream. A. No, you never saw it there. R. On the hill or in the garden? A. No. R. O, I mistrust it grew on that high rock by the falls, for I observed some little vines creeping out of the fissures of it.
A. You are wrong again; this strange little shrub never occupied an inch of earth on the globe. R. Now, at least, you have betrayed, the secret; it is a water plant. A. I fear rather, that
you have betrayed your ignorance, for I did not find it there. R. Pray where did it grow? You almost tempt me to think it a winged animal, living altogether in the air, or the pro