This little shall no more have the classical ear wounded by pronouncing the second syllable of Arbutus long, instead of the first." ebullition of impatience, natural enough to a person who knew the right pronunciation, would have pleased his friend Dr. Johnson, who speaks of him somewhere as "Millar, the great gardener." Some species of the Arbutus, from being mere shrubs, are better adapted for the present purpose than the beautiful one called the Common Strawberry-tree, which is the best known in our gardens; as the Painted-leaved, the Dwarf, and the Arcadian Arbutus. These trees mostly like a moist soil, but the Arcadian prefers a wet one; it is a native of swampy land, and if grown in a pot should be kept very wet: the earth, also, should be covered with moss, the better to retain the moisture. The other species should be watered every evening when the weather is dry, but not so liberally. When the frosts are severe, it will be more secure to shelter them; for though they will bear our winters when in the open ground, they are somewhat less hardy in pots. In mild seasons, a little straw over the earth would be a protection sufficient. The berries of the Thyme-leaved Arbutus, which is a native of North America, are carried to market in Philadelphia, and sold for tarts, &c. Great quantities of them are preserved, and sent to the West Indies and to Europe. The London pastry-cooks frequently use these instead of cranberries, to which they are very similar; but they are inferior to cranberries of our own growth. In Tuscany, many years ago, a man gave out that he had discovered a mode of making wine from the Arbutus. His wine was very good; but, upon his leaving the country, his wine-casks were found to contain a quantity of crushed grapes. Upon the whole, the Arbutus, with its strawberry-like fruit, its waxen-tinted blossoms hanging in clusters, their vine-coloured stems, its leaves resembling the bay, and the handsome and luxuriant growth of its branches, is one of the most elegant pieces of underwood we possess and when we have reason to believe that Horace was fond of lying under its shade, it completes its charms with the beauty of clasical association.' pp. 29–31. From the Arbutus to the Daisy is not quite so wide a range, as from the Cedar of Lebanon to the Hyssop: it leaves little room, however, to complain of a want of variety. We can only make room for part of the article on this modest little favourite of poetry. Who can see, or hear the name of the Daisy, the common Field Daisy, without a thousand pleasureable associations! It is connected with the sports of childhood, and with the pleasures of youth. We walk abroad to seek it; yet it is the very emblem of home. It is a favourite with man, woman, and child: it is the robin of flowers. Turn it all ways, and on every side you will find new beauty. You are attracted by the snowy white leaves, contrasted by the golden tuft in the centre, as it rears its head above the green grass: pluck it, and you will find it backed by a delicate star of green, and tipped with a blush colour, or a bright crimson. "Daisies with their pinky lashes," are among the first darlings of spring. They are in flower almost all the year; closing in the evening and in wet weather, and opening on the return of the sun : "The little dazie that at evening closes."-Spenser. "By a daisy, whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed.”—J. Withers. 'No flower has been more frequently celebrated by our poets, our best poets. Chaucer, in particular, expatiates at great length upon it. .... He makes a perfect plaything of the Daisy. Not contented with calling to our minds its etymology as the eye of day, he seems to delight in twisting it into every possible form, and, by some name or other, introduces it continually. Commending the showers of April, as bringing forward the May flowers, he adds: "And in speciall one called ie of the daie, " But the Field Daisy is not an inhabitant of the flower garden; it were vain to cultivate it there. We have but to walk into the fields, and there is a profusion for us. It is the favourite of the great garden of Nature: "Meadows trim with daisies pied." 'The reader will doubtless remember Burns's Address to a Mountain Daisy, beginning, “Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower." The Scotch commonly call it by the name of Gowan ; a name which they likewise apply to the dandelion, hawkweed, &c. : "The opening gowan, wet with dew." • Wordsworth, with a true poet's delight in the simplest beauties of nature, has addressed several little poems to the Daisy. One of these is given, playful and quaint, the verse running wild like the flower. We were disappointed at finding no reference to a sweet little ode to the Daisy, which appeared in Montgomery's first volume. The omission is doubtless accidental. But, in a future edition, the article may be still further enriched by an exquisite poem which has recently appeared, by the same Author, entitled "the Daisy in India," supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey of Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprang up unexpectedly in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this country. This will poem give a new interest to the Daisy as a type of its native soil, while it will indissolubly connect with it the name of Montgomery, who must be considered as having fairly won it from all preceding candidates. It has been to him a propitious star. As few of our readers, probably, have as yet met with the poem, we make no apology for transcribing it here. THE DAISY IN INDIA. • Thrice welcome, little English Flower! Never to me such beauty spread: Thrice welcome, little English Flower! Follow his motion to the west, Thrice welcome, little English Flower! Thrice welcome, little English Flower! While happy in my father's bower, Thou shalt the blithe memorial be: The fairy-sports of infancy, Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Thrice welcome, little English Flower! O for the April sun and shower, The sweet May-dews of that fair land, Where Daisies, thick as starlight, stand Thrice welcome, little English Flower! I saw thee waking from the dust; Then turn to heaven with brow serene, And place in God my trust.-J. Montgomery." It would be easy to suggest other additions to the poetical illustrations. The beautiful and touching Ode to the Herb Rosemary by Henry Kirke White, ought not to have been forgotten by a Writer who has raked the unreadable poems of the atheist Shelley for extracts. We were very sorry to meet with a eulogy on that unhappy being in the Preface to the work. It is evidently dictated by the partiality of private friendship; but it is ill judged, and only serves to excite suspicion of the Author's own principles. Shelley might love flowers, but he hated their Creator. He might read his Bible, but his works declare for what diabolical purpose. He was not quite like his own Lionel : For he made verses wild and queer, On the strange creeds priests hold so dear "Rosalind and Helen." p. 38. But the only difference is, that Mr. Shelley's tales, written under the same inspiration, will make nobody laugh. In this same poem, he speaks of Faith, the Python undefeated;' and he makes his fair and virtuous Helen laughing say, • We will have rites our faith to bind, This is sufficiently intelligible, as is the line in the Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, • I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed.' But the deep-rooted hatred of religion, which seemed his * London Magazine, June, 1823. p. 675, - ruling passion, breaks out, in the following stanza, into more daring impiety. No voice from some sublimer world hath ever To sage or poet these responses given: Therefore, the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven, Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail to sever Doubt, chance, and mutability.' p. 88. It is well known, indeed, that Mr. Shelley repeatedly subscribed himself an Atheist. This is a digression, but we have felt it to be a needful one, when an attempt is made to hold up such a person to veneration, because he was a lover of flowers, and had a gentle countenance. He too, however, has his emblem: it is the Aconite. To return to our flowers. The article on Campanula disappointed us, in not containing a single poetical reference. On turning, however, to the Hyacinth, we find that, with the name of Harebell, that flower has run away with praise apparently intended for the modest bell-flower of Autumn. There seems to have been some confusion in the application of the term hare bell. Botanists seem now to agree in assigning this appellation to the Hyacinthus non scriptus, sometimes ranked under the genus Scilla, and familiarly known among the common people under the name of blue bells, while the campanula rotundifolia is denominated heath bells. But the campanula, we strongly suspect, is the harebell of the poets, alluded to in the following extracts. The harebell, for her stainless azured hue, thou shalt not lack W. Browne. The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor 'E'en the light harebell raised its head, Shakspeare. Walter Scott. The Author of "May you like it" is evidently of the same Pale as the pale blue veins that streak exactly agrees with the passage from Shakspeare. so |