lls, the mountains,
the morning and evening sky, are robed in loveliness. The "laughing
flowers," exclaims the poet! but there is more than gayety in the
blooming flower, though it takes a wise man to see its full
significance--there is the beauty, the love, and the adaptation, of
which it is full. Few of us, however, see any more deeply in this
respect than did Peter Bell:--

"A primrose by a river's brim,
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more."

What would we think or say of one who had invented
flowers--supposing, that before him, flowers were things unknown;
would it not be the paradise of a new delight? should we not hail
the inventor as a genius as a god? And yet these lovely offsprings
of the earth have been speaking to man from the first dawn of his
existence till now, telling him of the goodness and wisdom of the
Creating Power, which bade the earth bring forth, not only that
which was useful as food, but also flowers, the bright consummate
flowers, to clothe it in beauty and joy!

See that graceful fuchsia, its blood-red petals, and calyx of
bluish-purple, more exquisite in colour and form than any hand or
eyes, no matter how well skilled and trained, can imitate! We can
manufacture no colours to equal those of our flowers in their bright
brilliancy--such, for instance, as the Scarlet Lychnis, the
Browallia, or even the Common Poppy. Then see the exquisite blue of
the humble Speedwell, and the dazzling white of the Star of
Bethlehem, that shines even in the dark. Bring one of even our
common field-flowers into a room, place it on your table or chimney
piece, and you seem to have brought a ray of sunshine into the
place. There is ever cheerfulness about flowers; what a delight are
they to the drooping invalid! the very sight of them is cheering;
they are like a sweet draught of fresh bliss, coming as messengers
from the country without, and seeming to say:--"Come and see the
place where we grow, and let thy heart be glad in our presence."

What can be more innocent than flowers! Are they not like children
undimmed by sin? They are emblems of purity and truth, always a new
source of delight to the pure and the innocent. The heart that does
not love flowers, or the voice of a playful child, is one that we
should not like to consort with. It was a beautiful conceit that
invented a language of flowers, by which lovers were enabled to
express the feelings that they dared not openly speak