8 VEGETABLE DISTRIBUTION. To every part of the earth has its own peculiar vegetation been given-vegetation suited to its climate and its soil, and in a very striking manner to the requirements of its inhabitants. The traveller can tell, as he passes from country to country, how one class of plants succeeds to another: from the brilliant and luxuriant plants of the tropical climates, to the stunted mosses and lichens of the frozen regions, he perceives each has its native home. The temperature of the climate in every situation is so well adapted to the well-being of the plants found there, that, if it could be changed, they would perish if not preserved by artificial means. That there is a regular congeniality between the vegetation of a country and its air and soil, is evidently proved by that difference in vegetation, as the climate varies, which cannot escape observation. What gradations, from the glowing profusion with which some countries are adorned, to the scanty clothing which is afforded by the almost lifeless-looking lichen, which appears as if carved out of the very rocks to which it adheres! What striking changes in every latitude! It was evidently designed that animal and vegetable life should be in existence together. Vegetables, like animals, are distributed where their own requirements abound, and wherever they can be subservient to the wants of man and other creatures. The low plants, whose close firm leaves are fitted to resist the cold and searching winds of lofty mountains, inhabit the most elevated situations; while the more luxuriant vegetation is found in more sheltered places. In the variety of plants which are dependent for support on those of firmer nature, the gradation is no less remarkable. The dwarf mosses and lichens, which attach themselves to trees in colder climates, form indeed a remarkable contrast to the exuberant growth of the tropical parasites. The variety and luxuriance of these plants, with their multitudes of flowers and of fruits, are often so entwined together, that it is almost impossible to find the parent-stem of each; to the unaccustomed eye, they wear the appearance of enchantment. Grass, which yields the greatest support to man and various living creatures, is more largely supplied than any other vegetable; it is constantly springing up; and there is scarcely any climate, soil, or situation, in which it will not grow: it is the most extensive tribe of plants, and yields the various kinds of grain which furnish the most nutritious food, and affords the most ample pasturage for flocks and herds. Even the weeds which spring up among the grass are not without their use, rendering it more nutritious and palatable to some species of cattle. The oak and the pine-the trees most useful to man-are found in almost every climate, except in the polar regions. It is a grateful task to observe how a be neficent Providence has placed in every country what is most needed by its inhabitants. The exuberant growth of tropical plants furnishes a delightful shade in those countries where it is most required. The sea-breezes which prevail on the coasts in hot countries temperate the intense heat of the sun. The sago, or Mauritia palm, which goes by the name of the tree of life, supplies the poor Indians in South America with everything they can want-their habitation, their food, wine, and cordage. There is no tree which furnishes food in such quantity: one of fifteen years' standing has been known to yield six hundred-weight of sago, besides fruit; its saccharine juice, fermented, furnishes drink; its fibres and leaf-stalks are twisted into ropes or woven into hammocks. In the sandy soil by the desert of Sahara, the want of corn, which will not grow there, is supplied by the date tree, which yields the inhabitants almost all their sustenance: its uses are similar to those of the sago-tree. It is very remarkable that in those countries where labour would be the most exhausting it is least required. We often find, from travellers, that "The soil untill'd Pours forth spontaneous and abundant harvests, The forests cast their fruits in husks or rind, Yielding sweet kernels, or delicious pulp, Smooth oil, cool milk, and unfermented wine, In rich and exquisite variety," in those countries where the excessive heat would have rendered the usual process by which these various articles are obtained a labour of great fatigue. The supply of nutritious plants in hot climates is indeed a most grateful provision. The banana, which furnishes mankind within and near the tropics with great part of their food, requires no care, but to cut the stalks when laden with ripe fruit, and to dig round the roots once or twice a-year. In eight or nine months after it is planted, the sucker by which the tree is propagated forms its clusters, and about the eleventh month the first may be gathered. So productive is this plant that a single cluster often contains a hundred-andeighty fruits, and weighs from seventy to eighty pounds. The bread-fruit tree of the South Sea İslands yields its fruit spontaneously, and the palo de vaco, or cow-tree, gives a supply of the richest milk for eight months in the year. The ripening fruits which abound in some of the hottest climates are delightfully calculated to allay thirst, and the fragrance of the orange and the lemon groves imparts a delicious coolness to the air. Eastern travellers tell that "those who live in cold climates can scarcely have any conception of the perfection to which grapes and other fruits grow in warm climates, where the soil is suitable to them." The water-melon, so common in some of the West India islands, is as cold as water fresh from the spring, and a most | seasonable relief in the parching heat of the climate. In some of the coral islands of the South Seas no streams or springs are to be found; but Providence, ever mindful of the wants of living creatures, has furnished the inhabitants with a tree which yields them a most delicious draught - the cocoa-nut contains a pint or more of liquid, as if drawn from the coldest fountain: the milk of the cocoa-nut when brought to England is said to convey no idea of the beverage where the tree grows. The Malo cactus, which is half hid in the scorching plains in South America, yields a most refreshing juice, to which the poor thirsty animals are led from a distance by instinct. How provident the care which has placed this plant where most required, and endowed the creatures who are most in need of the relief which it affords with the power of finding it. The distribution of medicinal plants is a remarkable provision of Nature. Burton has given it as his opinion, that the herbs indigenous to each country are the fittest to be used for the complaints to which its inhabitants are liable, and the best suited to their constitutions. This opinion has been in great measure borne out by the experience of travellers, who speak of various plants which abound in districts where the ailments for which they are serviceable are prevalent. The plant called worginous is found in profusion in Abyssinia, where dysentery prevails, for which it is a most useful remedy. Bruce mentions having been cured by it when other remedies had failed. A vast list might be furnished exemplifying this fact. Not only has the earth been productive in healing herbs for the benefit of man, but it supplies many, and probably all, of the lower creatures with medicine suitable to their ailments: we have all seen the dog seek out the grass, to which instinct directs him when sick. Though every country is supplied with various plants of its own, to man has been given the power of improving them by cultivation, and thus increasing their usefulness; it has, indeed, been permitted that by his industry plants from distant lands and different climates may be cultivated with success, and many have been introduced by his enterprise, for immediate use, from far-off regions. The most exhilarating beverages which we have, and which are in general use - so as to be ranked more as necessaries than luxuries-are brought to us across lands and seas. China sends us our tea, and India Felix our coffee. The power which plants have of accommodating themselves to climates of which they are not natives, is exemplified every day by the numbers introduced into our garden. Observation and pains have overcome their tendency to thrive in no climate but their own. The names of those which have been long naturalized would fill a large catalogue; indeed, the original soils of some of them cannot now be traced. Corn, of different kinds, and the potato, cannot be traced back to their original condition: all have improved under cul tivation, and spread through divers countries: thus has man's labour been blessed to him. Botanists and gardeners are so well acquainted with the habits of plants that they know how to minister to them: it is no uncommon expression among them, in speaking of plants, to say that they love such and such situations; and they have stakes and sticks for those whose habit it is to climb and cling. Rice, which is indigenous to the East Indies, has been cultivated in South Carolina and in the northern parts of Africa, for a considerable time, and was introduced into Italy about a hundred years ago; it has been approaching towards the north ever since. There are considerable plantations on the banks of the Weser; a vast number of plants might be named, which, though of foreign growth, we may now call our own. The Brazilian passion-flower, the Chinese rose, and the fuchsia from Chili-all of which were considered as rare exotics, within the recollection of many among us-have become so inured to our climate that they are found in all our gardens. The Creator has thus endued plants with a power of accommodation highly beneficial to the human race. The changes which cultivation has wrought in the various fruits are remarkable: the peach owes its origin to the rough-coated almond, and the plum to the austere sloe, and our finest apples have sprung from the harsh crab. No one has greater opportunities of observing the operations of Nature than the agriculturist; and, observing them, he is peculiarly situated to trace the Almighty hand which directs them, and on which he must depend for the prosperity of his work, and he learns to reverence the unseen influence by which all that surrounds him is effected. His own endeavours may be strenuous and ingenious; but he knows in his very heart that something more is necessary. He may rise early, and go to rest late; he may sow, he may plant-but he knows it is God who gives the increase. He knows that the very soil would fail to produce, were it not that its fertility is adjusted by the agency which a Superior Power has appointed. The physical operations by which this is effected are continually employed for our benefit. From the geologist we learn that the waste of the vegetable mould is replenished by the influence of the winds and waters; the dust and crumbling of the rocks, which is ever going on, are scattered by the air, or borne along by the mountain-rills to the lands below. This is noticed by Professor Playfair. "How skilfully," he says, "Nature has balanced the action of all minute causes of waste, and rendered them conducive to the general good! Of this we have a most remarkable instance in the provision made for preserving the soil on the coat of vegetable mould spread out over the surface of the earth; this coat, as it consists of loose materials, is easily washed away by the rains, and is continually carried down by the rivers into the sea. The effect is visible to everyone; the earth is removed, not only in the form of sand and gravel; but its finer particles, suspended in the waters, tinge those of some of Nature; the undeviating accuracy by which rivers continually, and those of all rivers occa- they are characterized could never have been adsionally-that is, when they are flooded or justed by any influence but that of a stupendous swollen with rains. The quantity of earth thus and divine intelligence. The various processes carried down varies according to circumstances. of Nature are carried on with a regularity, which It has been computed in some instances that gives, even to the untaught, a conviction of her the water of a river, in a flood, contains earthy constancy. All are alike aware of the unimatter suspended in it amounting to more than formity of her operations: we want no further the 250th part of its own bulk. The soil, assurance than that which experience gives of therefore, is continually diminished, its parts the alternations of the seasons, and of day and being delivered from higher to lower levels, and night; we look for springtide and harvest at the finally delivered into the sea; but it is a fact, very time of their arrival. The labourer retires notwithstanding, that the soil remains the same to his rest without a doubt that the sun will in quantity, or at least nearly the same, and again light him to his morning task; he speeds must have done so, ever since the earth was the to his work without a doubt that the shades of receptacle of animal and vegetable life. The soil, evening will recall him to his home. The garthen, is augmented from other causes just as dener knows when to cover his plants, and much, at an average, as it is diminished by that when to expose them to the air, from the effects now mentioned; and this augmentation evi- which he knows such treatment will produce. dently can proceed from nothing but the constant When he puts down the seed his senses do not and slow disintegration of the rocks. In the deceive him; though it appears no more than a permanence therefore of a coat of vegetable grain of dust in his sight, he feels assured that mould on the surface of the earth, we have a it will sprout into a goodly plant, only to be redemonstrative proof of this continual destruction tarded by such operations of Nature as he knows of the rocks, and cannot but admire the skill could never fail to impede its growth. So unwith which the powers of the many chemical failing are the actions of Nature, that he can and mechanical agents are employed in this calculate almost to the day when to expect the complicated work-all so adjusted as to make embryo plant to burst its prison. The wonderthe supply and the waste of the soil exactly ful adaptation of one part of the creation to equal to each other." So true is it that "there another is a convincing proof of design. There is not one grain in the universe either too much is a mutual dependence all though nature, or too little; nothing to be added-nothing to which no chance could have effected. We be spared." The system of compensation in the cannot deny the action of an unseen influence in economy of nature is very striking. Every poison all that surrounds us; we know how utterly has its antidote-every evil has its counter-powerless we are of ourselves to carry on the balance of good; the animal part of the creation, which is dependent on the vegetable creation for support, in decaying yields back in return the elements which are necessary to its existence. The animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms, too, are linked together in the great chain of creation, so as to keep up that beautiful and mysterious union by which all things on earth are bound together. Almost all plants contain some mineral ingredient: iron is a constituent part of animal bodies, and essential to their healthy condition. The mineral kingdom has claimed not only animal productions, but vast woods and forests as its own. Those relics of ancient days, lying as in a store-house far beneath in the depths of the earth, over which their branches once waved, still minister to the comfort of man, in the shape of coal and iron. The mineral productions may indeed be called the tablets of Nature, on which the mighty changes she has wrought are inscribed; the mute historians of bygone ages-telling of races long extinct, and giving to Science information which no living tongue could impart. From among these, too, has been discovered that inestimable stone which guides the adventurous mariner on his way across the wide seas, by a sure track, unmarked by human tracings; but which he knows will bring him to his purposed destination. Accommodation and compensation appear to be two of the great laws most trifling operations of the system in which we live and breathe; we are conscious that something more is necessary than our own endeavours. We cannot control the functions of our own bodies: their growth, the circulation of the blood, the action of the nerves, are totally independent of any effort of our own. We must own some more powerful influence-let us call it by what name we may; but how its secret works, its silent operations are effected, we cannot tell. We cannot say from whence the wind, which produces such wonderful effects and makes such mighty changes, cometh, nor whither it goeth. We cannot tell how the countless stars are upheld in their respective positions,. nor how the planets are directed in their courses; nor can we explain why the wonderful changes, with which chemical experiments have made us familiar, take place. We may speak in technical terms of these wonders, but why it is so is there one capable of devising? We see the effects; we know, with the most accurate certainty, that we can produce them, but the cause lies beyond our reach. The closest examination of buds and germs will never reveal the cause of that unseen process by which they are matured. We must admire the mysterious influence which has induced the combinations for their growth and perfection, and refer it to a power mightier than chance could exact-to a love more tender than chance could bestow! None but those who live in the country know how much excitement accompanies the advent of new neighbours in a rural district. There is one house in our neighbourhood which has afforded us a constant source of conversation for more years than I care to specify-and this not for any great beauty in the residence itself, but for the constant change of its occupants. It is a pretty place; and when you have said that, you have said all you can say in its favour. It goes by the name of the Swiss Cottage, and is as near an approximation to the Swiss style as our country builders, aided by the drawings of Miss Lucy Delaval, could accomplish. Miss Lucy was romantic, and an heiress; she built this place in the kindness of her heart as a residence for an aged gentlewoman, long her governess and friend. Mary Proctor, the tried and gentle lady, took grateful possession of her retreat, and never told Miss Delaval what rheumatic martyrdoms she endured from windows and doors that were incapable of closing properly. Miss Delaval had been in a great hurry to get the place finished, and I believe not a foot of timber in the cottage was properly seasoned. But it is a pretty place; and the eye of the casual observer, dwelling on the flower-wreathed pilasters of the rustic verandah and the symmetrical beauty of the little garden, with its miniature shrubbery, greenhouse, and carriage-drive, does not discern the many inconveniences of the place. Suffice it to say that scarcely any part of the house answers the purpose for which it was intended. The chimneys, though favourite building-places_with_the martins and swallows, are not at all adapted for the conduct of smoke, which consequently beclouds the parlours whenever the fires are lighted. The pretty verandah keeps out the light, and from every point and crevice come the most spiteful draughts! Poor Mrs. Proctor, though always anxious to be grateful and contented, suffered many aches and pains from the deficiencies of her abode. After her death it was let to a variety of persons. The tenants usually arrived in the spring, and scarcely ever remained long after Michaelmas. The lighting of the fires, indeed, must have driven many people away; for what is more unpleasant than a little parlour full of coalsmoke?-unless, indeed, it be wood-smoke, which has a pungent nas tiness of its own. A widow lady, who had determined never to remarry, was our neighbour for a few months; but as her first summer waned, and the long, dusk, chilly, autumn nights set in, the poor lady could not bear the rioise of the ill-fitting windows, leaping in their frames at every breeze; and she gave up what she had at first intended to be the home of her declining life, and married a gentleman who had courted her unsuccessfully for years. He owes his acceptance to the Swiss Cottage. I shall not describe the French family, who lived here in modest retirement awhile; or the thin, pale lady, who called herself "professor of music and the modern languages;" or the sanguine curate, who married a penniless girl, trusting to have the comforts and conveniences of life on a salary of ninety pounds a-year though these were all successively tenants of the Swiss Cottage. I proceed at once to the Poor Gentleman. After a long interval, the little place was again occupied: one blustering March day the new tenants arrived. The family consisted of four persons-a father, two daughters, and a staid, middle-aged person, the factotum of the establishment. Mr. Clementson was a little spare man, with trembling hands, and moving, glistening grey eyes, that never seemed to rest. His scrupulously-fitting, well-worn clothes, his gold eyeglasses dangling by a dingy ribbon, the whiteness of his ancient linen, and the precise politeness of his manner, alike proclaimed the Poor Gentleman; and, from his first coming among us, we gave him that title. His poverty could be no secret; from his almost napless, smoothlybrushed hat, to his crumpled, shining boots-on every article of his apparel, it was legibly inscribed. Equally certain was the fact of his gentle blood; for he was intensely polite, and thoroughly useless. His garden was in disorder, yet his long, white, wrinkled hands were strangers to rake and hoe; and while his potatoes should have been planted, he sat, long summer mornings, reading Latin or French, under the verandah. The family spent little money; the butcher's account was very, very small, and our townspeople (who will talk) could not imagine how the family lived. Miss Clementson was a tall, handsome brunette, excessively proud in her manners, though, poor thing, shabby in her dress. Her light chintzes and worn small-striped silk were singularly out of place on a fine tall woman, who would have become the most stylish apparel. The importance of her personal appearance rendered her dress especially mean and poor. With Theodora things were different; she was a little fair girl, and her neat inexpensive clothes were appropriate enough. Pretty, gentle thing! I shall never forget my first meeting with Theodora in the Church Lane. I was in somewhat depressed spirits (for we had just lost Leonard's sweet little Arthur), and |