who have filled books with an eloquence and truth that defy oblivion, were mere mutes before their fellow-men. They had golden ingots, which, in the privacy of home, they could convert into coin bearing an impress that would insure universal currency; but they could not, on the spur of the moment, produce the farthings current in the market-place. Descartes, the famous mathematician and philosopher; Lafontaine, celebrated for his witty fables; and Buffon, the great naturalist, were all singularly deficient in the powers of conversation. Marmontel, the novelist, was so dull in society, that his friend said of him, after an interview: "I must go and read his tales, to recompense myself for the weariness of hearing him."

As to Corneille, the greatest dramatist of France, he was completely lost in society-so absent and embarrassed, that he wrote of himself a witty couplet, importing that he was never intelligible but through the mouth of another. Wit on paper seems to be something widely different from that play of words in conversation, which, while it sparkles, dies; for Charles II., the wittiest monarch that ever sat on the English throne, was so charmed with the humour of "Hudibras," that he caused himself to be introduced, in the character of a private gentleman, to Butler, its author. The witty king found the author a very dull companion; and was of opinion, with many others, that so stupid a fellow could never have written so clever a book. Addison, whose classic elegance of style has long been considered the model, was shy and absent in society, preserving, even before a single stranger, stiff and dignified silence. He was accustomed to say that there could be no real conversation but between two persons, friends; and that it was then thinking aloud. Steel, Swift, Pope, and Congreve-men possessing literary and conversational powers of the highest order-allowed him to have been a delightful companion among intimates; and Young says of the latter, that "he was mute in society on some occasions, but when he began to be company he was full of vivacity, and went on in a noble strain of thought and language, so as

to chain the attention of every one to him." Goldsmith, on the contrary, as described by his contemporary writers, appeared in company to have no spark of that genius which shone forth so brightly in his works. His address was awkward, his manner uncouth, his language unpolished: he hesitated in speaking, and was always unhappy if the conversation did not turn upon himself." There are exceptions to every rule, in the present instance, however, they serve but to confirm it.

Burns was famous for his colloquial powers; and Galt is reported to have been as skillful as the story-tellers of the East, in fixing the attention of his auditors on his prolonged narrations. Coleridge was in the habit of pouring forth brilliant, unbroken monologues of two or three hours' duration, to listeners so enchanted, that, like Adam, whose ears were filled with the eloquence of an archangel, they forgot "all place-all seasons, and their change;" but this was not conversation, and few might venture to emulate that "old man eloquent" with hopes of equal success.

Washington Irving, in the account he has given of his visit to Abbotsford, says of Sir Walter Scott, that "his conversation was frank, hearty, picturesque and dramatic. He never talked for

effect or display, but from the flow of his spirits, the stores of his imagination. He was as good a listener as a talker; appreciated every thing that others said, however humble might be their rank and pretensions, and was quick to testify his perception of any point in their discourse. No one's concerns, no one's thoughts and opinions, no one's tastes and pleasures, seemed beneath him. He made himself so thoroughly the companion of those with whom he happened to be, that they forgot, for a time, his vast superiority, and only recollected and wondered, when all was over, that it was Scott with whom they had been on such familiar terms, in whose society they had felt so perfectly at ease."

In conversation, Dante was taciturn or satirical. Gray and Alfieri seldom talked or smiled. Rousseau was remarkably trite in conversation, not a word of fancy or eloquence warmed him

Milton was unsocial, and even irritable, when much pressed by talk of others. Dryden has very honestly told us, "My conversation is dull and slow-my humor is saturnine and reserved; in short, I am not one of those who endeavor to break jest in comnanv. or make repartees."

"A PASSION for flowers," writes Mrs. Hemans, "is, I really think, the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its chilling influence. Often, during a weary illness, have I looked upon new books with perfect apathy, when, if a friend has sent me a few flowers, my heart has leapt up to their dreamy hues and odors, with a sudden sense of renovated childhood-which seems to me one of the mysteries of our being." To a cultivated taste, indeed, flowers ever present the rarest attractions, and the most fascinating charms. Many-tinted and many-voiced, they are associated with all that we share in the poetry and romance of life :

they deck the joyous days of childhood, shedding richest fragrance, and reflecting over its ascending pathway their ever-changing and gorgeous hues. Buds and blossoms form the tokens of gentle and endearing affection, they garnish alike the sanctuary of home and the sainted grave,

Barren indeed were this world of ours,

Denied the sweet smile of the beautiful flowers.

Poets and artists have ever delighted to pourtray the charms of nature, under whatever phase or aspect she presents them-as much when decked in her silvery sheen, as when arrayed in the prismatic hues of the vernal spring-when the meadows are gemmed with butter-cups and daisies, and the glorious trees of the forest are bursting into new life and beauty. With one exception that of love-no subject has, to a like extent, challenged the rich and quaint device of the votaries of the muse. How pleasant an hour might we wile away by citations of the pleasurable passages of the poets, who have luxuriated over the treasures of Flora!

The very name is suggestive of all that is fresh and lovely in nature. The gems that sparkle in her diadem-the rich embroidery and glittering adornments of her gayest and her simplest robes the pearls, the rubies, the diamonds, the sapphires, the gorgeous jewels that enrich and beautify creation—are they not sweet flowers? Who loves flowers? The highest and the lowliest, the rich and the humble, those who are gifted with high intellect, and those of limited capacity-all unite in this one sweet sense of the beautiful. It is a sad house that has no flowers in it; a hard and harsh soul which can let the summer-time glide away, and find no pleasure in looking upon these choicest gifts of nature. A poetic fancy will indulge a sweet colloquy with these beautiful "terrestrial stars." A contemporary thus cherishes this conceit :"Yes, talk with the flowers; their voice is sweet and musical, their language pure and elegant, and all their teaching gentle,