will supply their places, and, in some respects, contrast well with the season. Many fail in preserving the beauty of plants in their apartments, because they do not give them sufficient light. Some species do well with much less light than others. Light is as necessary to them as air. They should not be too often shifted from one place to another. Those who will take the trouble, may quicken the growth of some plants, so as to have spring flowers in winter. Thus Autumn and Spring might be connected; and flowers blooming in the Winter of our gloomy climate possess double attraction.

The presence of flowers is a source of beauty to the mind; for the meanest of them is lovely. To any of the Floral world, the terms, disproportion and ugliness, are inapplicable. Unbounded in variety, they are all charming to the sight, their race is essentially beautiful. It is embued with the elements of perfect gracefulness. One flower may appear preferable to another in color, size, and shape, but in the humblest there is the stamp of elegance. They are all pleasing, all attractive. Those who are distinguished by a fondness for them and their cultivation, are persons of elegant minds. To the fair sex, in particular, they offer a charming study, and the decoration of their rooms with every fresh succession sets off their own attractions; while the attending them harmonizes well with our ideas of female occupation. A lovely girl in a flower-garden is a far preferable object to the eye, to one in a ballroom. In the midst of the luxuries of a rich vegetation, the female figure is set off better; and the colors of the parterre make out what the painters call a fore and back-ground, that administers admirably to the exhibition of the fairest flower" of all. How desirable is it that fashion should be kept on the route of true taste, and made to go hand in hand with the simple and natural!

In the flower-garden alcove, books are doubly grateful. As in the libra

ry ornamented with flowers they seem to be more enjoyed, so their union there is irresistibly attracting. To enjoy reading under such circumstances, most, works of imagination are preferable to abstract subjects. Poetry and romance-" De Vere" and "Pelham"-lighter history-the lively letters of the French school, like those of Sevigné and others-or natural history-these are best adapted to peruse amidst sweets and flowers: in short, any species of writing that does not keep the mind too intently fixed to allow the senses to wander occasionally over the scene around, and catch the beauty of the rich vegetation. To me the enjoyment derived from the union of books and flowers is of the very highest value among pleasurable sensations.

For my own part, I manage very well without the advantage of a greenhouse. The evergreens serve me in winter.

Then the Lilacs come in, followed by the Guelder Rose and Woodbine, the latter trained in a pot upon circular trellis-work. After this there can be no difficulty in choosing, as the open air offers every variety. I arrange all my library and parlorplants in a room in my dwelling-house facing the south, having a full portion of light, and a fire-place. I promote the growth of my flowers for the early part of the year by steam-warmth, and having large tubs and boxes of earth, I am at no loss, in my humble conservatory, for flowers of many kinds when our climate offers none. The trouble attending them is all my own, and is one of those employments which never appear laborious. Those who have better conveniences may proceed on a larger scale; but I contrive to keep up a due succession, which to a floral epicure is everything. To be a day in the year without seeing a flower is a novelty to me, and I am persuaded much more might be done with my humble means than I have effected, had I sufficient leisure to attend to the retarding or forcing them. I cover every space in my sitting-rooms with these beautiful fairy things of

creation, and take so much delight in the sight of them, that I cannot help recommending to those of limited incomes, like myself, to follow my example and be their own nurserymen. The rich might easily obtain them without; but what they procure by gold, the individual of small means must obtain by industry. I know

there are persons to whom the flowers of Paradise would be objects of indifference: but who can imitate, or envy such? They are grovellers, whose coarseness of taste is only fitted for the grossest food of life. The pleasures of flowers and of books are, as Henry IV. observed of his child, "the property of all the world."

"GENTLE Breeze, that giv'st my brow
Gladness never felt till now,
Is it that thou wanderest here
From some heaven-illuming sphere?

Or thy freshness dost thou bring
From the bright moon's flowered ring?
Or from fields of light that are
More remote than cloud or star?

Hast thou kissed some thymy mountain?
Hast thou swept some haunted fountain?
Or dost rather bring to me
Freshness of the ancient sea,

And, in flitting from the verge
Of the round earth's farthest surge,
Hast thou reaped the scent of blossoms
That entwine the mermaids' bosoms?

Or, perchance, by Creeshna's favor
Hast thou won a dreamy savor,
From those broad-leafed glowing valleys,
Where with dark-eyed maids he dallies?

Or from off thy zoneless breast,
Am I thus intensely blest
By the breathing buds and bells
Of a thousand fairy dells?

Or on some rock-girded lawn
Have the censers of the dawn,
With their odors, dewy sweet,
Steeped thy thin and dancing feet?

Breeze, that roamest fleetly by,
Is it earth, or sea, or sky
That has lent thy trembling lip
All the joy my kisses sip?
Hermes-like thou walk'st abroad,
Playful, thieving, baby God,
Stealing all the sweets and riches,
Laid in caves and sparry niches;

All delight that Jove can sup
From the brim of Hebe's cup;
All the Muse's tuneful breath;
All the scent of Venus' wreath;

And the air that pants and floats,
Thrilling to Hyperion's notes,
Round the myrtle-blooms that spread
Over Juno's queenly head;

Azure gleam that deeply lies
In the fair wood-spirit's eyes,
And the fount's melodious cooing,
While the waves their gems are strewing.

Hast thou not been far and near
Gathering featly for my cheer,
All of precious sound and smell,
Culled from garden, steep, and dell ?”

"Not from sea or stars I roam;
Not with fairies is my home;
"Tis a thousand years since I
Sported in the Indian sky;

And but seldom have I trod
In the bower of Nymph or God,
Since, to punish sins of men,
Heaven hath fled from human ken.

I around the green earth sweep,
Dappled land and rolling deep;
Still on mortal steps attending,
And with sighs of mortals blending.

"Twas in ages far away
That I heard the Muses play;
And from starry Memnon's string
Melodies no longer ring.

In some realm of shade aloft
Juno sits, lamenting oft;
Her tiar of blossoms now
Scentless withers on her brow.

Feet of ancient kings and Gods,
Print no more these lowly sods;
And the common dust hath troubled
Founts that once with nectar bubbled.

Now no more I greet thy sense
With an elfish influence;
Drink no more at Hesper's rise
Dewy fragrance of the skies."

"If thou didst not cheat the bee
Of a bliss not meant for thee,
Nor despoil the spicy nest,
Where the humming-bird hath rest;

If those vales thou hast not robbed,
Where of old the maidens sobbed,
Weeping over Adon slain,

Precious tears, but wept in vain!

Tell me, tell me, gentle wind,
Where such freshness thou couldst find,
Such as makes my bosom own
In each pulse a tuneful tone.
Whence thou comest, thither I,
With a speed like thine, will fly,
Those delicious airs to breathe,
Known not else the stars beneath."
"Morn was on the ocean grey
With a bright and various ray,
When I wakened in an island,
Lone, and green, and calm, and silent,
From a violet-bank I flew,
Moist with yet unshaken dew;
Where nor butterfly, nor bird,
E'en one little leaf had stirred.
Over rippling waves I sprang,
And around my path they sang;
And the nautilus uplifted

His thin sail, and blithely drifted.

And the halcyon oped its wings,
Bright with jewelled spots and rings,
Starred and zoned with gold and blue,
Sunny thing of glorious hue.

And the ocean's fearless daughter,
Winged pilgrim of the water,
Bird that loves to haunt the storm,
Round me wheeled its silvered form.

And the stately vessel glided
O'er the billows it derided,
Till amid the ropes I played-
And, methought, the pilot prayed.
But I sought the quiet shore,
And beheld the main no more;
And I shook each ancient tree
Where the doves rejoice in me.

Swift I rushed o'er hills and meads,
Like a troop of Tartar steeds;
And the clouds I drove before me
Flung their changeful shadows o'er me.
Battling lines were ranged below,
Big with hate and prompt for woe;
And the peal that fiercely broke,
Filled my nostrils with its smoke.
Fast I fled, and reached a plain,
Broidered rich with fruits and grain,
Steadfast towers and waving leas,
Such as loves a summer-breeze.

Thence I wandered to a vale,
Precious kernel of my tale,
Green and warm, with hills around,
Robed in leaves, and rocky-crowned.

Seemed it all of sunshine born,
Nurtured on the light of morn,
Every knoll a heap of posies,
Every nook a nest of roses.

Through a hedge of flowery twine,
Sweet-briar, orange, jasmine, vine;
Whispering and lithe I crept
E'en to where a lady slept.

Scarce her cheek's carnation charm
Dimpled on her foam-white arm;
And her head, with all its curls,
Bending showed its wreaths of pearls;
And those eye-lids soft and shaded,
'Neath a brow with dark hair braided,
Seemed but veils to keep from sight
Orbs of heaven's own dazzling light;
And the silken fold that fell

O'er her young breast's gentle swell,
Heaved and sank as if 'twere fraught
With a tune of holy thought.
Hands thou might'st have died to press
Drooped upon her purple dress,
And her fingers fine reposed
Round a jonquille half unclosed.

Swift I sought so fair a being,
Swifter far than human seeing,
And with faint and murmuring chime,
Floated in that happy clime;

Like a bee on leaves of flowers,
On those lips I dwelt for hours;
On that virgin side I panted,
And those eyes with kisses haunted;

Through her glossy ringlets straying,
Round her blue-veined temples playing,
From her sleeping spirit stealing
Every air-shaped thought and feeling.
In her dreams I steeped my wing
As they gurgled from their spring,
Every vision o'er her sailing,
Like a draught of life inhaling.
And whate'er of rare or sweet
Through her soul was wandering fleet,
Straight unto myself I pressed,
As unto a lover's breast.
From her bosom's inmost core
So I sucked its honey store;
Yet within that folded mind
Left more wealth of bliss behind.
And 'twas thus I deftly won
Freshest fragrance, softest tone,
All that gives a joy to thee,
Such as may not often be.

Now I sweep o'er earth and sky,
Filled and rapt with ecstasy,
Maddened in my whirling flight,
With a frenzy of delight.
And, alas! I swiftly scour,
From my love, my star, my flower;
To the spheres a messenger
Of the sweet I kissed from her.

On her face the while I bowed,-
O'er that moon an airy cloud,-
Drawing from those features tender
To my heart a gladsome splendor,
Then her lip and bosom shook,
Like a tempest-smitten brook,
And she faltered, half in woe,
Half in passion, 'Angelo !'"

On the second occasion, a still greater danger menaced him from a different quarter. He was governor of the bank in 1814, when the greatest anarchy prevailed at Paris, and the allied armies entered it with all the power in their own hands. A messenger from General Blucher repaired to M. Laffitte's house in the evening, charging him, in the name of his superior, to surrender to him the keys of the treasury of the bank. Prompt obedience was insisted on, or else an immediate conveyance to the fortress of Spandau. The officer threatened to put the order in force at that very instant, but M. Laffitte refused to comply, and only requested to be permitted to remain with his family till the following morning. The request was granted, and M. Laffitte, profiting by the few moments allowed to him, despatched an express to the Emperor Alexander, begging him for a safeguard and protection. The aid-decamp of Blucher passed the night in the apartments of the banker, but on the following morning the express returned with a favorable and satisfactory answer.

When the landing of Napoleon on the shores of Provence was announced at the Tuileries, the royal government felt reluctant to apply to a banker that had exhibited so many striking proofs of patriotism; nevertheless it was to him that the party addressed themselves, in the hour of distress, to transmit to England the disposable sums that were at hand on the approach of Napoleon. M. Laffitte did not hesitate to comply, and take charge of that very delicate commission, forgetful of the rebuffs that he had previously experienced; and handed to the falling monarch a letter of credit on England, before he received the necessary securities himself.

Napoleon again falis; and it is M. Laffitte that is destined to become the depository of his fortune. But what was his recompense! nothing but slanders and insults on the part of the royal government; and what is more, Napoleon, on his death-bed, bequeath

ed his property to those who had ruined him by their flatteries, but bestowed not a single mark of kindness or gratitude on the man who had assisted him in his distress.

In the Chamber of Deputies, M. Laffitte rarely mounts the tribune; but when there he speaks only of that which he thoroughly understands. Though his physical powers are feeble, and his voice weak, he continues to make himself well understood, because he knows well how to secure a hearing. His first speech on the question of the Budget, delivered in 1815, introduced a new era into France. It was the first time that any member ventured, in the tribune, to contradict the statements of the ministers; but this style of speaking soon came into vogue, and the merit of its original invention is justly to be ascribed to M. Laffitte. In all his speeches on subjects of finance, this member is very parsimonious of two things, of which the other orators are very lavish, that is, figures of arithmetic, and fig ures of speech: he reasons rather than calculates, and, like M. De Labourdonnaye, and, before him, the eloquent General Foy, he never goes into mere declamation. His diction is not always elegant, but it is neat; and his speeches are occasionally diffuse, but never violent. He uses but little gesture, and his preambles, as well as his action, are simple and natural. He delivers, occasionally, unpremeditated sentiments, and very successfully, on unforeseen subjects; his written and spoken language partake of the same character, which, considered with reference to the three excellent speeches which he lately delivered, no longer allows us to believe, (as is groundlessly asserted,) that he borrowed the pen of his friend Manuel. Whether the fabric of his mind, or his physical organization, be the cause that long periods and theatrical bursts of eloquence do not belong to him, or whe ther he be mistrustful of his own facility, he makes frequent pauses between his sentences; so that his style of speaking is not at all of a piece, and