of a convent in Cologne, 1015, and whose festival is also on the 5th of February. The early red primrose, verna rubra, is dedicated to St. Theodore of Heraclea.* The polyanthus (of this family) is dedicated to St. Catherine de Ricci, a lady of a noble Tuscan house, who was a Dominican nun, and dying in 1589 was canonized on account of her extraordinary sanctity. Her festival was kept February 13th.

To the primrose tribe belongs the mealy-leaved and laced Auricula. It grows wild on the mountains of Switzerland, Styria, Savoy, and Piedmont; and was first cultivated as a garden flower by the Flemings, being brought to Brussels by some Walloon merchants.

Low marshy meadows will yield us the flowers of the coltsfoot, that appear before their leaves: the yellow, whose juice is of repute in coughs (thence the botanic name, tussilago, from tussis, a cough), and the pink, whose root, boiled in wine, was formerly thought beneficial in pestilential fevers. It was tried in the great plague in London, 1665 (whence the herb was long called plague-wort) but with no encouraging success. The sweetscented coltsfoot, with its white but lilac-tinged blossoms now decking the garden, was brought to us from Greece.

And now we shall want a few evergreens. We will chuse those that are in flower. Yet first we will take the Box, though its tiny green inflorescence can scarcely be called flowers. But it especially belongs to this month, because on Candlemas-day it was customary to take down the Christmas greens-the holly and mistletoe-from the churches and houses, and to replace them with box as the substitute for the unprocurable palm. Box is very poisonous. The honey of Corsica, which is deleterious and disagreeable, is thought to owe its bad qualities to the circumstance of the bees feeding on the box-trees, which are abundant in the island. But the wood is extremely useful for making a great variety of articles, and especially flutes. It is the only European wood that will sink in water. The tree was sa

cred to Cybele, wife of the god Saturn. Box, from its evergreen sprays, and the durability of its wood, was considered an emblem of immortality. In the north of England it was custo. mary to place at the door of a house, whence a funeral was about to proceed, a basin containing sprigs of box, that each mourner might take one to carry with him, in order to throw upon the coffin when lowered into the grave. The plain green box is the badge of the clan M'Intosh, and the variegated variety that of the clan McPherson. In warmer climates than ours box-trees grow to an enormous size, and topiarii, or gardeners who clip trees into figures, were always fond of exercising their art upon it. We are told that, in the garden of Pliny the younger, there was a box-tree cut out into different apartments, in the midst of which was a saloon, having a bench of white marble all round, and adorned with cages of singing birds, and a fountain which played into a basin, bordered

with moss.

The Ivy has now opened its yellowgreen bunches. Its wreaths, twined round the head, were believed to prevent intoxication. According to Pliny, a cup made of the wood of ivy supplies a test whether water had been mingled with wine; in which case, he affirms, the wine would soak through the ves sel, and the water remain behind in it. Homer represents his heroes as drinking out of cups made of ivy. Mythologists said that Cissus, a youth much beloved by Bacchus, being accidentally killed while sporting with the satyrs, the wine-god changed him into ivy, and adopted the plant as peculiarly sacred to his rites. It wreathed the brow of Bacchus and Silenus, and their votaries; and twined the thyrsus of the Bacchantes and Manades, the priestesses of Bacchus, one of whose classic appellations was Corymbifer, or the berry-bearer, derived from its fruit. The ivy was also the poet's garland.

On account of the clinging propensities of the ivy, it was used by the ancients to decorate the altar of Hymen, and to crown the newly-wedded couple, to remind them that they should adhere to each other. But for the same propensities it was held improper to use

ivy, or even to pronounce its name, during the quinquennial purification of Rome, called the Lustrum, lest the word should prove ominous, and cause anything of uncleanness to adhere to the city, or to its purifiers. For the same reason, the Flamen Dialis, or priest of Jupiter, was not allowed to touch or name ivy. Ptolemy IV., surnamed Philopater, King of Egypt, caused apostate Jews to be branded with the figure of an ivy leaf, as a reproach to them for not adhering to their religion with the tenacity of ivy. A sprig of ivy is the badge of the clan Gordon in Scotland. There is an expressive old Irish proverb,* "a mouth of ivy and a heart of holly," signifying words smooth as the ivy leaf, concealing thoughts harsh and hostile as the prickly holly. When Llewellyn, last Prince of Wales, had been slain, after his unsuccessful contests to preserve the independence of his country, his head was cut off, and placed on the Tower of London, by order of Edward I., crowned with a chaplet of ivy, in ridicule of a prophecy of Merlin, then current in the principality, that when the coin in England was struck round, the Prince of Wales would be crowned in London. Edward was the first who caused the copper coins to be made round; they were previously square. A pleasing device was once invented in France for a friend who adhered to a dismissed minister-a tree overthrown, with ivy clinging round it; the motto, "Sa chute ne peut m'en detacher."t

The ivy is a plant that loves antiquity; it is not indigenous or common in North America, a new country where there are no venerable ruins of castle or priory to attract the romantic adherent. Kalm said that he never saw the common ivy (hedera helix) in North America save once, against a stone building, but it had been apparently brought from Europe and planted there. Ivy grows nowhere so luxuriantly as in Ireland, which is peculiarly the country of ruins. We have seen large towers completely veiled by it, and tottering walls kept up solely by the stems that had grown into thick timber. The Irish peasant has long been remarkable for his ivy-like clinging to the land of his birth, the graves of his forefathers, and the customs of the olden time; and even now, when compelled by circumstances to emigrate, his memory and his affections cling to the old country still. For this reason, we will associate with the ivy our translation of a lament for Ireland, by Denis M'Namara, written when he was in Hamburgh, seeking his fortune. Denis Ruad, or Foxy Denis, as he was called, was a native of Clare, but principally resided in the county of Waterford, where he was a schoolmaster, having received an education in a foreign college. He went abroad more than once to improve his circumstances, but was always seized with the "home sickness," and returned. He died in Ireland, in 1814, at an advanced age :

The LAURUSTINUS, with its cymes of fair flowers, is assumed by emblematists as a type of grief, from neglect; because the shrub will wither and die in ground that is neglected. It was anciently dedicated to St. Faine, in the sixth century, an abbess in Ireland.

Here are the small white, waxenlooking bells of the ARBUTUS, whose strawberry-like fruit, harsh as it is, is eaten by the peasants in Spain and Italy. Pliny esteemed the berry so little, that he says the name of the tree, arbutus unedo, is properly derived from unus and edo, because one, and one only, can be eaten. Virgil commends the twigs for basket-workarbute crates (Geor. i.) and as winter food for goats-jubeo frondentia capris. Arbuta sufficere (Geor. iii.) The arbutus is a native of Greece and Palestine, but flourishes in exceeding beauty and luxuriance at Killarney, of whose scenery it is a peculiar ornament.

The blue labiate flowers of the ROSEMARY deck its narrow hoary leaves from this season until May. The etymology of the name is very pretty-Rosmarinus the sea-dew; for the shrub thrives with peculiar vigour in the vicinity of the sea. Shakspeare mentions it (in Hamlet and in The Winter's Tale), as the emblem of remembrance.

*

Uilin, ah! Uilin, oh!

It was also considered a symbol of fidelity. Formerly it was reputed to strengthen the memory, and to stimulate the heart; for which reason it was used in garlands both in weddings and at funerals, those two extremes of human rites. It was usual to use sprigs of rosemary to stir the wine in the cups at nuptial feasts, when the guests were about to drink to the health of the bride and bridegroom. In the north of Europe rosemary was carried at the funerals of the unmarried only. The aromatic and stimulating qualities of rosemary were once so highly esteemed, that they were thought efficacious against the contagion of the plague, and that the smoke of the sprigs burned as incense had power to drive away evil spirits. In the Palilia, or festivals of Pales-the divinity of shepherdsthe flocks were purified with the smoke of the burned branches. The flowering sprays were dedicated to the domestic deities the Penates. Bees delight in the azure blossoms; and the honey of Narbonne, celebrated for its peculiar excellence, owes its delicious flavour to the abundance of rosemary that grows in that country. The preference of bees for these flowers has suggested the refrain of the following playful little effusion, addressed to a young girl jealous of her lover, which we translate from a poet of Granada:

SONG.

FROM THE SPANISH OF GONGORA.*

"Los flores de Romero," &c.

Yon rosemary besprent with dew,
Is it not sweet and bonny?
To-day the flowers are azure blue,
To-morrow they'll be honey.

Thou'rt jealous, pretty Isabel;

Love's truant comes not nigh thee; He's blest, since thus thou seek'st him well; Blind, since he doth not spy thee;

And confident, since e'en to-day

He makes not frank confession; Nor doth thy gen'rous pardon pray For yesterday's transgression.

Ingrate he is, to give thee pain

But let hope cheer thy sorrow, And dry thy tears; for love again Will bring him back to-morrow.

These quarrels between lovers true,
Are like yon blossoms bonny;
To-day they are but flow'rets blue,
To-morrow they'll be honey.

We have now sought through garden, shrubbery, and field, and have not been able to find another flower for February's wreath.

But, ere we conclude our Februalia, we would fain say a few words of a festival anciently celebrated in this month by the Romans, which, though of pagan origin, is worthy of the approbation of Christians; the spirit in which it was conceived was so beautiful, we might say so holy, that it seems like a præ-Christian spirit, in advance of the advent of Christianity. We mean the feast of the Caristia, held on the 19th of February. After the

termination of the Feralia (commencing February 11), in honour of relatives deceased, each family held its Caristia, or feast of kindred, to which every kinsman, or connexion by marriage, was invited; but no person who had shown himself devoid of natural affection was admitted. The intention of the festival was to strengthen the good feelings existing between the parties, and to effect reconciliations between those who had quarrelled, or had been in any degree estranged. It was a feast of love, forgiveness, and peacea feast in which, says Ovid, Concord herself became more amiable :

M. E. M.

HOWEVER difficult to reconcile with the accepted theories of political economy, the fact cannot be controverted, that in the little Italian states of the middle ages, all the arts of life were carried to the greatest perfection of which mankind, under any social system, have shown themselves capable. The plain of Lombardy, at that period, or the territory at either side of the Apennines, extending to the Tuscan sea or Adriatic, could separately exhibit more varied developments of skill and genius in agriculture, engineering, architecture, the fine arts, and the art of war, than most of the great European states, governed by consolidated systems, can boast of, even at the present day. England has her great poets, architects, painters, and warriors; but in the middle-age Italian republics it was as if, not London alone, but Liverpool, and Manchester, and Sheffield, and Birmingham, had each its own Shakspeare, and Wren, and Reynolds, and Wellington.

We are all more or less familiar with the glories of Florentine art, and the renown of Tuscan letters. We know less of the Milanese, and are still very generally ignorant of the history of the states on the further or Adriatic side of the Apennines. Yet from this last quarter have proceeded men, worldfamous in art: Fra Giovanni da Fiesole, the "Beato Angelico," so styled from the purity and spiritual beauty of the creations of his pencil; his friend and pupil, Gentile da Fabriano; Pietro della Francesca; and "Il Divino" Raffaele Sanzio-par excellence, Raffaele d'Urbino.

Sismondi, the eloquent advocate of those republican forms of government established at so early a date in northern Italy, would fain persuade us that the cities of Lombardy and Tuscany owed their intellectual pre-eminence

to their free institutions. Doubtless, the mental habits induced by self-government, the stake which each citizen individually held in the common weal, called into exercise, trained, and culti vated qualities of mind which, when applied in a different direction, resulted in those varied artistic attainments, which have been the glory of Genoa, of Florence, and of Venice.

But we shall pass from these and other free cities of the plain, to conduct our courteous reader over more untrodden ground, and, in the first instance, direct his attention to the lessknown states of Urbino and Milan. The former, under the mild paternal sway of the ducal houses of Montefeltro and della Rovere, the latter under the tyranny of the Visconti and the Sforzas, developed, in no less large a proportion than their republican neighbours, that fine genius, the science of war, and those arts of peace, which made Italy, in the middle ages, so preeminently, so deservedly illustrious.

Let us turn for a moment to the map, and glance at the natural boundaries which interpose between, and separate the Ausonian peninsula from the adjacent states.

The great Alpine rampart extending from the Gulf of Genoa on the west, in a semicircular form, almost to the Gulf of Venice on the east, encloses the fertile plain of Lombardy, watered by innumerable rivers, falling, with scarcely an exception, from their source in the snow-capped mountains, into the basin of the Po. This noble river forms the southern boundary of a territory, fruitful in agricultural products as in mighty cities. Again, the mountain chain of the Apennines, extending lengthwise through the peninsula, divides it into two nearly equal portions-the western, bounded by the Tuscan sea; the eastern, washed by