regarded as swallowing the late Secretary of State? The names have long
since been made over to the flowers, and every questionable aroma has
vanished. When the godfather happens to be a botanist, there is a
peculiar fitness in the association; the Linaea, at least, would not
smell so sweet by any other name.

In other cases the English name is a mere modification of the Latin
one, and our ideal associations have really a scientific basis: as with
Violet, Lily, Laurel, Gentian, Vervain. Indeed, our enthusiasm for
vernacular names is like that for Indian names, one-sided: we enumerate
only the graceful ones, and ignore the rest. It would be a pity to
Latinize Touch-me-not, or Yarrow, or Gold-Thread, or Self-Heal, or
Columbine, or Blue-Eyed-Grass,--though, to be sure, this last has an
annoying way of shutting up its azure orbs the moment you gather it, and
you reach home with a bare, stiff blade, which deserves no better
name than _Sisyrinchium anceps._ But in what respect is Cucumber-Root
preferable to Medeola, or Solomon's-Seal to Convallaria, or Rock-Tripe
to Umbilicaria, or Lousewort to Pedicularis? In other cases the merit
is divided: Anemone may dispute the prize of melody with Windflower,
Campanula with Harebell, Neottia with Ladies'-Tresses, Uvularia with
Bellwort and Strawbell, Potentilla with Cinquefoil, and Sanguinaria with
Bloodroot. Hepatica may be bad, but Liverleaf is worse. The pretty name
of May-flower is not so popular, after all, as that of Trailing-Arbutus,
where the graceful and appropriate adjective redeems the substantive,
which happens to be Latin and incorrect at the same time. It does seem a
waste of time to say _Chrysanthemum leucanthemum_ instead of Whiteweed;
though, if the long scientific name were an incantation to banish the
intruder, our farmers would gladly consent to adopt it.

But the great advantage of a reasonable use of the botanical name is,