Flowers are the poor man's luxury; a refinement for the uneducated. It
has been prettily said that the melody of birds is the poor man's music,
and that flowers are the poor man's poetry. They are "a discipline of
humanity," and may sometimes ameliorate even a coarse and vulgar nature,
just as the cherub faces of innocent and happy children are sometimes
found to soften and purify the corrupted heart. It would be a delightful
thing to see the swarthy cottagers of India throwing a cheerful grace on
their humble sheds and small plots of ground with those natural
embellishments which no productions of human skill can rival.

The peasant who is fond of flowers--if he begin with but a dozen little
pots of geraniums and double daisies upon his window sills, or with a
honeysuckle over his humble porch--gradually acquires a habit, not only
of decorating the outside of his dwelling and of cultivating with care
his small plot of ground, but of setting his house in order within, and
making every thing around him agreeable to the eye. A love of
cleanliness and neatness and simple ornament is a moral feeling. The
country laborer, or the industrious mechanic, who has a little garden to
be proud of, the work of his own hand, becomes attached to his place of
residence, and is perhaps not only a better subject on that account, but
a better neighbour--a better man. A taste for flowers is, at all events,
infinitely preferable to a taste for the excitements of the pot-house or
the tavern or the turf or the gaming table, or even the festal board,
especially for people of feeble health--and above all, for the poor--who
should endeavor to satisfy themselves with inexpensive pleasures.[001]

In all countries, civilized or savage, and on all occasions, whether of
grief or rejoicing, a natural fondness for flowers has been exhibited,
with more or less tenderness or enthusiasm. They beautify religious
rites. They are national emblems: they find a place in the blazonry of