Of stemless plants we have examples in innumerable field-flowers, and in many of the garden, such as the tulip and the crocus. They have flower-stalks, certainly, but they have no proper stem. To this class of plants is mainly owing the sweetly variegated vesture that conceals the soil, providing turf in the meadow and lawn, embroidery for them, when summer comes, and tapestry of moss for the flanks of the waterfall. Fancy the aspect of a country where the earth was perennially like a street, or a newly-ploughed field, or a newly-gravelled garden-walk, and the figment will be that of a world without stemless plants: the flowers and the fruit aloft, reserved for men; no sea of daisies for the tiny ones in spring; no loved small hands overflowing with bluebell and wood-anemone—to a child the blossoms of paradise itself. Among the stemless plants are many acrid ones. The herbage of the fields is by no means the exclusively sweet and juicy fodder we may deem it. Buttercups are quite the reverse of sweet. The pastoral animals eat but few of them, and then apparently as condiments to the succulent and insipid grass, just as we ourselves take pepper and salt to our meat and potatoes. How beautiful, again, the exception in regard to many of these low-growing plants, when specially and directly serviceable to man, that, unlike the enduring Trees-those great, grand pillars which watch the rise and fall of generations-they last only for a year. Wheat, barley, peas, beans, turnips, carrots, and a long list of others, are annuals. They must be sown fresh and fresh every year; so that man, instead of living without employment, thence lapsing into indolence, thence into evils from which occupation preserves him, as he would most certainly, did his daily bread drop off trees into his mouth, like acorns on to the pigs' refectories in the woods,-instead of this, is kept continually engaged, tilling the soil, depositing the seed, reaping, threshing, grinding, baking. These occupations call others into play. The general stimulus to all the powers of the mind shews itself in inventions, arts, and sciences; and to the exceptional circumstances of the staff of life growing upon an annual instead of a perennial plant, he may ascribe, under providence, a large measure of his civilization, the best temporal sign of which is the neatness and completeness of his breakfast and dinner table. As the moral culture of a community may always be judged by its treatment of women, so may the civilization of a people or nation by the mode in which it takes its food.

Further, it is noticeable among these little plants of the fields, that while most of the members of the vegetable kingdom give out what odour they are able to, during life, the vernal-grass, the woodruff, and others, are not fragrant till they have been torn away from their roots,

and have begun to get dry. The rose, the lilac, the Daphne, the acacia, pour forth their perfume as a part of their day's duty. The woodruff, that holds up handfuls of little white crosses in the pleasant woods and shady glens, yields no scent till its life has ebbed,-beautiful emblem of those that delight us while they breathe, out of the serene abundance of their kindly hearts, but whose richer value we only begin to know when they are gone away, and of whose white souls we then say inwardly, "He, being dead, yet speaketh." So the hayfield, that rolls like sea-waves, is scentless when we pass it uncut; we hear the measured sweesh of the scythe, death lays each green head low, and odour rises like mist.

The tall trees have their exceptional brethren no less than the dwarf plants. Some, instead of denuding themselves when autumn comes, keep their leaves all through the winter. We call them "evergreens," and at Christmas decorate our houses with their cheerful branches. Save for their green solace, the world would look very bleak and bare; as it is, the exception passes us comfortably through the sense of winter, and we feel over again that no deluge is ever so dreadful as for some little ark not to float upon the water, and keep life and hope intact. Look at that venerable lime-tree! All other trees spread their branches far and wide, and, as long as they live, if we go under them, and cast our eyes upwards, we can see more or less of the sky, or at least there is plenty of room for us to climb; but the interior of an aged lime-tree is crammed full of little twigs, that form quite a brushwood. This impervious labyrinth offers a secure asylum for the smaller birds, when pursued by hawks; once inside, they can never be got at, and can rest and go forth at will to renew their minstrelsy. Thorny trees and bushes, which are also exceptional to the general structure of plants, offer similar asylums to birds, who are never forgotten, whether sparrow or linnet.

The rule is that leaves shall be green. Wherever we cast our eyes the prevalent hue is that of the grass, unless when burned up by the scorching heat of summer, or concealed by the white snow-mantle of Christmas; and even then we are reminded of it by the laurel, the holly, and other trees which are not forsaken by their foliage in October. But many leaves are not green; when the garden amaranths creep out of the ground, shewing what a wonderful thing a seed is, they are of a fine lively red, and this colour they retain in every part of their fabric till they die. In good greenhouses and conservatories there are many such plants, i.e., plants dyed of some strange rich hue which quite upsets the definition of a plant as a green thing." Nature will not

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allow herself to be defined. When we think we have constructed our definitions so carefully that they are accuracy itself, and have marked out our boundaries and dividing lines, and then, quitting our chairs, go abroad into living nature, the work is found to have been vain; some odd plant or animal, as the case may be, is sure to be detected walking through the fences; we invariably discover that we only "know in part;" and when the larger knowledge has been obtained, and again we compare our schemes with nature, still it is the same, mystery within mystery, hill behind hill, more and yet more islands in the infinite archipelago of truth and wonder.

Among the most beautiful of these painted-leaved plants are the various kinds of Begonia, which upon the under side are often of a deep claret colour, while the upper surface is marked with silvery spots and arches. Some kinds of Caladium have their leaves exquisitely dyed in the centre with crimson, others have crimson spots and blotches. The young leaves of the Dracena are rose-colour; those of certain Crotons are variegated with rose and yellow. All this is quite exceptional, and the peculiarity is accompanied in most cases by another, namely, the comparative insignificance of the flowers of these painted-leaved plants. It would seem that the grand principle of equal gifts to every living creature was here intended to be palpably illustrated. Where the foliage is plain and simple, green without inlay of purple or other uncommon and lovely tint, the flowers are in most cases shewy and ornamental; where, on the other hand, the foliage is so deeply enriched that it looks more like flowers, then the actual blossoms are for the most part of little pretension. Everywhere in nature is this kind distribution maintained. The man who is clever in languages is often inapt for physical science: where the hand can execute beautiful drawings, or make dull wires and woodwork give forth delicious music, there is often inaptitude for metaphysics. Everyone has something bestowed that shall be the admiration of another, if faithfully and honourably cultivated and diffused; no one need envy, for he has that in himself which is also enviable, if he will only be true to his own powers and duties. These pretty plants with their deep-hued leaves, need not sigh for the blossoms of the camellia or the tulip; they are in themselves, though relatively flowerless, a banquet for all taste and capacity of delight.

Lastly, a few words upon remarkable exceptions in connection with animals. Most creatures reside permanently in their native countries; but some kinds change their quarters every spring or autumn, going to warmer or cooler regions, according as their instinct of self-protection prompts them. Hence, in early summer, our ears are saluted with

the sweet cry of "Cuckoo!" Hence, in winter, we see birds of northern origin, Scandinavian strangers, little claws that have clung to Lapland birches, and wings that have flapped near icebergs. What tales of travel, were they gifted with words! One of the most useful of birds gives us eggs. When these are boiled, the contents coagulate, and become pleasant food: all other things, when boiled, become soft. When we contemplate the organic provision made for the nourishment of her young by the female animal, we find it numerically proportioned to the number of her offspring at a birth, or to the occasional number. Woman has two breast-fountains, the cow has four; yet the progeny of the cow is rarely increased by more than two at a time, and usually by only one. The exceptional excess is for the use of man; for whose service also the bees store a larger quantity of nectar than they require for their own consumption; and the law, "flowing with milk and honey," is shewn to be a far thought-of gift of the Divine benevolence. Woman is exceptional to all other animals in her matchless capacity of nurse to her young. All other creatures that give suck, soon wean and leave their offspring to shift for themselves. Not so the most sacred servant of God. In those long yet patient hours when we lie, poor helpless, thankless little things, wailing in the darkness, loved so much the more tenderly, pressed so much the more closely to our infant home, white as a snowdrop, and warm as the heart's best life-blood,— ah, what a river of affection then bursts from its heavenly spring, pouring on past all the years, believing all that is good and noble, and ever listening for it,- forgiving all that is weak and erring, pleading till the heart well nigh breaks that the disobedient may be turned to the wisdom of the just; for it is love that would surrender life itself rather than enter heaven desolated, with Rachel, "because they are not." A mother's love is distinguished from all other's in this, that it overruns, from the beginning, time and the world, and looks to the abiding place where both shall live for ever.

HEREDITARY CHARACTER.

BY THE REV. JOHN HYDE.
(Concluded from page 168.)

We attempted to show, in the former part of this essay, that parents transmit to their offspring an hereditary character; and that such a transmission is a necessary fact. We now come to the third general division of our subject.

This necessary fact is full of important consequences. And, first, to parents, and to those who hope to be parents. The perception of

this necessity must evidently involve them "in new obligations and increased responsibility. As we saw above, the hereditary principles derived from the father remain to eternity. By them the child is not only temporarily, but also eternally affected. During regeneration, the maternal principles may be dispersed; but paternal hereditary evil does not admit of entire eradication. It may be removed from the centre to the circumference, but it still adheres and remains. The very love that we feel ready to bear to our children must, in the perception of this truth, afford a new incentive to holiness, by furnishing a new motive for shunning evil. The sins of the parents are visited upon their children; and conversely, too, the virtues of parents descend in blessings on their offspring. Even here, evil brings its punishment, wounding us in the very tenderest part, in the children whom we love. Holiness is its own exceeding great reward.

A grave question, and one that has troubled all thinkers, arises as the second consequence of this necessary fact:-What are the results of hereditary transmission of moral and mental character, as they affect the individuals who inherit them?

This important question divides itself into two terms,-first, as to moral, and second, as to mental, hereditary character, in which order I will endeavour to take them up.

It is asked, How can beings with different moral tendencies be equally responsible? Since phrenology and physiognomy have taught the masses to reflect, the question has assumed a phrenological form; and it is, indeed, to the solution of this knotty promblem that writers on this science have addressed themselves. It is not, truly, a phrenological question at all; for that science only professes to indicate the character by the particular formation of the head. It takes cognizance of, and endeavours to read, exciting signs,—not pretends to solve a problem which pertains to the mind itself. The question is as ancient as the cognate question of responsibility. It has bewildered every earnest thinker on the subject of man. In one form or another it has presented itself to every student; every metaphysician has, at some period of his mental history, seen the shadow thrown by the impassable mountain which seemed to arrest all further progress, and shut him out from the object of his search. Theologians and philosophers have attempted to solve the problem, each in accordance with his favourite system; while earnest men have felt that their solutions were so vague as to be incomprehensible, or so narrow as to be evasive.

Yet there must be an answer. The inequality of hereditaments is one fact, of which observation convinces us; freedom of the human will