Last week I noticed a succulent plant that made its appearance on a dry sandy path in my garden; it seems to me a variety of the hour-blowing mesembryanthium.  It has increased so rapidly that it already covers a large space; the branches converging from the centre of the plant; and sending forth shoots from every joint.  The leaves are rather small, three-sided and pointed, thick and juicy, yielding a green liquor when bruised like the common sedums.  The stalks are thick and round, of a bright red, and trail along the ground; the leaves spring from each joint, and with them a constant succession of yellow starry flowers, that close in an hour or so from the time they first unfold.  I shall send you some of the seed of this plant, as I perceived a number of little green pods that looked like the buds, but which, on opening, proved to be the seed-vessels.  This plant covers the earth like a thick mat, and, I am told, is rather troublesome where it likes the soil.

I regret that among my dried plants I could not preserve some specimens of our superb water-lilies and irises; but they were too large and too juicy to dry well.  As I cannot send you my favourites, I must describe them to you.

The first, then, is a magnificent water-lily, that I have called by way of distinction the “queen of the lakes,” for she sits a crown upon the waters.  This magnificent flower is about the size of a moderately large dahlia; it is double to the heart; every row of petals diminishing by degrees in size, and gradually deepening in tint from the purest white to the brightest lemon colour.  The buds are very lovely, and may be seen below the surface of the water, in different stages of forwardness from the closely-folded bud, wrapped in its olive-green calix, to the half-blown flower, ready to emerge from its watery prison, and in all its virgin beauty expand its snowy bosom to the sun and genial air.  Nor is the beauty of the flower its sole attraction:  when unfolded it gives out a rich perfume not unlike the smell of fresh lemons.  The leaves are also worthy of attention:  at first they are of a fine dark green, but as the flower decays, the leaf changes its hue to a vivid crimson.  Where a large bed of these lilies grow closely together, they give quite a sanguine appearance to the waters, that is distinguishable at some distance.

The yellow species of this plant is also very handsome, though it wants the silken texture and delicate colour of the former; I call this the “water-king.”  The flower presents a deep golden-coloured cup, the concave petals of which are clouded in the centre with a dark reddish-brown, that forms a striking contrast to the gay anthers, which are very numerous, and turn back from the centre of the flower, falling like fringes of gold one over the other, in successive rows, till they fill up the hollow flower-cup.