THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 165 



able family, in my native place. The noble sir- 

 loin, with his attendant turkey, not then considered 

 intrusive even at three o'clock, having led the van 

 of a most substantial dinner, a body of much 

 lighter auxiliaries brought up the rear. As a finale, 

 after my plumb-pudding, I received a portion of 

 sweet jelly : and with it one of the Christmas 

 roses that, mingled with sprigs of myrtle and ge- 

 ranium, had graced the epergne. I was then 

 about nine years old, and have a distinct recollec 

 tion of sitting, with my eyes cast down on the 

 flower, — which I retained to the close of the feast. 

 — while innumerable thoughts arose, forming a 

 link hardly broken at this distant day, between my 

 then habits and enjoyments, and that world of 

 flowers of which a few fragments were scattered 

 before me. 



I know that, when our glasses were replenished, 

 with orange wine, to drink a happy new-year all 

 round, the Christmas rose which I held in my 

 hand formed a portion of my new-year's happi- 

 ness, by no means inconsiderable : and strange is 

 the vision that flits before my mind's eye, when, 

 under similar circumstances, I now meet one of 

 that unpretending race. I can better bear to go 

 back so far, than to let my thoughts rest half-way 

 between that early period and the present. I can- 

 not wish myself a child again, even in my saddest 

 moments : for who that has trod so far on a thorny 



