19"2 THE FLORIST. 



boudoir, wins its place in the affections of those of most cultivated 

 and fastidious tastes ; while the Moss Rose unites the admiration of 

 all classes, coming in as it does with its last added charm, to com- 

 plete the circle of perfection. 



A"-ain, there is the infinity of associations, which float like rich 

 incense about the Rose, and that, after all, bind it most strongly to 

 us ; for they represent the accumulated wealth of joys and sorrows, 

 which has become so inseparably connected with it in the human 



heart. 



" What were life without a rose !" 



seems to many, doubtless, to be a most extravagant apostrophe ; yet 

 if this single flower were to be struck out of existence, what a chasm 

 in the language of the heart would be found without it ! What 

 would the poets do ? They would find their finest emblem of female 

 loveliness stolen away. Listen, for instance, to old Beaumont and 

 Fletcher : 



" Of all flowers 



Methinks a Rose is best ; 



It is the very emblem of a maid ; 



For when the west wind courts her gently, 



How modestly she blows and paints the sun 



With her chaste blushes ! When the north wind comes near her. 



Rude and impatient, then, like chastity, 



She locks her beauties in her bud again, 



And leaves him to base briers.'" 



What would the lovers do? What tender confessions, hitherto 

 uttered by fair half-open buds, and bouquets more eloquent of pas- 

 sion than the Nouvelle Helo'ise, would have to be stammered forth 

 in miserable clumsy words ! How many doubtful suits would be 

 lost — how many bashful hearts would never venture — how many rash 

 and reckless adventurers would be shipwrecked, if the tender and 

 expressive language of the Rose were all suddenly lost and blotted 

 out ! What could w^e place in the hands of childhood to mirror back 

 its innocent expression so truly } What blossoms could bloom on 

 the breast of the youthful beauty so typical of the infinity of hope 

 and sweet thoughts that lie folded up in her own heart, as fair young 

 Rose-buds? What wreath could so lovingly encircle the head of 

 the fair young bride as that of white Roses, full of purity and grace ? 

 And, last of all, what blossom, so expressive of human affections, 

 could w^e find at the bier to take the place of the Rose ? the Rose, 

 sacred to this purpose for so many ages, and with so many nations, 



" Because its breath 

 Is rich beyond the rest ; and when it dies 

 It doth bequeath a charm to sweeten death." 



Barry Cornwall. 



The Rose is not only infinite in its forms, hues, types, and asso- 

 ciations, but it deserves an irifinite numher of admirers. This is the 

 explanation of our desire to be eloquent in its behalf. There are, 

 unfortunately, some persons who, however lovely, beautiful, or per- 

 fect a thing may be in itself, will never raise their eyes to look at it, 



