A CHAPTER ON ROSES. 



59 



cumulated 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 briars " 



What would the lovers do ? What tender 

 confessions, hitherto uttered by fair half- 

 open buds and bouquets, more eloquent of 

 passion than the Nouvelle Heloise, would 

 have to be stammered forth in miserable 

 clumsy looris .' 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 we place in the hands of 

 childhood to mirror back its innocent ex- 

 pression 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 

 )f)f all, what blossom, so expressive of hu- 

 man afiections, could we 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 associations, but it 

 deserves an infinite number of admirers. 

 This is the explanation of our desire to be 

 eloquent in its behalf. There are, unfor- 

 tunately, some persons who, however love- 

 ly, beautiful, or perfect a thing may be in 

 itself, will never raise their eyes to look at 

 it, or open their hearts to admire it, unless 

 it is incessantly talked about. 



We have always observed, however, that 

 the great difficulty with those who like to 

 talk about fruits and flowers is, when once 

 talking, to stop. There is no doubt whatever, 

 that we might go on, therefore, and fill this 

 whole number with roses, rosariums, rosa- 

 ries, and rose-water, but that some of our 

 western readers, who are looking for us to 

 give them a cure for the pear-blight, might 

 cry out — "a blight on your roses !" We 

 must, therefore, grow more systematic and 

 considerate in our remarks. 



We thought some years ago that we had 

 seen iha.t ultima t hide — " a perfect rose." 

 But we were mistaken ! Old associates, 

 familiar names, and long cherished sorts 

 have their proper hold on our affections ; 

 but — we are bound to confess it — modern 

 florists have coaxed and teased nature till 

 she has given them roses more perfect in 

 form, more airy, rich and brilliant in colour, 

 and more delicate and exquisite in perfume, 

 than any that our grandfathers knew or 

 dreamed of. And, more than all, they 

 have produced roses — in abundance, as 

 large and fragrant as June roses — that 

 blossom all the year round. If this unceas- 

 ingly renewed perpetuity of charms does 



