50 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



— Azaleas, Pelargoniums, Ericas — but not so lovely as 

 the Rose. 



It is the same out of doors as under glass. The gardens 

 of Bagshot, where nightingales sing, and Rhododendrons, 

 Azaleas, and Kalmias bloom — the goodly tents of Waterer 

 in the park of the Regent and in the gardens of Ken- 

 sington, — are sights to make an old man young ; but they 

 show not to our eyes the brightness, the diversity of the 

 Rose's hues, and for our noses they have nothing. The 

 golden tints of Persian Yellow and Celine Forestier, the 

 glowing scarlet of Senateur Vaisse and Due de Rohan, 

 the odour of Devoniensis, we may look for and sniff for 

 in vain. 



Glorious, too, are the Dahlias of Slough and Salisbury, 

 of every hue, and in symmetry almost too severely perfect ; 

 and yet let their owners, than whom two more earnest and 

 successful florists never tended flowers — let Charles Turner 

 and John Keynes declare, as I know they would, that 

 though the Dahlia may be " Queen of Autumn," the Rose 

 is the Queen of Flowers. 



And the tall, proud, stately, handsome Hollyhocks of 

 Chater, of W, Paul, — yea, even those of the peer, peerless 

 in this branch of floriculture. Lord Hawke, — must bow their 



