CHAPTER XXII 

 A CHAPTER ON ROSES* 



AFRESH bouquet of midsummer roses stands upon 

 the table before us. The morning dew-drops hang 

 heavy as emeralds, upon branch and buds; soft 

 and rich colors delight the eye with their lovely hues, and 

 that rose-odor, which, every one feels, has not lost anything 

 of its divine sweetness since the first day the flower bloomed 

 in that heaven-garden of Eve, fills the air. Yes, the flowers 

 have it; and if we are not fairly forced to say something 

 this month in behalf of roses, then was Dr. Darwin mistaken 

 in his theory of vegetable magnetism. 



We believe it was that monster, the Duke of Guise, who 

 always made his escape at the sight of a rose. If there are 

 any "outside barbarians" of this stamp among the readers of 

 our "flowery land," let them glide out while the door is 

 open. They deserve to be drowned in a butt of attar of 

 roses --the insensibles! We can well afford to let them go, 

 indeed; for we feel that we have only to mention the name 

 of a rose, to draw more closely around us the thousands of 

 the fairer and better part of our readers, with whom it is 

 the type of everything fair and lovely on earth. 



"Dear flower of heaven and love! thou glorious thing 

 That lookest out the garden nooks among; 

 Rose, that art ever fair and ever young; 

 Was it some angel on invisible wing 

 Hover'd around thy fragrant sleep, to fling 

 His glowing mantle of warm sunset hues 

 O'er thy unfolding petals, wet with dews, 

 Such as the flower-fays to Titania bring? 

 () flower of thousand memories and dreams, 

 That take the heart with faintness, while we gaze 



* Original dale of August, 1848. 

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