THESE ARE roses which bloom but once in the 

 year; hence they have lost favor of late: for superb families 

 of roses, fully equal in beauty, if not in hardiness, and en- 

 dowed with an enviable power of renewing or perpetuating 

 their charms, of smiling in October as well as in June, 

 and glowing in full effulgence even on the edge of winter, 

 have dazzled us into a forgetfulness of our ancient fa- 

 vorites. 



Yet all the poetry of the rose belongs to these old 

 roses of summer. It is they that bloomed in white 

 and red in the rival shields of York and Lancaster ; 



and it is they that, time out of mind, have been the 

 no 



