NOVEMBER 205 



impossible to paint it in words, it is like 

 this : Leaves cold blue-green, evenly 

 serrated. The bud, packed as if by hand 

 (a fairy's hand !) opens slowly, leaf by leaf. 

 The open flower is almost flat, and forms 

 into a perfect circle, suffused with a deli- 

 cious pink, which is like no other pink. 

 They did well who named it rose of 

 Heaven, for other roses come not near to 

 equal the fairness of it faultless in its 

 purity of shape and colour. 



How few remember now that lovely 

 flower : like many another sweet old thing 

 it has gone out of fashion. New roses 

 give so little real pleasure ! They are so 

 often without scent ; and is not the fra- 

 grance of it, the rose's soul ? But I know 

 little of them, and incline to rank them 

 with exhibition chrysanthemums, which 

 one loathes. Sometimes, however, it is, 

 I confess, love at first sight. It was so 

 when first I saw 'Lady Folkestone' 

 and the so-called 'white La France.' 

 These two came to live in the garden, 

 and I hope never to lose the charm of 

 their fair beauty. Once in a vision I saw 



