54 A YEAR IN A LANCASHIRE GARDEN. 



when the Rose-beds are in their fullest splendour. 

 The summer Roses must have been better a fortnight 

 back, but the perpetuals are as good as can be, and 

 many of the summer Roses yet remain. I some- 

 times fear that the passion for large, well-formed 

 blossoms, and the desire of novelty, will make some 

 of the dear old Roses of our childhood pass into 

 entire neglect ; yet, when we think of a Rose, of 

 which any poet has written, it will not be La France, 

 or Se'nateur Vaisse, or Alfred Colomb beautiful 

 as they are. When Herrick warns us 



" Gather ye Rosebuds while ye may," 



or when Hood tells us 



" It was the month of Roses, 

 We plucked them as we passed," 



their Roses were other than the favourite Roses 

 of to-day. Perhaps they were the old Cabbage 

 Rose, a great bush of which grows next to a bed 

 of Lavender, and pleasantly scents the garden as 

 you enter it. Perhaps they were the Portland 

 Rose, of which I have some three beds, and than 

 which no Rose is* better for the making of Pot 

 Pourri, as the young ladies in Mr. Leslie's picture 

 may learn to their advantage. Perhaps they were 



