A CHAPTER ON ROSES. 



August) 1848. 



AFRESH bouquet of midsummer roses stands upon the table be- 

 fore 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 al- 

 ways made his escape at the sight of a rose. If there are any " out- 

 side 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 ia a butt of attar of rose — the insensibles ! We can 

 well afibrd 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 every thing fair and lovely on earth. 



" Dear flower of heaven and love I thou glorious thing 

 That lookest out the garden nooks among ; 

 Eose, that art ever fair and ever young ; 

 \V*aB it some angel on invisible wing 

 Hover'd around thy fragrant sleep, to fling 

 His glowing mantle of warm sunset hues 



