so A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



their golden and jewelled cups to catch the soft 

 showers of June, is an ecstasy,— these may stand 

 near, but may not mount, the throne. No, not even 

 in combination and alliance can all the flowers of 

 the garden compete with the Garden of Roses — 

 not the flowers of spring on Belvoir s sunny slopes 

 (though there is no vision of beauty so beautiful 

 in all England at the time of their efflorescence), 

 not the summer splendours of Drumlanrig or beau- 

 tiful Hardwicke. Let the artistic ' bedder-out ' select 

 his colours from all the tribes and families of plants ; 

 his blacks and bronzes and dark deep reds from 

 the Coleus, the Oxalis, Amaranthus, Iresine, and 

 Beet ; his yellows from the Calceolaria, Marigold, 

 and Viola ; his scarlets from the Pelargonium ; his 

 purples, blues, and greys from the Verbena, the 

 Lobelia, and Ageratum ; his whites from the 

 Cerastium, Centaurea, Santolina, Alyssum ; let him 

 have all that flower and foliage, arranged by con- 

 summate taste, can do, he can never produce a 

 scene so fair, because he can never produce a scene 

 so natural, as he may have in a garden of Roses. 

 It may be more brilliant, more imposing, but there 

 will not be that perfect, graceful unity, of which 

 the eye wearies never. It is like a triumphant 

 march of organs, trumpets, and shawms, but the 

 ear cannot listen to it so long, so happily, as to 



