7 2 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
The merit, however, of setting it where it still glorifies 
the worn stone coping of the ancient red brick wall 
belongs not to me, but to some beneficent Unknown, 
who planted roses some seventy years since. I would I 
might leave behind me as sweet a monument. The 
flowers are of the purest white, the dense white of the 
water-lily, and their great moon-pale cups lie open wide, 
like marble blossoms carved in low relief, exhaling an 
exquisite odour. Think of the mingled virtues of lily 
and rose in one, and you may forthshadow some dim 
likeness of the Lamarque, should you not be so fortunate 
as to know it already. The fancier has long years ago 
pronounced it “ not fit for show/’ with, I have no 
doubt, good and sufficient reason ; but his ideals are not 
invariably my ideals, nor his roses my roses. 
The tall stone columns are all gaily garlanded with 
their strong climbing roses; the pink and white Blairii 
flutters its soft petals aloft, the Gloire de Dijon (always 
more lavish than lovely) is prodigal of its bulging 
flowers, and the William Allen Richardson grows more 
comely every day. He has resumed his ensigns of 
clear orange now; but at first, as ofttimes happens, was 
his gold complexion dimmed to a mere phantom of its 
proper self. 
I incline daily more and more towards considering 
this season a veritable annus mirabilis for the rose-garden : 
so profuse and abounding are even the most austerely 
reserved of its fragrant tenants. The climbing Devon- 
iensis, my first favourite among roses of the trailing 
kind, has forgotten its wonted shyness, and beckons 
from loggia and trellis in beauty irresistible. I know 
