150 
THE FLORIST. 
myself one of the oldest members of her august majesty’s family, I 
shall not be present personally on the royal court day, having long 
since retired from the lists for active service (though I have seen many 
a regal court and tournay of the olden time, from that of the haughty 
Saracen to the “ Field of the Cloth of Gold,” and downwards on the 
march of time was I always a visitor at courtly fetes), yet I 
doubt not but that my descendants will be there in numbers, to repre¬ 
sent my line and race, and do honour to their lineage. Time was 
when I was almost the only representative of the Queen of flowers, and 
many a Queenly breast have I adorned, and many a proud dame and 
courtly beauty have cherished and valued me more than pearl or gem. 
Originally a native of the land “ where the Rose ever blossoms,” I owe 
my introduction to “merrie England” to the chivalrpus spirit of some 
proud crusader, who plucked me from my parent soil, and brought me, 
carefully tended, as a fit offering to place at the feet of his “ ladye 
love ” at home, and ever since have I been welcome to prince and 
peasant, as affording a treasure worthy of love’s choicest gift and 
acceptance. My growth has been tended by royalty, princesses have 
been my nurses, and proud beyond all compare has been he, the young 
knight, who, in my early days, could cull my first opening bud to 
present to the blushing maiden whose affections he sought to win. 
Nor have I been ungrateful for all the favours bestowed on me; my 
descendants are numerous, and many there are which now grace the 
noble parterre and palatial gardens of Europe, whose origin leads them 
back to my own. Indeed, it is this which so grievously concerns me, 
and prompts this appeal. In the olden time I was christened to 
commemorate the union of the “ rival Roses,” and when the victorious 
Richmond led the fair Elizabeth to the hymeneal altar, no fitter 
emblem of that union could be found than myself; then and through 
all intervening time “ York and Lancaster ” have I been called. My 
relatives, too, had then-a-days good old English names given them, and 
so had our fair cousins in France in their proper tongue. But latterly 
a change has come over the scene; strange sounds greet me on every 
side; I no longer hear the language of my early days applied to my 
family—descendants, if you like, though I confess with a blush that 
some of them have formed strange alliances, and spread themselves 
widely through foreign lands, yet many of them find their way back to 
the adopted home of their forefathers, and right welcome are they to the 
land of the Anglo Saxon, who prizes their beauty and admires their 
improved shape; but, alas! our protectors are plain spoken men, and 
their speech yet carries with it much of its Teutonic origin, and they 
cannot pronounce the names which foreign nurses have applied to the 
different members of our family—lovely as they are in all respects, 
except their unpronounceable names. What can our friends the 
gardeners who tend on us with so much care and anxiety make of 
Mossue presque Partout, or of (Eillet Parfait, or Perle de Panachees— 
the latter, though near relatives of my own, and esteemed by me, are 
disregarded by my good friends solely because they cannot describe 
them by name without exciting a contemptuous smile from their 
employers. It is true, however, that after a vast amount of labour, 
