JULY. 
211 
were there, awaiting their distribution in the firmament. “ There 
sleeps the Fairy Queen,” I am confident, though, as my window looked 
out in another direction, I did not see the glowworms lighting her to 
bed ; and of these luxuriant trees it is no poet’s fiction, that “ The 
nightingale sings in them all the day long.” 
Of the Roses at Sawbridgeworth what shall I say ? Acre upon acre, 
regiment after regiment of stately standards, lake after lake of dwarfs, 
“ dazzle the eye and bewilder the brain,” as the jewels and gold of the 
Baron (was it Larrayor de Heckeren?) bewildered the fickle Imogene! 
“ There is a nice little patch of Mosses,” said Mr. Rivers, the said 
'patch being the size of my whole collection, and a beautiful Rose 
garden in itself. Something I must educe from the chaos of recollection 
for the information of my brother amateurs, but it cannot be much, 
for “ Memory holds her seat in this distracted brain ” as insecurely 
as the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, when driven by Mr. Weller, senior, 
and— 
“ I’m still in a flutter, 
I scarcely can utter 
The words to my tongue that come dancing.” 
Of Roses new to me I thought Arthur de Sansales, Cardinal Patrizzi, 
and Prince Noir very striking in colour, and, for the sake of contrast 
and novelty, to be added to every collection: they are very dark in 
tint, and, though not large, effective. Louise Magnan, Raphael, and 
Comte de Nanteuil I had never seen in their beauty; and “when 
found” I “made a note of.” Ornement des Jardins, brilliant, but 
small. Bacchus anything but “jolly,” and looked as though he had 
ruined his constitution by excess. Triomphe de l’Exposition, very 
bright and cheerful, uniformly attractive and good. A new Rose called 
Thomas Rivers is not so good-looking as its namesake at present, but 
I thought I saw a promise of great improvement when more established, 
and in a favourable season. Of all Roses which I had not previously 
seen in their perfection, I liked Madame Vidot best; and, next to her, 
from the fine shape of the flowers and the free habit of growth, 
Madame Ory, perpetual moss. Of sorts well known to us all, I think 
the most beautiful were Lord Raglan, Jules Margottin, Madame 
Rivers, Prince Leon, Angelina Granger, General Brea, Madame Place, 
General Jacqueminot (larger than usual), William Griffiths (this year 
quite as good as his rival Mathurin), Caroline de Sansales, Madame 
Duchere, Madame Phelip, General Castellan (grandly gorgeous), 
L’Elegante Nouvelle, and fifty others. It is indeed invidious to par¬ 
ticularise, and the more one says of such a display, the more one seems 
to leave unsaid. 
All the time I stayed at Sawbridgeworth, some twenty hours of 
happiness, a parrot kept inquiring “ What’s o’clock?”—as if to say, 
“ Make the most of your time, my boy, for it goes very quickly 
among such Roses, and so much kind hospitality.” So indeed I found 
it, and grieved indeed was I when the hour of departure came. 
Of the fruit trees, the avenues of trees in pots, and fields of Peaches 
and Nectarines, I have neither time nor qualification to speak. 
Indeed, this hurried article, written, I need not say, without the 
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