COMPANION TO THE FLORAL MAGAZINE. 
43 
bloom. u That’s the Rose we saw at Mr. So-and-So’s.” “ Hear what 
Mr. Rivers says of this ; ” and out comes the little red book. “ That ’s 
the bloom painted in Mr Paul’s work/’ etc., etc. 
And then we started in procession for the rosarium, I and my gardener 
bearing our bundles as proudly as the Lictors bore the fasces of old, and 
the rear being brought up by our aide de camp with a wheel-barrow of 
rich, fine soil. Nothing could well surpass in solemnity the dignified air 
of our demeanour, grandly and yet calmly majestic, as of men who essay 
a most momentous exploit, but feel no fear. Had we been selected by a 
committee of crowned heads to turn the first sod of some new, grand, 
universal railway, or had we been conquering heroes about to plant our 
standard on some height or citadel just won from flying foes, our counte¬ 
nances could not have shone with a more complete satisfaction. 
And now, upon these rosy recollections, like the shadow of a cloud 
over a summer garden, there sweeps a sudden gloom. Those flowers, 
so loved, so reverenced, tended so carefully, watched so patiently, bloom 
no more save in the loyal memory of those who honour “auld lang syne.” 
Four only of that four-and-twenty, which, when I first wooed the Rose, 
were the belles of the season, welcomed into our gardens with almost as 
much enthusiasm as Denmark’s Rose to her new English home, four 
only, Baronne Prevost, Duchess of Sutherland, Coupe d’Hebe, and Boula de 
Nanteuil, are now admitted to the levees of the Queen of Flowers. “ I 
came to the place of my youth, and I said, f The Roses of my youth, 
where they ?’ And Echo answered, f Oh, you and the Roses of your youth 
begone; we don’t grow such rubbish nowadays!”’ Ah, thoughtless, 
not to say ungentlemanly Echo! Nimium ne crede colori. Despise not 
those Roses of the past, for, twenty years hence, it will be with these as 
with them; and some vulgar upstart of an Echo will inform posterity 
that thy vaunted blooms were—rubbish. Be satisfied, and more than 
satisfied, with that which is before thee. Thankful contentment is the 
fresh, full spring, whence flows the florist’s never-failing joy; and hap¬ 
piest he who bends to admire the commonest, the lowliest flower, the wee, 
modest Daisy, rather than not admire at all. 
Continuing my retrospect, I am now reminded of a most impressive 
epoch, my first debut as an exhibitor of Roses. For I, like Norval, “ had 
heard of battles,” and the time came when my father, like Mr. Norval 
senior, found it quite impossible “ to keep his only son, myself, at home,” 
or prevent me from sallying forth to fight in the wars of the Roses. 
The Reverend Jones, my neighbour, had long maintained an absolute 
monarchy at all our country flower-shows, and it was time to hurl the 
tyrant from his throne. I am afraid that 1 was jealous of Jones. To 
see him smiling and purring over victorious Roses, surrounded by no end 
of pretty girls; to hear the latter praising and extolling Jones, as though 
he had made the Roses himself, was rather more than I could stand. 
He was a formidable foe; but I felt myself aggrieved, like the old lady’ s 
