“The angel of the flowers one day, beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay. 
That spirit in whose charge is given, to bathe young buds in dews from heaven. 
Awakening from his light repose, the angel whispered to the rose— 
‘Oh, fondest object of my care, still fairest found where all are fair, 
For the sweet shade thow’st given to me, ask what thou wilt ‘tis granted thee.’ 
Then said the rose, with deepest glow, ‘On me another grace bestow.’ 
The spirit paused in silent thought. What grace was there that flower had not? 
Twas but a moment, o’er the rose a veil of moss the angel throws; 
And, robed in nature’s simplest weed, can there a flower that rose exceed?” 
We hope that those of you who have received the earlier 
editions will continue to forgive our repetitions—for we think 
the majority of new readers will enjoy this characteristic bit 
of good writing, by the famous English clergyman and 
leading rosarian of his day, Dean Hole . . . From his “Book 
About Roses,” 1869,— 
uw 
. .. It is, nevertheless, as true an incident in my history as it may be 
a strange statement in the reader's ears, that once upon a time hard on 
fifty summers since, I was driven out of London by a Rose! And thus it 
came to pass: Early in June, that period of the year which tries, I think, 
more that any cther, the patience of the Rosarian waiting in his garden, 
and vexing his fend heart with idle fears, I was glad to have a valid excuse 
for spending a few days in town. To town I went, transacted my business, 
saw the pictures, heard an opera, wept my annual tear at a tragedy, 
visited the Nurseries, rode in the Park, met old friends, and was beginning 
to think that life in the country was not so very much more sweet than that 
of painted pomp, when, engaged to a dinner-party and to enliven my 
} scenery, I bought a Rose. Only a common Rose, one from a hundred 
' which a ragged girl was hawking in the streets—a Moss Rose-bud! But 
as I carried it in my coat, and gazed on it, and specially when, waking 
| next merning, I saw it in my water-jug—saw it as I lay in my dingy bed- 
/ room, and heard the distant roar of Piccadilly instead of the thrush’'s 
song—saw it, and thought of my own Roses—it seemed as though they 
_ had sent to me a messenger, whom they knew I loved, to bid me ‘come 
heme.’ ... And I arose, reflecting; and though I had taken my lodgings 
, and arranged my plans for three more days in London, I went home that 
- morning with the Rosebud in my coat, and wandering in my garden at 
| eventide, armed with a cigar in case I met an aphis, I exulted in my liber- 
» ation from smuts and smells and in all the restful peace, and the fragrant 
_ beauty, which glowed round me.” 
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