or while any of this fine essential oil rises to the surface of the water." It is said that an hundred pounds weight of roses will not yield above half an ounce of this precious aroma. I remain, Yours, &c. LETTER IV. 66 Yes, ev'ry flower that blows I pass'd unheeded by, Till this enchanting Rose Had fix'd my wand'ring eye. It scented every breeze That wanton'd o'er the stream, Or trembled through the trees To meet the morning beam." Cunningham. MY DEAR ANNE, THE MOSS-ROSE, or, as it used more generally to be called, the Moss-Provence, was supposed by Linnæus to be only a variety of the Rosa Centifolia. Miller, however, a writer of credit and celebrity, considers it as a distinct species; but as the original country of this Rose is not known, and we are only acquainted with the flower as brought under cultivation, the question may probably remain undecided. It is, however, a very elegant flower, and sometimes grows four or five feet high, erect and branchy; the branches and stalks are brownish, and very closely beset with sharp prickles: it is a fine delicate Rose, of great fragrance. But that which renders it of such great estimation, is, as you are aware, that singular and rough moss-like substance, which surrounds the calyx, and the upper part of the peduncle or footstalk of the flower. This curious investment has suggested to a German poet one of the happiest little fictions imaginable, in which he accounts for its production. "The Angel of the flowers, one day, The Angel whisper'd to the Rose: O fondest object of my care, For the sweet shade thou'st giv'n to me, The Spirit paus'd in silent thought, What grace was there that flower had not? A veil of moss the Spirit throws, Could there a flower that Rose exceed ?" Next after the Moss-Rose, I may mention the Eglantine; this, although a species of rose, is not esteemed for its flowers; but the peculiar fragrance of its leaves renders it a very valuable shrub. This sweet" smelling brere," grows indigenously in some parts of England and Switzerland. "It claims culture in every garden, for the odoriferous property of its leaves; and should be planted in the borders, and other compartments contiguous to walks, or near the habitation, where the plants will impart their refreshing fragrance very profusely all around; and the young branches are excellent for improving the odour of nosegays and bowpots." There is a very pretty variety of Rosa Provincialis, called the Pompone Rose-or Rose de Meaux, from a town of that name, in France, from which the Rose may have been brought this sort seldom grows above a foot and a half high, and the flowers are very small, resembling a bachelor's button. America has some varieties of the Rose, generally designated from the places of their culture, as the Carolina, Virginian, and Pennsylvanian sorts; none of these, however, differ materially from the roses in our own country. This last paragraph reminds me of an adventure which befel a New-Englandman, who visited this country for the purpose of being able to ridicule its claims to preeminence, in a work published at New York. "The road," (from Worcester to Hereford) says he, "was one of the roughest I had yet travelled, but the country on either side abounded in fruit-trees and flowers. The man who drove my vehicle assured me I might gather a Rose without being transported to Botany Bay, that paradise of English rogues. I ventured to pluck a D beautiful one over the fence, and would you believe it, brother, was neither shot by a spring-gun, caught in a man-trap, nor prosecuted afterwards for trespass! This I record as the first miracle which has happened to me in this country. I confess, however, a stout, square, rough-faced damsel did start out upon me, and bawl out something, which luckily I did not understand." America, as I said, has its Roses; and Virginia and Carolina have their appropriate varieties: in the latter country is to be found, I am informed, a small double wild Rose, which is thus associated in my recollection: Our friend C. while resident a few years ago at Charleston, walking out into the vicinity of the town at Christmas, was surprised to find Roses in full blow on the bushes. The sight of his national flower, so unexpectedly encountered, forcibly reminded him of home; and Montgomery's lines on plucking a wild Rose in October, rushed into his mind, and he repeated them on the spot with all the enthusiasm of one who knew and loved the bard: apostrophising in the following lines, (originally the conclusion of the above poem,) one of the finest flowers, as he plucked it from the bush: "And thou, poor Rose ! -I'll place thee near my soul; button-hole!" With the Rose in his bosom he walked through |