Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath
Diffuses odour e'en in death."

Moore's Anacreon.

There is one species of our favourite flowerRosa Sempervirens, which, as its name imports, does not shed its leaves like the rest; this is the evergreen musk Rose; the favourite of our elder poets. It has a stalk and branches somewhat trailing, and requiring support, and bearing clusters of pure white muskscented flowers, which continue to blow from August till October. There is one variety-the deciduous musk Rose. I may just mention here, the Alpine Rose, called inermous, from a peculiarity in this species, of being free from all armature, and hence denominated also Virgin Rose. This epithet, my dear Anne, will recall to your memory the concluding verse of one of Charles Wesley's beautiful hymns.

"Thus blooms the human face divine,

When youth its pride of beauty shows;

Fairer than spring the colours shine,
And sweeter than the Virgin Rose."

I remain,

Yours, &c.

E

THE diversities of the Rose are so numerous, that botanists have found it very difficult to determine with accuracy, which are species, and which only varieties; or whether, indeed, there be properly more than one species, which is the Rosa Canina, or dog-rose of our hedges. To this sentiment, many eminent writers have inclined; and this also was the opinion of Linnæus, who attributed the different varieties to culture and accident. Whatever may be the fact respecting the claims of the hip-tree, to be considered as the ancestor of "Royal Roses," upon which it appears very difficult to decide, certainly the flower itself possesses an elegant simplicity, and a delicate fragrance, not surpassed by any flower on the hedge: moreover, the

wild Rose is no less common than beautiful, being found growing plentifully in all parts of the kingdom, as well as in other parts of the world, especially in the delightful climate of Rhodes.

It is in allusion to this flower, and with reference to the peak of Derbyshire, where the author of "Prose by a Poet," says, in his "Old English Year," that "the hedgerows were gorgeously arrayed with Roses." Indeed it is not possible to ramble along some of the rural and sequestered lanes in that romantic district, when the Roses are in bloom, without being attracted by their multitude and fragrance: some perfectly white, and others of a deep red, but the greater number—and these generally the finest flowers, of a fine blush colour. Ask Betsy if she does not remember what a glorious bough-full of them I slipped from the hedge, to ornament the front of our vehicle, when we travelled together on one occasion over these hills? or if she has forgot how profusely and fragrantly they gadded their silvery globes in the sunshine all along the road-side, as we walked from Bakewell to Haddon Hall?

In my first letter, alluding to the garden Rose, I have observed that it will never be called the Quaker flower but that epithet might not so improperly be applied to the present flower; and whatever may be said about Bernard Barton's eulogy on that "Queen of Flowers," a Quaker tribute seems aptly enough paid to this rural beauty, and has been done

in a volume of very pleasing poetry, written by John and Mary Howitt, of Nottingham. It is not often that we find a man and his wife cultivating together the friendship of the muses, as in this instance; but whether the following stanzas are from the feminine pen, or otherwise, I cannot tell; they are, however, redolent of the subject.

THE WILD ROSE.

"Welcome! oh! welcome once again,
Thou dearest of all the laughing flowers,
That open their odorous bosoms when
The summer birds are in their bowers.
There is none that I love, sweet gem, like thee,

So mildly through the green leaves stealing;
For I seem, as thy delicate flush I see,
In the dewy haunts of my youth to be;
And a gladsome youthful feeling

Springs to my heart, that not all the glare
Of the blossoming East could awaken there.

"Glorious and glad it were no doubt,
Over the billowy sea to sail,

And to find every spot of the wide world out,
So bright and fair in the minstrel's tale.

To roam by old Tyber's classic tide,

At eve, when round the gushing waters
Shades of renown will seem to glide,
And amidst the myrtle's flowery pride
Walk Italy's soft daughters:

Or to see Spain's haughtier damsels rove
Through the delicious orange grove.

"Glorious it were where the bright heav'n glows,
To wander idly far away,
And to scent the musk'd voluptuous rose
Of beauty, blest Circassia;

To spy some languid Indian maid

Wooing at noon the precious breeze,
Beneath the proud magnolia's shade;
Or a Chilian girl at random laid
On a couch of amaryllides ;
To behold the cocoa-palm, so fair
To the eye of the southern islander.

"Glorious, Camellian blooms to find

In the jealous realms of far Japan,
Or the epidendrum's garlands twin'd
Round the tall trees of Hindostan :
All this were glad, and awhile to be
Like a spirit wand'ring gaily;

But oh! what souls, to whom these are free,
Would give them all to share with me
The joys that I gather daily,
When, out in the morning's dewy spring,
I mark the wild Rose blossoming.

"When the foot-path's winding track is lost

Beneath the deep o'erhanging grass,

And the golden pollen forth is tost,

Thickly upon me as I pass;

When England is Paradise all over;

When flowers are breathing, birds are singing;

When the honeysuckle I first discover

Balming the air, and in the clover

The early scythe is ringing;

When gales in the billowy grass delight,
And a silvery beauty tracks their flight;