defends the Rose from its enemies, as well as surrounds it with friends. Hence the paucity of rosarians worthy of the title. There are numbers who gush at shows, take down names, give orders, plant rose trees, but who never stoop to pull up a weed, and as for extracting the grub from his leafy bower and handling him somewhat severely between finger and thumb, why that is "simply disgusting!" These are the sort of people who think, when they have signed a cheque, that roses should immediately spring up around them about the size of punch-bowls, and that thankful nightingales should sing in them night and day. Somehow this firework won't go off. He who would grow roses must not be afraid of dirtying his fingersof resembling that clergyman of whom Sidney Smith said, that he "seemed to have a good deal of his glebe on his own hands;" or of a likeness to Martin Burney, to whom Charles Lamb remarked over a rubber, "Oh, Martin, Martin, if dirt were trumps, what a hand you'd have!" Where shall we buy our rose trees? From any extensive rose nursery which is nearest to you, and has a soil most like your own, or from any of those professional rosarians who have shown you what the Rose can be. I say can be, because you must not expect to achieve perfection at once, and your first flowers may perhaps disappoint you. Only be not discouraged; work at your model bravely, and you shall reproduce it. And I advise amateurs to visit some of the renowned homes of the Rose. They will find a far more genial welcome than the mere commercial spirit can give to a customer, because the hearts of our rose merchants, whose friendship I have enjoyed for so many happy years, are with the Rose; and they will learn more as pupils, and please themselves more completely as purchasers, than by any amount of reading or correspondence. And, on behalf of these visitors, may I express the hope that my professional brothers will take into consideration whether, in addition to their standard and dwarf rose trees, they might not exhibit the Queen of Flowers in some other form of beauty, showing us, for example, the best varieties of climbing and pillar roses, roses for a shrubbery, roses for beds, uniform or in contrast, roses for edging, roses for bouquets, etc.? The National Rose Society, of which I have the honour to be President, or, as Mr. Swiveller would describe the office, "Perpetual Grand," has done much to extend the enjoyment of "Roses not suitable for Exhibition," by publishing a selection of the best, and by giving prizes for specimens; but it would be a further gain if we could see established plants at the nurseries to guide us as to their adaptation and position in our own gardens. XVII. MY VERSES. God help our Men at Sea!-Peace-A Tale of Pride and Punishment-Waiting at table. CONFIDING in your gentle indulgence, anxious to make the most of myself that I may win your approbation, "I give thee all, I can no more, though poor the offering be," I appear before you now as a Poet. I cannot say that I am lost in admiration, when I regard myself in the capacity of a Bard. I am unable to observe in my features any resemblance to" the Poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling," and when I compare my dedications to the Muse with those of more accomplished votaries, I am constrained to regard them as shabby. Nevertheless, I have had success, and I therefore venture to hope for the specimens, which I now introduce to you, some echoes, however faint, of the kind words which were spoken of them by our English critics. (By Mr. Thackeray, for example, of verses published in the Cornhill Magazine, of which he was editor, and entitled "Mabel." * See "The Memories of Dean Hole," chap. vii. Some verses, which began with "God help our men at sea," were first published in Once A Week, and were transferred to other publications, including those of our Royal National Life-Boat Institution. God help our men at sea! In firelit, pictured rooms, 'mid wine and flowers, The wild winds awe us, in our blithest hours, To sigh this prayer ; And, lonely, with clench'd hands, at night 'tis ours,— God help our men at sea! I had a brother once. In its intensity. Our love ne'er failed Smiling on our sweet mother, as he sailed, I saw him last. Ah me! how that sweet mother droop'd and paled, God help our men at sea! They saw him, who outlived that deathful night, Kneeling, and looking in the stormfire's light To Heaven for grace. And angels' glory was upon him, bright As upon Stephen's face. God help our men at sea! Those pilgrim fathers, who leave all to teach Their Saviour's charity. Stretch forth Thine hand, O gracious Lord, to reach The soul dismayed; Walk o'er the waves, and let them hear Thy speech, God help our men at sea! The workers, who at home can find no spheres For work, whose poverty Drives from their birthland, strong, despite those tears, To toil and win; And then, please God, return for peaceful years To their old home and kin. God help our men at sea! If lust of power, or greed of wealth, set sail To enslave the free, Right over might shall in the end prevail, As oft before, And Israel see the proud Egyptians pale, And dead, on the sea-shore ! Permit me to recite some verses which I wrote on hearing from a friend, who had been travelling over the ground of the Franco-Prussian war, that he had seen and heard a song-bird, perched upon the decaying framework of a gun. РЕАСЕ. "How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!" Armed men came trampling down the corn and flowers, Hate maimed and murdered, and thieves stripped the slain. Sing on! Once more, by His eternal love, |