So small was the number of mortals ever favored with a sight of this earthly paradise, that it is not surprising its site is now unknown. Even among the ancients, it was a matter of speculation and mystery. The majority placed it in the north of Africa; and it is not improbable that travellers who for the first time beheld them, mistook for the Gardens of Hesperus the oases of the desert, those gems of nature which are all the more brilliant for being set in sand and clay. Others again asserted that this region of delight was to be sought beyond the western main, in a lone isle if the ocean. But all agreed that it was at the west, towards the sunset, that this treasure of earth was to be found: and thence it was that the name of Hesperus was bestowed upon it. Strange it is, that mankind has ever followed the sun in its path; and that while human life, religious truth, and science all point to the East as their source, they hasten westward for the fulfillment of their destiny. The East belongs to the Past--it is the land of memory: the West to the Future--it is the land of hope: and there it is that man seeks his happiness. It is in the yet unrevealed--in the mysterious West that the golden fruits and the perennial flowers bloom for him: not in Oriental climes, where, in his infancy, the Garden of Eden sheltered him. So great is the lust for gold, and so small the love of moral beauty among the fallen race of man, that of all the varied productions of Hesperus, the golden apples alone have been mentioned in tradition and poetry. But in truth, these were far inferior to the precious roses which grew in the very centre of this paradise, and which were endowed, not only with exquisite form, hue, and fragrance, but with certain magic properties, invaluable to their possessors. If the bosom on which the flower rested were candid, pure, and kind, the rose bloomed with still richer loveliness, and emitted a delicious sweetness: and a grace was shed over the person of its owner, which grief and sickness could not dim, and old age itself was powerless to destroy. This indescribable something shone out in the eye, spoke in the voice, made the plainest features pleasing, and imparted an irresistible charm to the manner. It was as far superior to mere external beauty as the latter is to revolting ugliness. Nothing could destroy it: once gained, it was a lasting heritage. But on the other hand, if this rose were possessed by the false-hearted, the sensual, and the selfish, it sickened and paled day by day, giving forth a fainter fragrance continually, until it was completely withered. And in proportion as it lost its bloom, did the hideous heart of the wearer imprint itself upon the countenance, until the eye would turn away in disgust from the most brilliant complexion and chiselled regularity of features. It acted as a moral test, making evident to the dull eye of man, ever prone to think only of outside show, the beauty or the deformity within.