I want, if I can, to find out to-day, 25th May, 1875, what it is we like it so much for: holding these two branches of it in my hand--one full out, the other in youth. This full one is a mere mass of symmetrically balanced--snow, one was going vaguely to write, in the first impulse. But it is nothing of the sort. White,--yes, in a high degree; and pure, totally; but not at all dazzling in the white, nor pure in an insultingly rivalless manner, as snow would be; yet pure somehow, certainly; and white, absolutely, in spite of what might be thought failure,--imperfection--nay, even distress and loss in it. For every little rose of it has a green darkness in the centre--not even a pretty green, but a faded, yellowish, glutinous, unaccomplished green; and round that, all over the surface of the blossom, whose shell-like petals are themselves deep sunk, with grey shadows in the hollows of them--all above this already subdued brightness, are strewn the dark points of the dead stamens--manifest more and more, the longer one looks, as a kind of grey sand, sprinkled without sparing over what looked at first unspotted light. And in all the ways of it the lovely thing is more like the spring frock of some prudent little maid of fourteen, than a flower;--frock with some little spotty pattern on it to keep it from showing an unintended and inadvertent spot,--if Fate should ever inflict such a thing! Undeveloped, thinks Mr. Darwin,--the poor {129} short-coming, ill-blanched thorn blossom--going to be a Rose, some day soon; and, what next?--who knows?--perhaps a Paeony! 3. Then this next branch, in dawn and delight of youth, set with opening clusters of yet numerable blossom, four, and five, and seven, edged, and islanded, and ended, by the sharp leaves of freshest green, deepened under the flowers, and studded round with bosses, better than pearl beads of St. Agnes' rosary,--folded, over and over, with the edges of their little leaves pouting, as the very softest waves do on flat sand where one meets another; then opening just enough to show the violet colour within--which yet isn't violet colour, nor even "meno che le rose," but a different colour from every other lilac that one ever saw;--faint and faded even before it sees light, as the filmy cup opens over the depth of it, then broken into purple motes of tired bloom, fading into darkness, as the cup extends into the perfect rose. This, with all its sweet change that one would so fain stay, and soft effulgence of bud into softly falling flower, one has watched--how often; but always with the feeling that the blossoms are thrown over the green depth like white clouds--never with any idea of so much as asking what holds the cloud there. Have each of the innumerable blossoms a separate stalk? and, if so, how is it that one never thinks of the stalk, as one does with currants?