Those who are familiar with the Raphael series of Madonnas will recall, in this connection, his exquisite pastoral La Jardinière. There is also one similarly entitled by a French artist, though differently treated. The virgin is enthroned on clouds, and holds the infant, whose feet rest on a globe. Both mother and child are crowned with roses; and on each side, as if rising from the clouds, are vases filled with roses and lilies. Titian has also left many beautiful and some exaggerated works of the Arcadian school. There is an old Coptic tradition which is very beautiful, and bears somewhat on this subject of nature's aid in glorifying these two lives. Near the site of the ancient Heliopolis, there still stands a very pretty garden, in which (runs the tradition) the holy family rested in their flight into Egypt. Feeling oppressed with thirst, a spring of fresh water gushed at their feet, and on being pursued into their retreat by robbers, a sycamore-tree opened, and hid them from sight. "The spring still exists," says a recent traveller, "and the tree yet stands, and bears such unmistakable marks of antiquity as to make this tradition and faith of the present generation of Coptics at least plausible." But these floral emblematical tributes are as inexhaustible as are the sentiments of love, homage, and tender pity that fill the heart from the contemplation of the Mater Dei Genitrix down to the appealing anguish of the Dolorosa. "Thus in highest heaven, yet not out of sight of earth; in beatitude past utterance; in blessed fruition of all that faith creates and love desires; amid angel hymns and starry glories," we will leave enthroned the "blessed amongst women," and turn to other legends, wherein the saints who followed her stand crowned with flowers celestial, awaiting a share of our praise and veneration.

Part Second.

In Thuringia, one of the provinces of Germany, the traveller is attracted by a species of rose that is universally cultivated by the poorest peasant, as well as the richest land-owner. When the question as to its origin is asked, the answer invariably is, "Oh! that is the rose of the dear St. Elizabeth, our former queen; and was grown from one of the sprigs given to her by the angels." One might as well try to turn the faith of these simple people from their belief in the sanctity of her life as from the truth of the miraculous roses. According to Montalembert and others, thus runs the substance of the legend. Elizabeth loved the poor, and was specially devoted to relieving their necessities, frequently carrying with her own hands goods of various kinds, to distribute among them. At one season, there was a great scarcity of crops throughout the land, and caution and economy in the use of the royal stores had been advised even in the palace. Elizabeth could not bear to know of unrelieved suffering among her people; so, by close economy in her own wants, she managed to furnish food for many others. On one occasion, a very pressing case of necessity reached her; and not wishing to encourage her servants in disobedience to the general command, she started alone on her errand of mercy, with some lighter articles of food concealed in the folds of her dress. Just as she reached the back steps of the chateau, however, she met her husband, with several gentlemen, returning from the chase. Astonished to see his wife alone, and thus burdened, he asked her to show him what she was carrying; but as she held her dress in terror to her breast, he gently disengaged her hands, and behold! "It was filled with white and red roses, the most beautiful he ever saw."

Wandering in thought over these scenes wherein the air is redolent with their fragrance, the form of the young and lovely Dorothea, with the radiant boy-angel at her side, rises in diaphonous light before the vision. We see her as she stands confronting her heathen judge Fabricius, who longs to possess her charms; and to his command, "Thou must serve our gods or die." she mildly answers, "Be it so; the sooner shall I stand in the presence of Him I most desire to behold." Then the governor asked her, "Whom meanest thou?" She replied, "I mean the Son of God, Christ, mine espoused. His dwelling is in paradise; by his side are joys eternal, and in his garden grow celestial fruits, and roses that never fade." And resisting all temptations, all entreaties, she went forth to torture and to death. "And as she went," (continues the legend,) "a young man, a lawyer of the city, named Theophilus, who had been present when she was first brought before the governor, called to her mockingly, 'Ha! fair maiden, goest thou to join thy bridegroom? Send me, I pray thee, of the fruits and flowers of that same garden of which thou hast spoken. I would fain taste of them!' And Dorothea, looking on him, inclined her head with a gentle smile, and said, 'Thy request, O Theophilus! is granted.' Where at he laughed aloud with his companions; but she went on cheerfully to death. When she came to the place of execution, she knelt down and prayed; and suddenly at her side stood a bright and beautiful boy, with hair bright as sunbeams. In his hands, he held a basket containing three apples and three fresh-gathered fragrant roses. She said to-him, 'Carry these to Theophilus; say that Dorothea hath sent them, and that I go before him to the garden whence they came, and await him there.' With those words, she bent her neck, and received the stroke of death. Meantime, the angel went to seek Theophilus, and found him still laughing in merry mood over the idea of the promised gift. The angel placed before him the basket of celestial fruit and flowers, saying, 'Dorothea sends thee these,' and vanished." Amazement filled the mind of Theophilus, and the taste of the fruit and fragrance of the roses pervaded his soul with a new life, the scales of darkness fell, and he proclaimed himself a servant of the same Lord that had won the heart of the gentle maiden. Carlo Dolci, Rubens, and Van Eyck have given the most poetical illustrations of this subject. Many other artists have also treated it, but more coldly.

With the name of St. Cecilia arise visions of angels poised in mid-air, enthralled by seraphic music, which, through the power of its voluminous sweetness, has pierced even the gates of heaven. But the flowers of paradise, as well as its celestial harmonies, are also associated with the name of this beautiful virgin—flowers that were sent to her bridal-chamber, as a reward for her angelic purity and the eloquence which had moved her young heathen husband to respect her vow of chastity. Returning from the instructions of St. Urban, to whom she had sent him, he heard the most enchanting music, and on reaching his wife's chamber he "beheld an angel, who was standing near her, and who held in his hands two crowns of roses gathered in paradise, immortal in their freshness and perfume, but invisible to the eyes of unbelievers. With these he encircled the brows of Cecilia and Valerian; and he said to Valerian, "Because thou hast followed the chaste counsel of thy wife, and hast believed her words, ask what thou wilt, it shall be granted thee."

I stood, early one morning late in the month of June, looking sadly upon the dead, white, upturned face of one who had seemed to walk, while on earth, more with angels than with men. A mystery of sadness had enveloped her life, but, like the cloud in the wilderness, it proved a power that drew her in the footprints of the "Man of sorrows." As I meditated upon the calm etherealized beauty that now absorbed the old earthly pain, and wondered what this secret of a heart-life could have been, her mother entered with tear-dimmed eyes, and placed upon her brow of auburn hair, through which glinted here and there a streak of gray—"dawn of another life that broke o'er her earthly horizon"—in her hands, and over the white fleecy robes, crowns and sprays of mingled crimson and white roses, all glistening with the morning dew.

"Red roses for the dead!" I exclaimed in surprise. "White alone can surely typify such a life and death as hers."

"So you think, my friend, because you with others saw only the outward calm that marked her way. But I—I who loved her so, knew and saw the thorn-crown that pressed her brow, and the hard stones and barbs that strewed every step of her way through life—I place them then here, because she loved them, and because they express, in conjunction with their sister's whiteness, the sorrow and purity of the angelic life now closed to pain and open only to joy.

"Well done of God, to halve the lot,
And give her all the sweetness;
To us, the empty room and cot;
To her, the heaven's completeness.
For her to gladden in God's view;
For us to hope and bear on.
Grow, Lily, in thy garden new
Beside the rose of Sharon."

I turned away sadly, marvelling upon the mystery of this life now closed so happily, and involuntarily arose to my mind the exquisite legend of the sultan's daughter.