POSITION AND SOIL. 73 
there the poor rose-trees stand, or, more ac- 
curately speaking, wobble, with their leaves, 
like King Lear’s silver locks, rudely blown 
and drenched by the to-and-fro contending 
wind and rain. 
“Others, who have been told that the rose 
loves shelter, peace, repose, have found ‘such 
a dear snug little spot,’ not only surrounded 
by dense evergreen shrubs, but overshadowed 
by giant trees. Rest is there assuredly—rest 
for the rose, when its harassed life is past, 
when it has nothing more for disease to prey 
upon, no buds for the caterpillar, no foliage 
for the aphis—the rest of a mausoleum! I 
was taken not long ago to a cemetery of this 
description, which had been recently laid 
out; and there was a confident expectation of 
praise in the pretty face of the lady who took 
me, that I was sorely puzzled how to express 
my feelings. I wished to be kind, I wished 
to be truthful; and the result was some such 
a dubious compliment as the Sultan paid to 
the French pianist. The Frenchman, you 
may remember, was a muscular artist, more 
remarkable for power than pathos; and he 
went at the instrument and shook and worried 
it asaterrier goes in at rats. His exertions 
were sudorific; and when he finished the 
struggle, with beads on his brow, the Sultan 
