10 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



grassed up to the very Brier, except where a circular space 

 is left for "just a few bedding-out things," — leeches drain- 

 ing the life-blood of the Rose. It is Mrs Hemans, I think, 

 who sings, — 



" Around the red Rose, the convolvulus climbing ;" 



and it sounds sweetly pretty, and would be the loveliest 

 arrangement possible, only that, unfortunately, it is death 

 to the Rose — death to that queen who brooks no rival 

 near, much less upon, her throne. Look, too, at those 

 vagabond suckers clustering like Jewish money-lenders or 

 Christian bookmakers round a young nobleman, and steal- 

 ing the sap away. Well may that miserable specimen be 

 called a " Souvenir de Comte Cav^our," for it is dying from 

 depletion, like its illustrious namesake. The earth is set 

 and sodden ; no spade nor hoe has been there. As for 

 manure, a feeling of profound melancholy comes over us, as 

 over ]\Ir Richard Swiveller, when he discovered that the Mar- 

 chioness had passed her youthful days in ignorance of the 

 taste of beer. We know that they have never seen it, and 

 yet they are expected to bloom profusely ; and when they 

 are covered, not with Roses, but grubs, the nurseryman, or 

 the gardener, or the soil is blamed. Then there is dole in 



