POSITION. 55 



with their leaves, like King Lear's silver locks, rudely 

 blown and drenched by the "to-and-fro contending wind 

 and rain." I have seen a garden of Roses — I mean a col- 

 lection of Roseless-trees — in front of a " noble mansion, 

 proudly placed upon a commanding eminence," where, if 

 you called upon a gusty day, the wind blew the powder 

 from the footman's hair as soon as he had opened the front 

 door, and other doors within volleyed and thundered a feu 

 de joie in honour of the coming guest. 



Others, who had 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 over- 

 shadowed 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 mausol- 

 eum ! I was taken not long ago to a cemetery of this de- 

 scription, which had been recently laid out ; and there was 

 such 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 compli- 

 ment as the sultan paid to the French pianist. The French- 



