174 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



thereat, a young gentleman who had nearly finished a fine 

 fortune and a strong constitution, had spoken to me of 

 a mutual friend, one of the best and cheeriest fellows alive, 

 as " an awful duffer," " moped to death," " buried alive in 

 some dreadful hole " (dreadful hole being a charming place 

 in the country), because he has no taste for stealing or 

 being robbed at races, can't see the Avit of swearing, and 

 has an insuperable partiality for his own wife. And I 

 arose, reflecting ; and though I had taken my lodgings and 

 arranged my plans for three more days in London, I went 

 home that morning, with the Rosebud in my coat. 



Ah, my brothers ! of the many blessings which our 

 gardens bring, there is none more precious than the con- 

 tentment with our lot, the deeper love of home, which 

 makes us ever so loath to leave them, so glad to return 

 once more. And I would that some kindly author who 

 knew history and loved gardens too, would collect for us in 

 one book (a large one) the testimony of great and good 

 men to the power of this sweet and peaceful influence — of 

 such witnesses as Bacon and Newton, Evelyn and Cowley, 

 Temple, Pope, Addison, and Scott. Writing two of these 

 names, I am reminded of words particularly pertinent to 

 the incident which led me to quote them, and which will 



