54 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



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 honor 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 overshadowed by 

 giant trees. Rest is there, assuredly — rest for 

 the Rose when its harassed life is passed, 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 such a con- 

 fident 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 remark- 

 able for power than pathos ; and he went at the 

 instrument, and shook and worried it as a terrier 

 goes in at rats. His exertions were sudorific; 



