Io8 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



signally, in my eyes, as to the laying out of his 

 garden. He fails, because he has to a great ex- 

 tent abandoned the English or natural system for 

 the Italian and Geometrical, because he must have 

 a sensational garden in spring, summer, and win- 

 ter. His ancestors — poor floral fogies! — looked 

 upon their gardens as quiet resting-places, fair 

 scenes of refreshment and of health ; and wan- 

 dering amid these ** haunts of ancient peace," they 

 loved the cool grot for contemplation made, or the 

 sunny walk through the glossy evergreens in 

 which the throstle sang. They welcomed their 

 flowers as He sent them who " hath made every- 

 thing beautiful in his time:" they did not upbraid 

 Nature, nor essay to wake her when she slept her 

 winter sleep ; they forgave her deciduous trees. 

 They followed her in all things as their teacher. 

 They copied her lines, which were rarely straight, 

 rarely angular ; and her surfaces, which were 

 rarely flat. Said to me a house-painter, whom I 

 watched and praised as he was cleverly graining 

 one of my doors in imitation of oak : " Well, sir, 

 I must say I do think myself, that I'm following 

 up Natur close," and he ran his thumb-nail up a 

 panel swiftly, as though he would catch her by the 

 heel. So did tliey reproduce her graceful features. 

 ** It is the peculiar happiness of the age" (this was 



