124 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



gay emporium — woe to the man who shall cry 

 ''shop" therein, for fifty pairs of angry scissors 

 would find swift way to his heart ! — where, behind 

 acres of plate-glass, and upon miles of counter, 

 the rich thick silk stands up in pyramids, and the 

 delicate aristocratic satin gleams like an opal. Ask 

 the shopman (I beg pardon, the employes or the 

 aides-de-camp, or whatever might be their modern 

 title*) to educe their newest, most ree he j'c he vohQSy 

 and beseech of Venus to choose. 



Will there not be in these cases a delicious 

 perplexity, an ecstasy of amazement, an embar- 

 rassment of riches ? Imagine to yourself this 

 happy hesitation, and you will know something of 

 my present sweet uncertainty. How am I to 

 begin my selection of Roses ? It seems as though, 

 gazing upon an illuminated city, I was asked to 

 point out the brightest candles ; as though, where 

 fire-flies gleamed by the million, and humming- 

 birds glowed by the thousand, I was ordered to 

 transfix with the entomological pin the brightest 

 specimens of the one, and to adjust upon the orni- 

 thological wires the most exquisite examples of 

 the other. 



* A lady, calling to rectify a mistake at. one of our great magasins 

 des modes, was asked : ' ' Was it a tall gentleman with a dark moustache 

 who was with you?" and repHed : "No; it was a stout nobleman, 

 about five feet high, with a squint." 



