I30 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



g-olden bells." So I saw it but a few weeks ago 

 — that is, in May, 1880 — growing in all its abun- 

 dant beauty in the gardens of the Riviera; one 

 plant, for example, which, having climbed to the 

 top of a high chestnut-tree, was flowering here, 

 there, and everywhere, amid the branches, in 

 the grounds of the Villa Cessoles, near Nice. 

 Why, then, have I not given it precedence ? 

 Simply because, were such a compliment offered, 

 the Rose would scarcely ever be there to receive 

 it. Because in this climate it is so rarely realized, 

 that I do not remember to have seen it, full- 

 groivn, more than three or four times in my life. 

 Puny personifications, and dreadful imbecilities 

 arrogating the name, I have met with frequently ; 

 but the grand gold goblet, to hold nectar for the 

 gods, is seen but on state occasions — a chalice 

 for the coronation of kings. It is a ** shy bloomer," 

 **wants a warm wall," '* good for the conserva- 

 tory," they tell us who know it best. And yet 

 (so capricious is beauty) I have seen noble speci- 

 mens of this flower upon the walls of a cottage 

 five miles from my home ; and the gentleman to 

 whom the cottage belonged was never, I believe, 

 more happy than when he came to dine with me, 

 wearing in his coat a huge bud which he had 

 begged from his tenant, and which resembled in 



