l6o A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



How Striking and beautiful thereon would be such 

 a torrent of white Roses as I have seen at Saw- 

 bridgeworth, covering the bank between the road 

 and the home of my dear friend Thomas Rivers. 

 Comincr down from the CHmbers to the 



'£> 



Tall Standards, 



I take leave to say that, although, where windows 

 and walls are otherwise inaccessible, a long spider- 

 broom in the hands of an efficient housemaid 

 deserves the admiration with which we watched 

 it in our youth, few persons would think of cut- 

 ting it in twain, and of setting the upper half in 

 a garden of Roses. Yet have I seen objects sug- 

 gestive of such an operation in some of those 

 remarkably tall standards which are still extant, 

 but which, were I Czar and Autocrat of all the 

 Roses, would soon find themselves, like other 

 wretched Poles, in exile. Their appearance is 

 dismal ; there is no congruity between stock and 

 scion, no union between horse and rider — an 

 exposition, on the contrary, of mutual discomfort, 

 as though the monkey were to mount the giraffe. 

 The proprietors, it would seem, have been misled 

 by an impression that the vigor of the Brier would 

 be imparted to the Rose, whereas the superabun- 



