1/4 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



quent pedant, and burst out laughing, to the in- 

 tense disgust of the speaker. 



And now I am not entirely exempt from the 

 fear, that with some such similar derision the 

 reader may receive a fact which I propose to sub- 

 mit to him. It is, nevertheless, as true an incident 

 in my history as it may be a strange statement in 

 his ears, that, once upon a time, some ten or 

 twelve summers since, I was driven out of London 

 by a Rose ! And thus it came to pass : Early in 

 June, that period of the year which tries, I think, 

 more than any other, the patience of the Rosarian, 

 waiting in his garden like some lover for his Maud, 

 and vexing his fond heart with idle fears, I was 

 glad to have a valid excuse for spending a few 

 days in town. To town I went, transacted my 

 business, saw the pictures, heard an opera, wept 

 my annual tear at a tragedy (whereupon a swell in 

 the contiguous stall looked at me as though I were 

 going to drown him), visited the Nurseries, rode 

 in the Park, met old friends, and was beginning to 

 think that life in the country was not so very 

 much " more sweet than that of painted pomp," 

 when, engaged to a dinner-party, on the third 

 day of my visit, and to enliven my scenery, I 

 bought a Rose. Only a common Rose, one from 

 a hundred which a ragged girl was hawking in the 



