208 A BOOK ABOUT THE GARDEN. 



re-read, compared, and annotated those pages until 

 my sisters asked sneeringly, " What could I see 

 in those stupid lists?" and prophesied an early 

 softening of my brain. The youngest, I remember, 

 to whom in an incautious moment I had exhibited 

 my Masonic apron, " felt sure that they came from 

 that horrid lodge," and sniffed at them as though 

 they smelt of sulphur. But to me, nevertheless, it 

 was and has been from that day to this a never- 

 failing amusement to study, as in a gallery, these 

 portraits by different artists of Queen Rosa and her 

 suite a gratification like that which lovers feel as 

 they gaze upon the likeness of their absent darling. 



At last, and after as careful deliberation as though 

 I had been some fond mamma who was engaged 

 in choosing husbands for her daughters, with all the 

 swells of Rotten Row to pick from, I made my " pur- 

 chaser's own selection," and sent my order to a 

 neighbouring nurseryman, with quite as high an 

 idea of its importance as though I were raising him 

 to the peerage. My conviction was that no demand 

 of similar magnitude (two dozen rose-trees !) had 

 been previously made by any amateur, and that, 

 when they were added to my existing stock of ten, 

 they would be, as Mr. Wombwell says of his menagerie, 

 " a magnificent and unrivalled collection." I knew 

 not then bow the" rose-lover's appetite grows with 

 that it feeds on ; I foresaw not the day, when with 

 1,500 trees I should be sending my plate, like a dis- 

 tended schoolboy, for "just a small slice more." 



November, the much maligned for when do 



