210 A BOOK ABOUT THE GARDEN. 



And then we started in procession for the rosarium, 

 I and my gardener bearing our bundles as proudly 

 as the Lictors bore the fasces of old, and the rear 

 being brought up by our aide-de-camp with a wheel- 

 barrow of rich, fine soil. Nothing could well surpass 

 in solemnity the dignified air of our demeanour, 

 grandly and yet calmly majestic, as of men who 

 essay a most momentous exploit, but feel no fear. 

 Had we been selected by a committee of crowned 

 heads to turn the first sod of some new, grand, uni- 

 versal railway, or had we been conquering heroes 

 about to plant our standard on some height or citadel 

 just won from flying foes, our countenances could not 

 have shone with a more complete satisfaction. 



And now, upon these rosy recollections, like the 

 shadow of a cloud over a summer garden, there 

 sweeps a sudden gloom. Those flowers, so loved, 

 so reverenced, tended so carefully, watched so 

 patiently, bloom no more save in the loyal memory 

 of those who honour " auld lang syne." "I came 

 to the place of my youth, and I said, ' The roses of 

 my youth, where are they ? ' And Echo answered, ' Oh, 

 bother you and the roses of your youth ; we don't 

 grow such rubbish nowadays ! ' ' Ah, thoughtless, 

 not to say ungentlemanly Echo ! Nimium ne crede 

 colori. Despise not those roses of the past, for, 

 twenty years hence, it will be with these as with 

 them ; and some vulgar upstart of an Echo will 

 inform posterity that thy vaunted blooms were 

 rubbish. Be satisfied, and more than satisfied, with 

 that which is before thee. Thankful contentment is 

 the fresh, full spring whence flows the florist's never- 



