58 THE ROSE. 



Martello tower ; and there tlie poor rose trees 

 stand, or, more accurately speaking, wobble, 

 with their leaves, like King Lear's silver locks, 

 rudely blown and drenched by the to-and-fro 

 contending wind and rain. 



^' Others, who have been told that the rose loves 

 shelter, peace, repose, have found ^ such a dear 

 snug little spot, ' not only surrounded by dense 

 evergreen shrubs, but overshadowed by giant 

 trees. Rest is there assuredly — rest for the rose, 

 when its harassed life is past, when it has nothing 

 more for disease to prey upon, no buds for the 

 caterpillar, no foliage for the aphis — the rest of 

 a mausoleum ! I was taken not long ago to a 

 cemetery of this description, which had been re- 

 cently laid out ; and there was such a confident 

 expectation of praise in the pretty face of the 

 lady who took me, that I was sorely puzzled how 

 to express my feelings. I wished to be kind, I 

 wished to be truthful ; and the result was some 

 such a dubious compliment as the Sultan paid to 

 the French pianist. The Frenchman, you may 

 remember, was a muscular artist, more remark- 

 able for power than pathos ; and he went at the 

 instniment and shook and worried it as a terrier 



