54 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



rain. I have seen a garden of Roses — I mean a 

 collection of Roseless trees — in front of a * noble 

 mansion proudly placed upon a commanding emin- 

 ence/ where, if you called upon a gusty day, the 

 wind blew the powder from the footman's hair as 

 soon as he had opened the front door, and other 

 doors within volleyed and thundered a feu de joie 

 in honour of the coming guest. 



Others, who had 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. Repose 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 ! You might 

 as well expect a canary to sing in a hat-box as a 

 Rose to blossom in this dreary dell. I was taken 

 not long ago to a cemetery of this description, 

 which had been recently 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- 



