8 



A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



who brooks no rival near, much less upon, her throne. 

 Look, too, at those vagabond suckers clustering like 

 Jewish money-lenders or Christian bookmakers round 

 a young nobleman, and stealing the sap away. Well 

 may that miserable specimen be called a ' Souvenir 

 de Comte Cavour,' for it is dying from depletion, like 

 its illustrious namesake. The earth is set and 

 sodden ; no spade nor hoe has been there. As for 

 manure, a feeling of profound melancholy comes over 

 us, as over Mr. Richard Swiveller when he discovered 

 that the Marchioness had passed her youthful days in 

 ignorance of the taste of beer. We know that they 

 have never seen it, and yet they are expected to 

 bloom profusely ; and when they are covered, not 

 with Roses, but grubs, the nurseryman, or the 

 gardener, or the soil is blamed. Then there is dole 

 in Astolat, and a wailing cry over dead Adonis. ^ Is 

 it not sad that we cannot grow Roses ? We have 

 spared no trouble, no expense, and we do so dote 

 on them ! ' 



The last time I heard a howl of this kind I felt 

 myself insulted as a lover of the Rose and of truth; 

 and instead of yelping in concert, as I was expected 

 to do, I snarled surlily, ^ You have taken no trouble 

 which deserves the name ; and as to expense, permit 

 me to observe that your fifty Rose-trees did not cost 

 you a fifth of the sum which you paid for your 



