SOILS 67 



of his divine despair, ' What a soil yours is for the 

 Rose ! ' Some of my own friends talk to me regularly 

 as the summer comes, not as though I had any 

 special fondness or took any special pains, but as if 

 my garden would grow excellent Roses, whether I 

 liked it or no. At first, and as a neophyte, I used 

 to feel a little irritation when all the glory was given 

 to the ground ; and I remember upon one occasion 

 that I could not refrain from informing a gentleman 

 (who bored me with the old unchanging commentary) 

 that wild Rose-trees, transplanted from the hedgerow 

 to my garden in the autumn, grew flowers large 

 enough for exhibition the next summer but one. It 

 was the simple fact concerning budded Briers, but 

 he took away the inference, which I blush to own 

 was meant for him, that the transformation was 

 effected by the soil solely ; and he was very angry, 

 I heard afterwards, when his views on the subject 

 were not universally accepted by a large dinner-party 

 in his own house. 



How often has it been said to me, * Oh, what a 

 garden is yours for Roses ! We have a few nice 

 flowers, but of course we can't compete with you. 

 Old Mr. Drone, our gardener, tells us that he never 

 saw such a good soil as yours, nor so bad a soil as 

 ours, for Roses.' And herein is a fact in horticulture 

 — Mr. Drone always has a bad soil. An inferior 



