io6 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



Sadly, like some cemetery tree, does the beautiful 

 Douglas Pine remind us of him whose name it bears, 

 who sent it to adorn our homes, and who, searching 

 for fresh prizes, perished miserably, falling into a 

 pit dug by the Sandwich Islanders for the capture 

 of wild bulls, and gored to death by one of them. 

 The lovely Lycaste speaks to us sorrowfully of 

 George Ure Skinner ; and the most striking of the 

 Marantas {Veitchu\ the velvety Begonia Pearcei^ 

 with its golden flowers, the exquisite Gymnostachium, 

 and splendid Sanchezia, of Richard Pearce — both 

 of whom died in their harness. These and others 

 have amplified our shining stores ; while our florists 

 at home, by selection, culture, cross-breeding, and 

 hybridising, have made admirable improvements and 

 large additions in every department of their art. 

 The gardener, nevertheless, with all this wealth and 

 skill, fails signally, in my eyes, as to the laying out 

 of his garden. He fails, because he has to a great 

 extent abandoned the English or natural system 

 for the Italian and Geometrical, because he must 

 have a sensational garden in spring, summer, and 

 winter. His ancestors — poor floral fogies ! — looked 

 upon their gardens as quiet resting-places, fair scenes 

 of refreshment and of health ; and, wandering amid 

 these ^ haunts of ancient peace,' they loved the cool 

 grot for contemplation made, or the sunny walk 



