i8o A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



cipated the little which I had to say of the Moss 

 Perpetual (p. 172), and, passing on. to the Damask 

 Perpetual, have but two Roses to commend, and these 

 only where space is unlimited and the love of Roses 

 voracious. A tender sadness comes to me thus speak- 

 ing of them, a melancholy regret, as when one meets 

 in mid-life some goddess of our early youth, and, out 

 upon Time ! she has no more figure than a lighthouse, 

 and almost as much crimson in her glowing counte- 

 nance as there is in its revolving light ; and we are as 

 surprised and disappointed as was Charles Kirkpatrick 

 Sharpe when he met Mrs. Siddons at Abbotsford, and 

 * she ate boiled beef, and swilled porter and took snuff, 

 and laughed till she made the whole room shake 

 again.' I do not mean that these Perpetual Damasks 

 ' are too robust and ruddy, but that they charm us no 

 more, as when Mr. Lee of Hammersmith introduced 

 Rose du Roi to a delighted public, and the Comte, 

 who presided over the gardens in which the Rose was 

 raised at St. Cloud, resigned his office in disgust 

 because the flower was not named after himself, 

 Lelieur^ a most ungracious act, seeing that it was by 

 the King's (Louis XVIII.) desire that the Rose had 

 its royal title, and that the honour of originating the 

 variety was due (no uncommon case) to Suchet, the 

 foreman, and not to Lelieur, the chef, Mogador, 

 which was subsequently raised from Rose du Roi, was 



