“The death of the greater number of my _eleves_, however, soon lightened my labour; more than half of them never struck root I flung them into the fire; a fourth part of those that remained, after unfolding some little leaves, stopped there. Several assumed a blackish yellow tint, and gave me hopes of beautifying; some flourished surprisingly, but only in leaves; others, to my great joy, were covered with buds; but in a few days they always got that little yellow circle which gardeners call the collar, and which is to them a mortal malady--their stalks twisted--they drooped--and finally fell, one after the other, to the earth--not a single bud remaining on my poor trees. This withered my hopes; and the more care I took of my invalids--the more I hawked them from window to window, the worse they grew. At last one of them, and but one, promised to reward my trouble--thickly covered with leaves, it formed a handsome bush, from the middle of which sprung out a fine vigorous branch, crowned with six beautiful buds that got no collar--grew, enlarged, and even discovered, through their calices, a slight rose tint. There were still six long weeks before the new year; and certainly four, at least, of my precious buds would be blown by that time. Behold me now recompensed for all my pains: hope re-entered my heart, and every moment I looked on my beauteous introducer with complacency. “On the 27th of November, a day, which I can never forget, the sun rose in all its brilliance; I thanked Heaven, and hastened to place my rose-tree, and such of its companions as yet survived, on a peristyle in the court. (I have already mentioned that I lodged on the ground floor.) I watered them, and went, as usual, to give my philosophical lecture. I then dined--drank to the health of my rose--and returned to take my station in my window, with a quicker throbbing of the heart.