1869.] THE ROSE. 443 



Finally, he discovers some malcontent like himself — un sot frouve 

 toujours un plus sot qui V admire — and they go off together to the 

 darkest corner of the most dismal room of their inn, to enjoy their 

 woes, and to defy their fellow- creatures, over a succession of " 2-bran- 

 dies and cold." 



I know only of one other species of exhibitor discreditable to the 

 genus, Tlie Covetous Exhibitor, whose avarice has slain his honour. 

 His motto is Money. 



"Si possis recte, si non quocunque modo Money." 



He cares nothing for the Rose itself, sees no beauty, and smells no 

 perfume, only for the prizes it may win. Truie aime plus bran que 

 Bose, and will go through any amount of dirtiness to get his nose to 

 the swill. On the eve of a show he will beg or will buy the Roses of his 

 neighbours. He will show several flowers of the same Rose, attaching 

 the different names of those varieties which have some resemblance 

 to each other. He knows how to conceal an eye, and to fix a petal in its 

 place by gum. He will add foliage, whenever he dare. He, too, likes a 

 few words with the judges before they make their awards. He never 

 saw them in such wonderful health ; in fact, their youthful appearance 

 is almost comic. They will find the Roses rough and coarse (which 

 means that his own are undersized) ; or there is a sad want of sub- 

 stance in the blooms this morning (which means that his are over-blown). 



In accordance with the old and true proverb, his dishonesty does not 

 thrive. He steals several paces in front of his brother archers, but for 

 one arrow hitting the gold, he misses, breaks, or loses fifty. I re- 

 member some years ago, just as we had commenced our survey as judges 

 at one of the provincial shows, an exhibitor reappeared, hot and out of 

 breath, and "begged pardon, but he had left a knife among his Roses." 

 He had a magnificent Rose in his coat, and, "from information which 

 I had received," I thought it my duty to watch his movements without 

 appearing to do so. He left the tent with a much smaller flower in his 

 button-hole, and I went immediately to his box. There was the illus- 

 trious stranger, resplendent, but with a fatal beauty. The cunning one 

 had hoist himself with his own petard, for he had forgotten another 

 bloom of the same Rose, already in his 24, and I at once wrote "Dis- 

 qualified for duplicates " upon his exhibition card. Keen must have 

 been the shaft which he had himself feathered from that borrowed 

 plume, but keener far to feel (for it was a fact patent to all) that if he 

 had not made the addition, he must have won the premier prize. 



Another failure of empirical knavery, another slip between the cup 

 of silver and the lip of stratagem, occurs to my recollection. It was 

 my good fortune to win a prize goblet annually given for Roses at one 



