26o A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



but in this more genial temperature it blooms long before 

 the showman's opening day ; and I have seen houses con- 

 taining many hundred plants which have not contributed to 

 the exhibitor a single flower. I have tried with these Roses 

 many experiments, in pots and out, al fresco, under glass, 

 under canvas (movable), on their own roots, on the Manetti, 

 and on the Brier. The latter has been in this, as in all 

 other cases, my best ally and friend. Timid brethren fore- 

 warned me that the winter would kill every bud, and timid 

 brethren tittered merrily when a frost of abnormal vigour 

 destroyed three-fourths of my first adventurers. I perse- 

 vered, of course. If a fourth withstood an unusual severity, 

 I might* rely in ordinary seasons upon complete success. 

 Defeat, moreover, and the derision of my friends, evoked 

 a noble rage, a more determined energy. In my youth I 

 heard a professor remark at Oxford (he styled himself pro- 

 fessor and teacher of the noble art of self-defence, but the 

 condition of his nose was more suggestive to me of one who 

 was taking lessons) that " he never could fight until he'd 

 napped a clinker." Then 



" His grief was but his grandeur in disguise, 

 And discontent his immortality." 



So felt I, and so. fought and conquered ; and I advise the 



