214 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



on the scene. He found the Hall crowded with 

 chairs and benches, just as it was left after a con- 

 cert the night before. Early as it was, he had his 

 staff with him — carpenters and others; and when 

 I arrived with my Roses, after a journey of 120 

 miles, at 5.30 A.M., the long tables were almost 

 ready for the baize. Then came the covered vans 

 which had travelled through the summer night 

 from the grand gardens of Hertfordshire, and the 

 "four-wheelers," with green boxes piled upon 

 their roofs, from all the railway stations. And then 

 the usual confusion which attends the operation 

 of "staging" — exhibitors preferring their "own 

 selection" to the places duly assigned to them, 

 running against each other, or pressing round Mr. 

 Edwards with their boxes, as though they had 

 something to sell — vociferating like the porters at 

 Boulogne, who, having seized your portmanteau, 

 insist on taking your body to their hotel. He, 

 however, was quite master of the situation, and 

 upon his directions, clearly and firmly given, there 

 followed order and peace. 



And there followed a scene, beautiful exceed- 

 ingly. I feel no shame in confessing that when 

 the Hall was cleared, and I looked from the 

 gallery upon the three long tables, and the plat- 

 form beneath the great organ, glowing with the 



