124 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



brains ' for these studies as Cassio for strong drinks. 

 The very words make my head ache, and I long to 

 break them up, as one breaks up, in wintry days, 

 some big black coal with a poker. ' I am no 

 botanist,* as the young Oxonian pleaded to the 

 farmer who reproved him for riding over wheat. I 

 confess that I failed miserably in an attempt to 

 understand the rudiments of his science, as set forth 

 in Dr. Lindley's * School Botany.' I honour him, but 

 I do not envy, because, strange as it may seem, he is 

 very rarely an enthusiastic gardener ; because I never 

 remember to have seen a scientific botanist and a 

 successful practical florist under the same hat. 

 Wherefore I am content, when I put on my own, to 

 confess meekly that it covers a skull void and empty 

 of scientific treasures, but the property, I trust, of a 

 true gardener. 



But how am I to begin with the Roses ? I fancy 

 that I hear a hiss or two, a shuffling of impatient 

 shoes, as when too much preliminary fiddling goes on 

 before the play. And here, positively, in the very 

 crisis and nick of time, my doubt is dissolved ; the 

 knot is cut eirl ^vp(a Tvxrj^y upon the razor-edge of good 

 luck, and by an incident which sounds like a miracle. 

 T/ie Rose makes answer for itself. Yes, biting my 

 quill, and beginning to think that the more I bite the 

 nearer I draw to the stupidity of the bird which grew 



