250 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



have come to meet the Queen of Flowers, as Mephi- 

 bosheth to meet King David, not having dressed his 

 feet, or trimmed his beard, or washed his clothes from 

 the day the king departed. And this reminds me 

 that we, the clerical contingent, appear upon these 

 occasions especially dishevelled and dim. Sydney 

 Smith would undoubtedly say that we ^ seemed to 

 have a good deal of glebe upon our own hands.' In 

 the thick dust upon our black coats you might write 

 or draw distinctly — (I once saw traced upon the 

 back of a thirsty florist, of course a layman — To be 

 kept dry : this side up) ; and our white ties — 



^ Qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo ' — 



are dismally limp and crumpled. The bearded 

 brethren remind one of St. Angus, of whom we 

 read that, perspiring and unwashed, he worked in 

 his barn until the scattered grain took root and grew 

 on him. 



By-and-by, when the exhibition is open to the 

 public, we shall be as spruce as our neighbours, and 

 as bright as soap and water — he is no true gardener who 

 loves not both — can make us. Meanwhile let me 

 assure the new comer among us that there are strong 

 brains and gentle hearts within those swart and 

 grimy exteriors, and that he will find in the brother- 

 hood hereafter — so I prophesy from my own experi- 



