the Company enables its men to go down to
the distant show, to add themselves to its
attractions, and to obtain their share of its
prizes, without being beholden to its funds.

When I have penetrated through this
antechamber to the great marquee, and have passed
the pair of massive, handsomely bound Bibles,
on their stand of harvest sheafs, I come to
the real exhibition tent, in which the glories
of the gardens of Rye inspire me with a
new enthusiasm. Covent Garden me no
Covent Gardens. You must go to Rye if you
would see potatoes. There is a long table
down the middle, upon which are laid out
French beans, turnips, cabbages, sweet herbs,
apples, plums, hollyhocks, dahlias, nosegays,
marigolds, and honey in which the prince of
all the flies might drown himself after a
minute of joy that was worth twenty times
his principality. The produce on the centre
table consists of articles in which the whole
district competes together. The sides of the
tent are lined with tables subdivided into
parishes. Here is the parish of Peasmarsh,
occupying an area of one hundred square
feet. Its vegetable productions are potatoes,
parsnips, onions, and carrots. The finest
may be known by the skewer that is
stuck into them supporting the inscription
on a label—"Parish Prize." In the district
competition, you may know which articles
are considered by good judges to be best, and
second best, and third best, because there are
three prizes, indicated by three tickets, for
each kind of flower, fruit, or vegetable that
has been fetched up out of the treasure-
chambers of the earth. Earth has been
conquered and taxed handsomely. The union-
jack may well fly overhead, and the band may
well cease blowing Roast Beef of Old England
through the canvas. Greens and potatoes
such as these, look too provoking as they are;
it is not meet to add to them a hint of beef.

At the end of the tent, under another
elaborate amateur inscription, are the baskets of
vegetables or of fruit sent in for competition.
Exhibitors find their own baskets. Wherefore
clothes' baskets preponderate: there are a few
single hand-baskets, and some little work-
baskets. This is the quaintest corner of the
show. The different degrees of taste, shown
in the arrangement of the articles, betoken
very different degrees of natural ability.
Much acquired knowledge, Heaven help our
legislators, is not yet brought to bear on
anything among field labourers. Here is a large
clothes' basket, the contents of which might
be painted as they stand. Turnips peep
bashfully from under cabbage leaves; carrots
lie where their colour is wanted; French
beans are dashed in with the touch of a
master, and the whole contents connect
themselves with the great golden pumpkin,
as the central point towards which they must
all refer themselves in the true spirit of
unity. Whoever filled that clothes' basket
with produce had a mind busy within his
skull; but I suspect it was some labourer's
daughter, who will blush presently with pride
to see that her home-garden is honoured with
a prize. Here is another basket, into which
pumpkins, cabbages, turnips, and parsnips
have been put—simply put; there was a hand
to lift them up and put them in, there is no
sign of a head. But, if ambition be a sign of
mind, there is ambition enough of a sort
familiar in the ways of literature, and in
many other ways. Ten ordinary French
beans, two tenth-rate cucumbers, a common
cabbage, and an undersized carrot have been
put into a basket and sent in, no doubt with
the decided expectation of applause. I thought
of many of the new books I had read; some of
them written even (if I may venture to reveal
the fact) by lords, and it is odd, to be sure, that
I should have been reminded of them by the
dressing of this basket. Then, in the way of
fruit, there are such basketsful as autumn
herself might not disdain to send in as a
sample of her English cottage produce; yet
what have we here? I do not invent an
absurdity; here we have sent in to the rustic
show, by some extremely sanguine fellow, a
small basket of which these are literally the
contents:—a score of small and ill-conditioned
hairy gooseberries, six plums of the kind
seen on barrows in the streets of London on
sale at twopence a quart, and as many
bunches of black currants as would go into a
saucer of the size of a crown-piece. I have
met with such hairy gooseberries and plums
and currants among the intellectual produce
of some friends of mine whom I won't name.
My abstruse friend Wilkins, and my facetious
friend Tomkins, more especially after dinner,
have repeatedly obtruded upon society hairy
gooseberries of their own cultivation, with
the air of men who produce something
handsome. These baskets excite melancholy
recollections; I will look no more.

The polite company who crowd the tents
at Chiswick, fill the air with the five words
Beautiful, Exquisite, Sweet, Lovely, and
Charming—each of which is multiplied by the
three degrees of comparison; so that,
altogether, fifteen forms of critical remark may be
said to exist among polite attendants at a
horticultural exhibition. The last time I was
at Chiswick Horticultural Show, I met the
raptures of a maiden sister, who was my
companion, with two hundred and fifteen
beautifuls, ninety-one exquisites, five sweets,
and a nice; which latter I threw in on my
own responsibility—I counted the goods as
I delivered them. Having no lady with me
now, I feel malicious pleasure in observing
those who have, until, becoming hot, I travel
out again into the sun.

The tents are emptying, and the gay people
promenade on the fresh grass, or sit under
the trees. Silken dresses shine under the
bright sun; there is no wind, but a band
blows constantly. It will soon be half-past
three, and all the cottagers know what's