138 THE GARDENER. [March 



the mind gets mystified and the eyes ache, without being a whit the 

 better ; whereas, intercourse with our fellows, or rather I should say 

 interchange of thought, dispels many lurking errors, and enables us 

 to strengthen what may have appeared to be somewhat uncertain 

 opinions or conjectures. 



Gardening visits, too, give an insight as to the different systems of 

 management: they give us also an opportunity to criticise what we 

 may consider to be amiss with others, and at the same time to reflect 

 on our own defects. 



Horticultural exhibitions are powerful instructors, as they bring the 

 products dispersed over a large extent of country within a narrow 

 compass, which, no doubt, stirs up the ambitious faculties of some, and 

 agitates the incipient desires of others. 



But another plea may be offered in favour of gardening visits — viz., 

 that, although we may have had exhibited no inconsiderable amount 

 of talent, we must not run off with the idea that everything else has 

 received the same careful attention, which may or may not be the case. 

 There is room for suspicion, for how frequently do some of the leaders 

 at our metropolitan and local shows carry off for years the principal 

 prizes, and get what is called, in loose phraseology, " their name up," 

 while other things of equal importance have an independent existence 

 that are allowed to take care of themselves. The motto of every 

 good gardener is, " Uniform attention throughout ; " so it is advisable, 

 sometimes, to see what those are doing at home who bear a great 

 name. Gardeners, as a body, are kindly disposed to each other; no 

 class of men fraternise more freely, and how often have I known 

 casual meetings ripen into deep and lasting friendships ! Never but 

 once during my wanderings have I been treated with cold formality 

 — a frigidity not easily to be forgotten. 



IN'ow I must proceed on my journey ; and by the express found 

 myself on a September morning in Birmingham at 10.50, and by the 

 next train was whirling off to Warwick. The country is flat, — not an 

 object to engage the attention till I reached Kenil worth station. 

 Here I felt that I had entered on classic ground — consecrated to the 

 end of time by the magic pen of Sir Walter Scott, to whose genius 

 civilisation bends the knee of homage. Here the remembrance of 

 many tragic events rushed upon my memory. There too, was the 

 memorable year of 1575, when the Earl of Leicester feted with regal 

 splendour the Elizabethan Queen. All the luxury money could pur- 

 chase was pressed into her service. Every actor in the grand drama 

 stood before me as described by the novelist. There were the minstrels, 

 the dancers, the professors of buffoonery, all possessing but one idea, 

 to gratify and support the vanity of an imperious queen. But amid 



