2IO A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



had been from the moment our hands met as the 

 friends of many years. So it is ever with men 

 who love flowers at heart. Assimilated by the 

 same pursuits and interests, hopes and fears, suc- 

 cesses and disappointments — above all, by the 

 same thankful, trustful recognition of His majesty 

 and mercy Who placed man in a garden to dress 

 it — these men need no formal introductions, no 

 study of character to make them friends. They 

 have a thousand subjects in common, on which 

 they rejoice to compare their mutual experiences 

 and to conjoin their praise. Were it my deplora- 

 ble destiny to keep a toll-bar on some bleak, 

 melancholy waste, and were I permitted to choose 

 in alleviation a companion of whom I was to know 

 only that he had one special enthusiasm, I should 

 certainly select a florist. Authors would be too 

 clever for me. Artists would have nothing to 

 paint. Sportsmen I have always loved ; but that 

 brook, which they will jump so often at dessert or 

 in the smoke-room, does get such an amazing 

 breadth — that stone wall such a fearful height — 

 that rocketing pheasant so invisible — that salmon 

 (in Norway) such a raging, gigantic beast — that, 

 being fond of facts, my interest would flag. No ; 

 give me a thorough florist, fond of all flowers, in 

 gardens, under glass, by the brook, in the field. 



