34 . A BOOK ABOUT THE GARDEN. 



in flo\ver for seventy springs, Mr. Oldacre is a model 

 of manly beauty, from his neat drab gaiters (our 

 ancestors had calves to their legs, and knew it) to the 

 crown of his " frosty pow." .Was ever hair so silvery ? 

 Was ever neckerchief so snowy white? W T as ever 

 face (what a .razor must he have !) so bright, so 

 smooth, so roseate ? If the French should ever take 

 possession of this country, and compel us to adopt 

 their unpleasant custom of osculating our male 

 friends, I should first endeavour to overcome my 

 repugnance by kissing Mr. Oldacre on both cheeks. 

 There is a perpetual smile and sunshine on them, and 

 in his clear blue eyes, as though he had lived always 

 among things beautiful, and their exceeding loveliness 

 had made his heart glad. What pyramids of pine- 

 apples, what tons of grapes and figs and peaches, 

 what acres of flowers, tender and hardy, those hands 

 have tended ! The Duke, his master, denies him 

 nothing ; and horticultural novelties and floral rarities 

 (things which you and I, my friends, sigh for, and 

 save up for, and speak of with " bated breath," and 

 possess only in our midsummer nights' dreams), these 

 come to the Castle by the boat-load, or travel by the 

 rail on trucks ! When you see his soil-yard you 

 imagine that sappers and miners have been at work 

 for weeks, and that an army is about to entrench 

 itself within those multitudinous earthworks. As 

 for his " houses " houses with enormous tanks, 

 wherein the Eoyal Lily, Victoria, is waited on by the 

 beautiful Nympheas; houses for orchids, for stove 

 and New Holland plants, for ferns, for fruit, and 

 forcing; his houses of every size and style, from the 



