298 
THE FLORIST. 
bj its owner ? what friend of the Manetti is there who has not 
relished the trenchant blows that the Vicar of Rushton, one of its 
doughtiest champions, has levelled against all comers who would 
attempt to put any fair dame, Celina, Boursault, Briar, or any¬ 
thing else, on a par with his Dulcinea ? Not one, I venture to say; 
not one, too, but would have gladly done as I did when the oppor¬ 
tunity offered,—visit the little quiet vicarage, from whence have 
issued forth some of the best Roses that have been exhibited this 
season, and to whose tenant, the Rev. W. F. Radclyffe, the lover 
of the Rose and the readers of the Florist are so much indebted. 
Last year, when I returned from Dorchester, where I had been 
as a deputation for the Irish Society, I found a letter from the 
Vicar of Rushton, rating me in good set terms for having passed 
him by, and a promise was then made that if called in that direc¬ 
tion again, I would not do so. All idea of it had, however, been 
abandoned, when a letter brought me the intelligence that my 
services would be required, and having a day to spare, I wrote to 
say my promise should be fulfilled. At Dorchester I made the 
acquaintance of another florist, about whom I may have to say a 
word by and bye,—Mr. Millar, of Upway, the raiser of “Fox- 
hunter,” the best Verbena of the year; and on Tuesday, the 10th, 
found myself at Wimborne, the nearest convenient station for me, 
though not the nearest to Rushton. The drive from thence to my 
destination was very lonely, and to one accustomed to a neighbour¬ 
hood where trees are sparse and foliage scanty, the delicious verdure 
and luxuriant shade were especially pleasing, particularly as I had 
no idea that that part of Dorset was so pretty. I soon found that 
like master, like man, held true in this case, and that “Will” was 
quite as full of roses as the Vicar himself, and had his tales to tell 
of many a well-fought field of victories gained and opponents 
vanquished. After a pleasant drive of seven miles I found myself 
at Rushton, and heartily welcomed by the Vicar. It is one of 
those quiet nooks, far away from noise and tumult, which lie 
scattered over our happy England; a centre of kindly influence 
and of benevolent regard, which so many of our country parson¬ 
ages are, where, but for them, the poor would be, comparatively 
speaking, uncared for, and would never have the opportunity of 
seeing a life any way higher or more refined than their own. The 
house is an old and roomy one, which has many a tale to tell, could 
its old walls speak, of those who have entered often in happiness, 
of sorrow, and doubtless of death. The garden,—ah ! there’s the 
point,—laying on the slope of a hill facing the S. and S.W., and 
exposed to the force of the latter winds; and as Rushton stands 
on the chalk, the ground is light, with a considerable mixture of 
flint in it. At Rawston, about half a-mile distant from the house, 
he has another small garden, sheltered from the S.W. winds, so 
that he has the advantage of all aspects, and here he grows in 
'perfection four subjects,—amongst flowers, Roses, and amongst 
fruits, Strawberries, Raspberries, and Peaches. As I have already 
intimated, and as most readers of the Florist know, Mr. Radclyffe 
