8 THE FLORIST. 
from Reigate lean lazily against each other, like two aldermen of extra 
corpulence going home after a Lord Mayor's feast. Beyond 1s a 
pyramid of boxes, with many a railway label on their green exteriors, 
to tell of the anxious miles they have travelled with Pansies, and Car- 
nations, and cut Verbenas, and Roses, and Dahlias, in the sunny days 
that are past. Then comes a solid quadrupedal desk, full of catalogues 
and secretaries’ letters, and ‘“‘ Chronicles” and ‘“‘ Florists”’ good store. 
Next to it the painter’s studio—a table with pots of green and white 
paint, and neat “ tallies,” and slim training sticks, and circular wire- 
work, balloons, and baskets of a dozen fanciful designs. Upon the 
whitewashed walls a pair of bellows appear to be discoursing with a 
‘‘ Brown’s fumigator” on the best method of getting rid of aphides. 
A wrathful canary, roused from its slumbers, twitters expostulations 
from its cage, and wishes ‘‘the Six of Spades” at Jericho. Above the 
fireplace is a piece of broken looking-glass, before which I once saw an 
under-gardener attempting to shave himself with a new budding knife, 
and making such grimaces of direful but unconscious ugliness, as would 
have established the reputation of a clown for life! On either side of 
this mirror, but deserving a better place, are some of Mr. Andrews’s 
charming delineations of flowers and fruit—among the latter a bunch 
of Grapes, once so lifelike and luscious to look upon, that they might 
have been the identical bunch which the American artist painted for 
his mother with such extraordinary power, that the old lady was enabled 
to manufacture from it three bottles and a half of most delicious wine ; 
but now sadly disfigured by dust and smoke, and rapidly changing 
their complexion from pale Muscadines to Black Hamburghs. 
And now all is in readiness for our conclave, and the members of 
our small society arrive. Before our blazing fire, which roars a hearty 
bass to the mirthful tenor of the kettle, is a table for our pipe and 
glass, behind that table a roomy garden seat, which will accommodate 
four of our party, and on either side the fireplace a spacious comfort- 
able chair, the one allotted to myself as President, and the other to 
Mr. Oldacres. 
Mr. Oldacres is the gardener at the Castle, and a ‘“ grand old 
gardener,” too, you will admit, as he takes off his overcoat (he has - 
walked two miles through the Park this winter’s evening), and shows 
you six feet of humanity, so handsome and so hale that you feel proud 
of belonging to the genus man, generally, and to the species English- 
man, particularly. Six feet high and straight as a guardsman, though 
he has seen the Chestnut trees of his Great Avenue in flower for seventy 
springs, Mr. Oldacres 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? -Was 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 over- 
come my repugnance by kissing Mr. Oldacres 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 
