And I thought, as I went rushing down the Northern Line, what a joyous, genial day it had been. Personally unknown to my coadjutors, we 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, successes 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 deplorable 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 night, 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, from a red Campion to Loelia purpurata. We should never be weary of talking about our favourites; and, you may depend upon it, we should grow something.

In all sobriety, I often wish that we, who, in these locomotive days, frequently find ourselves in our great cities, especially when our exhibitions are open, might have better opportunities from time to time of gratifying our gregarious inclinations. Why, for example, should not the Horticultural Club in London have a permanent building like other clubs, of course on a scale proportioned to its income, where we might write our letters, read our newspapers, and (dare I mention it?) smoke our cigars, with every probability that we should meet some genial friend? Only let Mr Richard Dean direct, as now, and there would be no fear of failure. Not only in London, but in Edinburgh, in Dublin, in Paris, I would have a horticultural club, where gardeners (a title which every man is proud of, if he feels that he has a right to claim it) might assemble in a fraternal spirit, as brethren of that Grand Lodge whose first master wore an apron of leaves, and whose best members were never yet ashamed if their own were of purple baize. As time went on, we might have a library of horticultural, botanical, geological, and chemical books. We might have pictures, after the manner of our dear old "Garrick" in King Street, of some famous chiefs who had conferred real benefits upon the gardening world.

How glad we should be, for instance, to see a good likeness of "the Doctor," and of quaint old Donald Beaton!

"My dear fellow," said to me a young person, whom, after going through his admirable gardens and houses, and hearing his professions of interest, I had mistaken for a florist, and to whom I had incautiously revealed my club aspirations, "you surely don't suppose I should meet my gardener!" And he wore an expression of horror, as though I had asked him to join a select party of lepers and ticket-of-leavers. "Calm yourself," I made answer; "there is no fear of collision. You would not be elected, I assure you." Fancy a fellow pretending to be fond of art, and wincing at the idea of meeting an artist. Fancy Kynaston declining to dine with Pilch, or Mr Grace supposing that disgrace would follow a weed with Richard Daft. More than this, he who knows and reverences the gardener's art must be a gentleman. He may not be aware that to leave out the li in Horse-radish, or to sound the same in honour, is an offence less pardonable than profane swearing; he may even be ignorant that to eat Pease with a knife is one of the deadly sins; - but, nevertheless, if he loves his flowers, he must be in heart a gentleman.

But we have lost our way to the Rose-show.

We went back to our homes. We appealed for subscriptions to the lovers of the Rose, and they responded, as I knew they would. They responded until our sum total nearly reached £200. We published our schedule of prizes, amounting to =£156. We engaged St James's Hall, an expensive luxury, at 30 guineas for the day, but just then in the first freshness of its beauty, and therefore an attraction in itself. We secured the services of the Coldstream band - a mistake, because their admirable music was too loud for indoor enjoyment. We advertised freely. We placarded the walls of London with gorgeous and gigantic posters. And then the great day came.

The late Mr John Edwards, who gave us from the first most important help, and who was the best man I ever saw in the practical arrangements of a flower-show, was first, soon after daybreak, on the scene. He found the hall crowded with chairs and benches, just as it was left after a concert the night before. Early as it was, lie had his staff with him - carpenters and others; and when I arrived with my Roses, after a journey of 120 miles, at 5.30 a.m., the long tables were almost ready for the baize. Then came the covered vans which had travelled through the summer night from the grand gardens of Hertfordshire, and the "four-wheelers/' with green boxes piled upon their roofs, from all the railway stations. And then the usual confusion which attends the operation of "staging" - exhibitors preferring their "own selection" to the places duly assigned to them, running against each other, or pressing round Mr Edwards with their boxes, as though they had something to sell - vociferating like the porters at Boulogne, who, having seized your portmanteau, insist on taking your body to their hotel. He, however, was quite master of the situation, and upon his directions, clearly and firmly given, there followed order and peace. And there followed a scene, beautiful exceedingly.