E's; and Saturday at Mr.
F.'s. We might as well have staid at home; not a Phoebus had they, or
anything like one.

We then visited the nurseries, from Brown's, at Slough, a princely
establishment, worthy of its regal neighbourhood, to the pretty rural
gardens at South Warnborough, not forgetting our own most intelligent
and obliging nurseryman, Mr. Sutton of Reading--(Belford Regis, I
mean)--whose collection of flowers of all sorts is amongst the most
choice and select that I have ever known. Hundreds of magnificent
blossoms did we see in our progress, but not the blossom we wanted.

There was no lack, heaven knows, of dahlias of the desired colour.
Besides a score of "Orange Perfections," bearing the names of their
respective growers, we were introduced to four Princes of Orange, three
Kings of Holland, two Williams the Third, and one Lord Roden.*

* The nomenclature of dahlias is a curious sign of the
times. It rivals in oddity that of the Racing Calendar. Next
to the peerage, Shakspeare and Homer seem to be the chief
sources whence they have derived their appellations. Thus we
have Hectors and Dioedes of all colours, a very black
Othello, and a very fair Desdemona. One beautiful blossom,
which seems like a white ground thickly rouged with carmine,
is called "the Honourable Mrs. Harris;" and it is droll to
observe how punctiliously the working gardeners retain the
dignified prefix in speaking of the flower. I heard the
other day of a _serious_ dahlia grower who had called his
seedlings after his favourite preachers, so that we shall
have the Reverend Edward So-and-so, and the Reverend John
Such-an-one, fraternising with the profane Ariels and
Imogenes, the Giaours and Me-doras of the old catalogue. So
much the better. Floriculture is amongst the most innocent
and humanising of all pleasures, and everything which tends
to diffuse such pursuits amongst those who have too few
amusements, is a point gained for happiness and for virtue.

We were even shown a bloom called the Phoebus, about as like to our
Phoebus "as I to Hercules." But the true Phoebus, "the real Simon
Pure," was as far to seek as ever.

Learnedly did I descant with the learned in dahlias over the merits of
my lost beauty. "It was a cupped flower, Mr. Sutton," quoth I, to my
agreeable and sympathising listener; (gardeners _are_ a most cultivated
and gentl