I have risen to propose to you the health of a gentleman who is a
great gardener, and not only a great gardener but a great man--the
growth of a fine Saxon root cultivated up with a power of intellect
to a plant that is at this time the talk of the civilized world--I
allude, of course, to my friend the chairman of the day. I took
occasion to say at a public assembly hard-by, a month or two ago,
in speaking of that wonderful building Mr. Paxton has designed for
the Great Exhibition in Hyde Park, that it ought to have fallen
down, but that it refused to do so. We were told that the glass
ought to have been all broken, the gutters all choked up, and the
building flooded, and that the roof and sides ought to have been
blown away; in short that everything ought to have done what
everything obstinately persisted in not doing. Earth, air, fire,
and water all appear to have conspired together in Mr. Paxton's
favour--all have conspired together to one result, which, when the
present generation is dust, will be an enduring temple to his
honour, and to the energy, the talent, and the resources of
Englishmen.
"But," said a gentleman to me the other day, "no doubt Mr. Paxton
is a great man, but there is one objection to him that you can
never get over, that is, he is a gardener." Now that is our case
to-night, that he is a gardener, and we are extremely proud of it.
This is a great age, with all its faults, when a man by the power
of his own genius and good sense can scale such a daring height as
Mr.
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