BELGIAN FLOWER-GROWING.

IMPRIMIS. Whatever may have been the
respective rank, as gardeners, held by
different nations of Europe a hundred years
ago, there is no doubt that Great Britain
takes precedence of all other competitors,
now. On the tripos of horticultural
honours, the British are wranglers, the
French and Dutch senior optimes, and
the Germans junior optimes; while the
Italians, and the rest, with a few scattered
exceptions, belong to the laggers behind, designated
by Cantabs as ?i ??????, or "the
many." As a consequence, on the Continent
generally, the names of Lindley and
Hooker, in their line; of Fortune, Lobb,
and Douglas in theirs; and of that time-
honoured worthy, Philip Miller—who gave us
his Gardener's Dictionary—and of the
Sampsonian Loudon, who was able to grasp
and carry whole botanic gardens and
arboretums on his brawny shoulders—are
honoured with a respect which approaches
the hero-worship paid to Shakspeare, Milton,
Molière, and Dante. The list of British
nurserymen includes many individuals
endowed with learning, energy, talent, and
enterprise, in addition to high intrinsic
qualities as members of society and heads of
families. Not a few British nurserymen
have pursued, and still pursue, their interesting
but arduous profession more for the love
of science and the pleasure of becoming acquainted
with the latest botanical discoveries,
than for any great emolument derived from
it; although, of course, they have a right to
live by it, and to receive fair interest for their
capital and the risks incurred. Our nurserymen,
too, are known and appreciated abroad.

After this just and deserved acknowledgment,
I may truthfully assert, that it is with no
disposition to undervalue native merit; with
no undue fondness for foreign men, things,
and ways, that I claim for the Belgian
nurserymen a well-merited and world-wide
reputation. Not that they are believed to be more
skilful than ourselves, or more prompt in the
execution of novelties; but the birds of the
air seem to twitter all over Europe the fact
that, to get good flowers cheap, you must
send to Belgium. They do not distinctly
utter to what town, and to whom; but an
impression certainly pervades the European
mind that FLOWERS FOR THE MILLION stream
forth and emigrate from some Belgian source,
just as the overflowings of the Nile descend
from the mountains of the Moon.  It has
lately been my own good fortune to trace
one of these floral inundations to its fountainhead.

There is a curious old city which we call
  Ghent—which the French and French-speaking
Belgians know as Gaud—but which the
pure-blooded aborigines, the native Flemings
themselves (who ought to know best),
proclaim to the world as Stad Gent, or
the town Gent, pronouncing the G hard.
Ghent alone is estimated to possess more
than five-hundred hot-houses and greenhouses,
which shelter beneath their roofs of
glass the major portion of the Flora of the
world. Of the city itself, I say nothing today,
but turn my back on it; issuing by the
Rue des Violettes and the Rue de Bruxelles,
and leaving the covered riding-school on my
left, till I quit the town by the Port de Bruxelles;
a drawbridge immediately carries me
over the muddy waters of the river Escaut.
The city boundary is also the frontier of an
adjoining village, Gendbruggy les Gand, which
abounds in mercantile flower-gardens. The
instant you have crossed the Gautois Rubicon,
you are stared full in the face by names familiar
to the readers of gardening journals (Van
Geert, Père, for instance), and by brilliant
bouquets of rhododendrons and azaleas not
in the least reluctant to show themselves.
You peep in at half-open doors, which betray
the mysteries behind high brick walls; you
perceive blazes of bloom. In something like
a shop-window in the last stage of selling off,
(but which here is only a token of modest
dignity), stand one or two choice specimens
of flowering shrubs, which beckon you
to inquire within, and, to rummage the
treasures of the little grower. Very
pretty things, are to be picked up in that
way. You pass on, and on the left, a wider
field of floriculture extends itself, just visible
through the barrière, or gate. Your further
curiosity is impeded by verdant hedges, till
you reach the residence of the bourgmestre,
or mayor of Gentbrugge; himself a prince
amongst gardeners. Enter. It is the establishment
of Louis Van Houtte—a factory of