believe they are but a few, who take no interest in the products of
gardening, except perhaps in “London Pride,” or a certain
degenerate kind of “Stock,” which is apt to grow hereabouts,
cultivated by a species of frozen-out gardeners whom no thaw can
ever penetrate: except these, the gardeners’ art has contributed
to the delight of all men in their time. That there ought to be a
Benevolent Provident Institution for gardeners is in the fitness of
things, and that such an institution ought to flourish and does
flourish is still more so.
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. Paxton has reached, and composedly place his form on the top.
This is a great age, when a man impressed with a useful idea can
carry out his project without being imprisoned, or thumb-screwed,
or persecuted in any form. I can well understand that you, to whom
the genius, the intelligence, the industry, and the achievements of
our friend are well known, should be anxious to do him honour by
placing him in the position he occupies to-night; and I assure you,
you have conferred great gratification on one of his friends, in
permitting him to have the opportunity of proposing his health,
which that friend now does most cordially and with all the honours.
SPEECH: THE ROYAL ACADEMY DINNER. LONDON, MAY 2, 1870.
[On the occasion of the Second Exhibition of the Royal Academy in
their new galleries in Piccadilly, the President, Sir F. Grant, and
the council gave their usual inaugurative banquet, and a very
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distinguished company was present. The dinner took place in the
large central room, and covers were laid for 200 guests. The
Prince of Wales acknowledged the toast of his health and that of
the Princess, the Duke of Cambridge responded to the toast of the
army, Mr. Childers to the navy, Lord Elcho to the volunteers, Mr.
Motley to “The Prosperity of the United States,” Mr. Gladstone to
“Her Majesty’s Ministers,” the Archbishop of York to, “The Guests,”
and Mr. Dickens to “Literature.” The last toast having been
proposed in a highly eulogistic speech, Mr. Dickens responded.]
MR. PRESIDENT, your Royal Highnesses, my Lords and Gentlemen, – I
beg to acknowledge the toast with which you have done me the great
honour of associating my name. I beg to acknowledge it on behalf
of the brotherhood of literature, present and absent, not
forgetting an illustrious wanderer from the fold, whose tardy