double variety, a slight disposition in some one individual to become double may, after the careful watching of perhaps millions of specimens, be at last detected; and if this disposition be only shown by the transformation of a single stamen into a minute and imperfect petal, it is enough. The seed of that special flower is carefully collected, and if those seeds produce plants, or a single plant, exhibiting a still greater disposition to become double, final success in producing the desired extent of deformity and monstrosity is secure, and the profusely double flower is deemed already in prospective possession of the expectant florist. In this way double varieties of plants of kinds seemingly the least likely to sport into double flowers are now produced, and thus the double petunia and the double fuchsia have been recently added to our list of “beautiful monstrosities.”
The Chinese having remained comparatively undisturbed for several thousands of years in the enjoyment of an advanced kind of Oriental civilisation, in which a love of flowers has ever been a distinguishing feature, succeeded in producing several kinds of double-flowering plants many centuries before such double-flowering varieties were known in Europe. Of these the double-flowering peach, the double-flowering plum, and the double-flowering cherry are now well known. They were indeed pictorially known to us centuries ago by their representations on Japan-ware and porcelain, but then our botanists only thought such representations imbecile vagaries of the Chinese pencil, and gave that ingenious people—those Celestials of the “flowery” empire—no credit for having positively produced by horticultural perseverance the flowers whose portraits they delighted to paint on their matchless China-ware. Even after the numerous recent introductions of Chinese double flowers hitherto unknown to us, such as the enlarged double peach flower, of a deep crimson, and the size of a camellia, and several others, many yet remain to be procured, which are, however, already know by repute, as one of the consequences of our increased intercourse with China.
PLEASANT CONVERSABLE FELLOWS ON A JOURNEY.
Does anyone know them, I wonder? Will anyone have the least spark of pity for a timid man who, in these locomotive days, weakly confesses himself to be no traveller?—and who, under the misery of an unavoidable journey, suffered one of those friends who speak of themselves as “always on the line,” to beguile him out of the snug empty carriage he had subsided into, on the plea that “the next best thing to a good carriage is good company.”
I was that man, helpless in my friend’s hands, and trying to do a little off-hand bravery, in feeble emulation of his “always-on-the-line” nonchalance. I dare say my carelessness was not a success; I know it was mixed up with a strange desire to ask my better-informed friend how many tunnels there were on my route, and whether they were very long ones. But shame helped me, and I refrained. I took, also, silently and in great humility, my seat in the carriage which it pleased him to point out. And when the train became uneasy, and showed symptoms of a bolt, looking once more in through the window, he nodded slightly to my fellow-travellers, and gave me comfort in a whispered aside—
“You’ll do, now,” he said; “pleasant conversable fellows on a journey.”
I don’t know that I liked the notion. It may be ultra-English, perhaps, but certainly it seems to me that the sensation of being whirled rapidly through the fresh air does not induce a longing for conversation, but rather predisposes one to silence. I looked at my companions, however, grimly enough from my corner. There were only three of them—a wiry man, with white hair, whose cheek-bones looked as if the skin was too tight for them, and they must inevitably burst it; a dyspeptic-looking individual; and a man, whose face I could not see, as he had got behind his newspaper, but from the way in which he rustled that same paper, and gave vent to an occasional “H’m, h’m,” I concluded that he was a nervous man. As they all were or seemed to be, reading, I had opportunity for a copious analysis of expression and feature, if I had felt disposed for it; and I was just in the act of calculating, from the legs and other portions of body which were visible to me, what sort of face might appertain to the third individual, when its owner lowered the paper, and cut short my examination with horrible abruptness.
“Another frightful railway collision,” said the nervous man, solemnly. “Travelling is becoming a thing of positive danger. It’s awful!”
And he placed a finger, which trembled either with the motion of the carriage or from neuralgic causes, on a column of the paper.
“Humph!” said the dyspeptic man. “Did you ever happen to be in at the death—I mean, in at a collision, sir?”
“I cannot say I ever did,” was the agitated response.
“Ah! it’s not a pleasant thing.”
“So I should imagine. I was once in a train when it took fire. The screams of the women were appalling, perfectly. We happened, fortunately, to be near a station, or I don’t know what the consequences would have been. And that is a casualty which may occur at any moment.”
“I was once in for a collision,” said the dyspeptic. “The only sensation I can think of in connection with it is what I should suppose to be implied by the figure of speech, ‘pitched into the middle of next week.’ That at least was my first feeling; the next was one of violent anger against a lady whose head had butted like a battering-ram into my chest. I suppose she could not help it, and I dare say I was not the only sufferer by the contact, but people should be more careful how they sit. My digestion has never been right since. With the exception of that, I sustained no injury, which was fortunate, as there were a few people killed, and some disagreeably wounded. I also once travelled in a carriage whose several joints were in such a state of disunion that I positively at times held my breath in terror, expecting every minute that the thing would smash under me. At the first station I called the guard, of course. He
