a totally different character,--being very methodic,
very full, very clear. It was distributed through five volumes. He
enforces the teachings of Evelyn and Duhamel, and is commendatory of the
views of Tull. The Rotherham plough is figured in his work, as well as
thirteen of the natural grasses. He speaks of potatoes and turnips as
established crops, and enlarges upon their importance. He clings to the
Virgilian theory of small farms, and to the better theory of thorough
tillage.

In 1759 was issued the seventh edition of Miller's "Gardener's
Dictionary,"[K] in which was for the first time adopted (in English) the
classical system of Linnaeus. If I have not before alluded to Philip
Miller, it is not because he is undeserving. He was a correspondent of
the chiefs in science over the Continent of Europe, and united to his
knowledge a rare practical skill. He was superintendent of the famous
Chelsea Gardens of the Apothecaries Company, He lies buried in the
Chelsea Church-yard, where the Fellows of the Linnaean and Horticultural
Societies of London have erected a monument to his memory. Has the
reader ever sailed up the Thames, beyond Westminster? And does he
remember a little spot of garden-ground, walled in by dingy houses, that
lies upon the right bank of the river near to Chelsea Hospital? If he
can recall two gaunt, flat-topped cedars which sentinel the walk leading
to the river-gate, he will have the spot in his mind, where, nearly two
hundred years ago, and a full century before the Kew parterres were laid
down, the Chelsea Garden of the Apothecaries Company was established. It
was in the open country then; and even Philip Miller, in 1722, walked to
his work between hedge-rows, where sparrows chirped in spring, and in
winter the fieldfare chattered: but the town has swallowed it; the
city-smoke has starved it; even the marble image of Sir Hans Sloane in
its centre is but the mummy of a statue. Yet in the Physic Garden there
are trees struggling still which Philip Miller planted; and I can
readily believe, that, when the old man, at seventy-eight, (through some
quarrel with the Apothecaries,) took his last walk to the river-bank, he
did it with a sinking at the heart which kept by him till he died.

I come now to speak of Thomas Whately, to whom I have already alluded,
and of whom, from the scantiness of all record of his life, it is
possible to say only very little. He lived at Nonsuch Park, in Surrey,
not many mi