He seemed a very plain honest man, and a person of good sense，had not his head been touched with that distemper which Hippocrates calls the Tulippomania;in so much that he would talk very rationally on any subject in the world but a tulip.He told me, that he valued the bed of flowers which lay before us，and was not above twenty yards in length and two in breadth，more than he would the best hundred acres of land in England, and added, that it would have been worth twice the money it is,if a foolish cook, maid of his had not almost ruined him in the last winter, by mistaking a handful of tulip roots for a heap of onions,and by that means，said he, made me a dish of pottage that cost me above thousand pounds sterling.He then showed me what he thought the finest of his tulips,which I ound received all their value from their rarity，and odd ness, and put me in mind of our great fortunes,which are not always the greatest beauties.I have often looked upon it as a piece of happiness, that I have never fallen into any of these fantastical tastes,nor esteemed anything the more for its being the uncommon and hard to be met with.For this reason I look upon the whole country in springtime as a spacious garden, and make as many visits to a spot of daisies or a bank of violets，as a florist does to his borders or parterres.
