The Book of Old-Fashioned Flowers

To that distinguished and generous gardener, Canon Ellacombe, I wish to express my appreciation of his kindness in giving me the freedom of his collection of old garden books, though few are so good, interesting, or useful as his own "Plant Lore of Shakspere" and "A Gloucestershire Garden."

To Mr Folkard I am obliged for the loan of his interesting book on "Plant Lore and Legend."

To the Editors of the Morning Leader, Gardeners' Chronicle and Gardeners' Magazine I am obliged for the right to republish such parts of the following book as have appeared in their several papers as essays from my pen.

To Messrs Kelway, of Langport, I am indebted for many presents of beautiful Delphiniums, Pæonies and Pyrethrums, which they grow as few others can.

[xiv]

Many years ago an ingenious writer compiled a book dealing with a subject with which he had no practical acquaintance. The whole of his alleged observations were second-hand, being derived from previous writings on the subject. In order, however, to hoodwink the public, this author laid great stress on the uselessness of mere book knowledge, saying that an ounce of experience was worth a stone of theory.

Like many other foolish sayings, this one has been regarded as an inspired utterance, and has been copied by nine-tenths of all subsequent writers of handbooks. As a matter of fact, whilst a certain amount of practical experience is absolutely essential to the proper understanding of nearly all subjects, an intelligent reader can learn more in an hour from a sensible book than from many weeks of intercourse with merely "practical" people, and many weeks of so-called experience.

This little book, forming one of a series of handbooks with an aim purely practical, has itself an entirely practical object. This object is to teach those who are comparatively new to gardening the general principles which they must observe if they wish to grow successfully those flowering plants which are able to live their whole lives in the open air of this country. By old-fashioned flowering plants are meant those which we may class with the herbaceous, bulbous and other hardy plants which one always expects to find in the old cottage gardens, old vicarage gardens and old farmhouse gardens of romance, and occasionally in those of reality. One is continually discovering fresh old-fashioned people, and in like manner we are continually having additions made to our list of old-fashioned flowers. Many newly discovered or newly introduced plants, therefore, are treated of in this book, which is not intended merely as a "Book of Old Flowers." Still, as a matter of fact, most of the flowers named in these pages are old favourites, and have long been grown and sentimentalised over by English gardeners and poets.

No attempt has been made to render this a complete handbook of hardy flowers. In the first place, the pages at disposal would barely serve even to enumerate them, and, in the second place, the compilation of a reference encyclopædia of hardy flowers has been done, and done admirably, by our greatest gardening writer, Mr William Robinson, whose book, "The English Flower Garden," is in many ways the most important work on gardening which has appeared since the time of Parkinson.

The flowers here named are but a few of those which are worth growing, for to the present writer nearly every plant, when allowed to develop freely and naturally, is full of interest and full of beauty. Everyone should decide for himself what he will grow in the particular environment he may have to offer, for, once the art of properly growing the flowers here named has been mastered, little difficulty need be anticipated in growing such other hardy plants as may be thought desirable additions to the list.

In the matter of garden arrangement, I have neither given dogmatic advice nor stated fixed rules which must be followed; for it is as undesirable that gardens should be stereotyped copies of one another, as it would be in the case of their owners. I have, instead of dogmatising on the rights and wrongs of garden design, described one or two gardens which have yielded me delight, though I fear that I have not been able to conceal my own point of view. What that point of view is I have stated in my "Chronicle of a Cornish Garden," but I am sufficiently broad-minded to recognise that other styles of gardening appeal to other gardeners who are quite as competent to form opinions as myself.

A garden should, as I believe, be an emanation from the spirit of its owner, and, just as some men are formal and some informal, some prim and some Bohemian, some careful and some rash, so should their several gardens vary in style and feeling.

I have laid down no laws as to the arrangement of flowers with a view to producing "colour schemes," for I have never seen colour schemes which surpass those chance effects of the hedgerow and the meadow, or of those pleasant gardens where the gardeners' sole aim is to grow plants from the plants' point of view, that is to say, with the sole aim of growing them healthily and well. Of course, occasionally, a bad colour shows itself, but the remedy is simple and obvious. Occasionally, also, a colour discord will be perceived in bed or border, but a spade will cure the trouble in five minutes. Indeed, there is some small risk at the present moment that the individuality of beautiful plants and flowers may be too frequently sacrificed to the production of "effects." This was the deadly fault of the "bedding" system, and should be guarded against. The bedding system has made such beautiful flowers as geraniums, calceolarias and lobelias stink in the nostrils of some of us; just as the disgusting invention of Dr. Gregory has been successful in making raspberry jam a source of nausea to tens of thousands of English boys and girls.

Let us as gardeners beware of being too clever and "artistic"; Nature may be a hard mistress, but she is not a fool.

Strictly, of course, the term is indefinite, for old-fashioned flowers and old-fashioned gardens mean to different people different things. Probably to most people—at all events to the present writer—old-fashioned gardening means that system which is in direct opposition to prim geometric beds and to the imitation of carpet patterns by arrangement of flowers. By an old-fashioned garden, the present writer means an informal "garden of all sorts of pleasant flowers which our English ayre will permit to be noursed up," as Parkinson put it; and by old-fashioned flowers he means sweet williams and gilly flowers, mignonette, sweet peas, roses and honeysuckle, "daffodils, fritillaries, jacinthes, saffron-flowers, lilies, flower-deluces, tulipas, anemones, French cowslips or bearseares, and such other flowers, very beautifull, delightfull and pleasant." After the severe, monotonous, formal arrangements which still too often constitute the gardens around our finest houses, how interesting and restful it is to stroll round a delightful garden such as Canon Ellacombe's "Vicarage Garden" at Bitton, where the shape of the beds or borders is not prearranged, where all the soil is occupied, where every plant looks healthy and at home, where every yard brings one a surprise and a fresh interest, where the old walls have growing from their crevices such plants as the Cheddar Pink, Sedums and Sempervivums; where, too, every plant in its glory hides the decay of its predecessor in bloom and shelters the birth of its successor.

There is a class—and a very large class—of folks who are so constituted that continual prize or applause hunting are essentials to happiness. For such, the topiary-victimised trees, the glaring carpet beds, and the flower show are useful and comparatively harmless instruments for the indulgence of their little weaknesses. But it goes sorely against the grain to give to such the honourable and historic title of gardener, just as one hesitates to describe as a gardener the issuer of that curious "catalogue of greens" which Pope satirically described in No. 173 of The Guardian:—

"Adam and Eve in yew; Adam a little shattered by the fall of the tree of knowledge in the great storm; Eve and the serpent very flourishing. Noah's Ark in holly, the ribs a little damaged for want of water.

"The tower of Babel not yet finished.

"St George in Box; his arm scarce strong enough, but will be in a condition to stick the dragon by next April.

"A green dragon of the same; with a tail of ground-ivy for the present.

"N.B.—Those two are not to be sold separately.

"Edward the Black Prince in Cyprus....

"A Queen Elizabeth in Phyllirea, a little inclining to the green sickness, but of full growth.

"An old maid of honour in wormwood.

"A topping Ben Jonson in Laurel.

"Divers eminent modern poets in bays."

As a matter of fact, what we understand as old-fashioned gardening has never been a fashion at all. When Addison wrote in The Spectator that he would "rather look upon a tree in all its luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs and branches, than when it is cut and trimmed into a mathematical figure," and that he fancied that "an orchard in flower looks infinitely more delightful than all the little labyrinths of the most finished parterre," he was declaiming against—not with—the fashion of his day. In truth there is no escape from the fact that in old times, as they are at present, real lovers of plants and of flowers for their own sakes were few indeed. In the time of Elizabeth and thenabouts, however, the gardening spirit seems to have been purer and more wholesome than during the succeeding centuries. John Lyly, for instance, was, in sentiment at least, a genuine "old-fashioned" gardener:—"Heere be faire Roses, sweete Violets, fragrant Primroses, heere wil be Jilly-floures, Carnations, sops in wine, sweet Johns, and what may either please you for sight, or delight you with savour." At that time also was written what is perhaps the greatest or at any rate one of the most important pronouncements on gardening ever written—the essay "Of Gardens," by Lord Bacon. Here, indeed, is the real touch, the genuine gardening spirit: "I do hold it in the Royal Ordering of Gardens, there ought to be Gardens for all the Months in the year, in which, severally, things of Beauty may be then in season;" and again, "because the Breath of Flowers is far Sweeter in the Air (where it comes and goes, like the warbling of Musick), than in the Hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that Delight, than to know what be the Flowers and Plants that do best perfume the Air. Roses, Damask and Red, are fast Flowers of their Smells, so that you may walk by a whole Row of them and find nothing of their sweetness; yea, though it be in a morning Dew. Bays likewise yield no smell as they grow, Rosemary little, nor Sweet-Marjoram. That, which above all others, yields the sweetest smell in the air, is the violet, especially the white double Violet, which comes twice a year, about the middle of April, and about Bartholomew-tide. Next to that is the Musk Rose, then the Strawberry Leaves dying with a most excellent Cordial Smell. Then the Flower of the Vines; it is a little Dust, like the Dust of a Bent, which grows upon the cluster at the first coming forth. Then Sweet-Briar, then Wall-Flowers, which are very delightful to be set under a Parlour, or lower Chamber Window. Then Pinks, especially the Matted Pink, and Clove Gilly-Flower. Then the Flowers of the Lime-Tree. Then the Honey-Suckles, so they be somewhat afar off.... But those which perfume the Air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being Trodden upon and Crushed, are three: that is Burnet, Wild-Time, and Water-Mints. Therefore you are to set whole Alleys of them, to have the Pleasure when you walk or tread." The essence of "old-fashioned" gardening is here expressed.

Our modern "florists" are wont to sneer at the lack of variety possessed by the old gardeners, but they must be curiously unfamiliar with the writings of such men as Gerard, Gilbert and Parkinson. To give but one or two examples, the last named writer, in his "Paradisi in Sole Paradisus Terrestris," gives a descriptive list of twelve distinct varieties of Fritillaries, eight varieties of Grape-Hyacinths, and no less than twenty-one varieties of Primroses and Cowslips, whilst of Lilies and of Roses the kinds described are even more numerous.

The greatest joy which a garden can yield is a feeling of restfulness and peace, a feeling which no garden of staring beds and ostentatious splendour can afford, but which is yielded—as by nothing else in the world—by a garden of happy, homely, old-fashioned flowers.

To most people, and more particularly to most women, one of the chief uses or functions of a garden is to provide flowers to be cut for the decoration of rooms. But I hold that a flower cut from its plant and placed in a vase is as a scalp on the walls of a wigwam—a trophy showing how one more beautiful plant has been defeated and victimised by its powerful and tasteless owner. The cut flower is no longer part of a manifestation of the will of nature; rather it is a slave—beautiful, it may be, but branded and soul-destroyed.

Regarded as decoration, I consider cut flowers in a house much as fashion now looks on shell ornaments, or picture-frames made of acorns, as things inappropriate and childish. Of course, in a town there is some excuse for them, for even cut flowers carry the mind to beautiful associated conditions; but cut flowers in the country seem ludicrously like lumber, just as bedsteads and toilet-services and cruet-stands placed in a garden would be lumber too.

The love of cut flowers is really but another manifestation of the spirit which hankers after "yews carved into dragons, pagodas, marmosets," and the other tree-monsters scoffed at by Rousseau, who added that he was convinced that "the time is at hand, when we shall no longer have in gardens anything that is found in the country; we shall tolerate neither plants nor shrubs; we shall only like porcelain flowers, baboons, arbour-work, sand of all colours, and fine vases full of nothing."

Indeed, there is in many quarters even now a growing desire for the kind of "new garden," which old William Lawson advocated: "Your Gardiner can frame your lesser wood to the shape of men armed in the field, ready to give battell: or swift running Greyhounds: or of well sented and true running Hounds, to chase the Deere, or hunt the Hare. This kinde of hunting shall not waste your corne, nor much your coyne. Mazes well framed a man's height, may perhaps make your friend wander in gathering of berries, till he cannot recover himselfe without your helpe."

Of course, the cutting of flowers is a long way from this; still it is difficult to see where a line can be drawn once the worship of "gardeners' gardens" has begun.

Through the open windows of house or cottage the eyes should be able to feast on the beauty of freely growing flowers quite as easily as if they were cut and stuck in glass or porcelain vase like so many heads of traitors on the city gates.

It has been said that all children are born scientists, but that only a small number of them ever pass on to the condition of artists; and it has always seemed to me that there is much truth in the statement. Children are ever putting the eternal "why?" to the great confusion of their parents, pastors, and masters; and it is the curious, the gigantic, the rare, which always calls forth their attention and admiration. Struwelpeter is more to a child than all the beauties of a Charles Robinson, and to few men or women is it given to derive as much pleasure from beauty as from that which is usually called "interesting." Hence, the ordinary criticisms of gardens; hence, also, the usual aims of gardeners. So many people desire the gaudy, or the unique, or the curious, that we are apt to look upon gardens merely as appliances for the production of quaint or monstrous flowers.

The analysis of beauty has ever a dissecting-room-feel about it; still, as he who would become a skilful surgeon must be first a practical anatomist, and as he who would be a painter must first study his materials and the "dodges" of his craft, so must the would-be artist in gardening dissect the beauty of perfect gardens, and study such apparently dull materials as earth and manure, and practical garden books.

I have said that the beauty of an old-fashioned garden is due largely to the feeling of repose and settled-down-ness which it yields. Every plant looks as though it "belongs" (as we say in Cornwall) to be where it is, as though it always was there, and as though there is no intention of shifting it in a week or two to some glass-house, store-room, or other site. The plants in most gardens look as though they have merely come to pay an afternoon call, dressed exactly à la mode, speaking always "cumeelfo"—like the people of Troy Town, and elsewhere—giving one the certain knowledge that they will only say the right thing, look the right thing, and leave at the right time, unregretted and unmissed. The "comfortably-at-home" effect is produced mainly by three causes—firstly, the presence of abundant deciduous trees and shrubs, giving infinitely varied effects of light and shade; secondly, the arrangement of the plants in bold groups of single species; and, thirdly, the provision of each separate plant with depth of suitable soil, and space to develop its individual form. There is plenty of background, and not too much episode.

Country people often think that the way to enjoy London is to spend day and night in one continuous round of "sight" seeing. In like manner, people often have an idea that the perfect garden is a continuous sheet of wonderful flowers. How great is the fallacy contained in this idea it should be needless to point out. Leaf and stem, light and shade and fragrance, these are quite as essential parts of a garden as are the "blooms" of the gardening showman.

An eye for beauty is largely a product of training and experience. A soul and a brain there must be as a basis, but "taste" is to a large extent cultivated. One must have read much before one is able to appreciate the style of a Ruskin or a Pater, a Maeterlinck or a Le Gallienne; one must have studied many pictures before being able to realise the beauty of the works of the great artists; and in like manner one must needs have loved and watched plants long and steadfastly before the beauty of winter twig and summer leaf comes home to him.

Many a man with a garden looks upon winter as a season to be got through as soon as possible, as a season when nothing short of necessity shall drag him into the garden. I am sure that even in the very heart of December, one should find in the garden more of real beauty than ninety-nine gardens out of a hundred contain in June. I recall in particular one little heather path bordered by large bushes of blue-grey Lavender and green-grey Rosemary, in the bays being great Mullein plants and clumps of Pink and Alyssum. Ferns, Periwinkles, Holly, Satinleaf, Hellebores, Winter Aconites and Barberries are but a few of the plants which help to make this walk bright and pleasant even in the depths of winter; but most important of all in the Christmas display are the Furzes, single and double, than which, according to Mr Alfred Russell Wallace, the tropics can produce nothing more brilliant or more beautiful.

Continuous beauty all the year through, rather than a continuous display of flowers, is a goal at which gardeners might wisely aim, for not only is the result far more restful and suggestive of reserved force and becoming modesty, but also the individual plants are far more likely to have a fair chance of development at the hands of one who appreciates beautiful leaves and healthy growth, than when cultivated by one who looks at plants merely as flower-making machines.

It is fortunate that we are not all provided with equally favourable sites and soils. How monotonous would gardening become if one knew that he had but to act, deed for deed, as his neighbour in order to attain exactly the same garden result. We should feel disposed to throw down our spades and trowels if the end of our efforts might be foreseen by looking over our neighbour's boundary. If the difficulties to be overcome could be formally catalogued, the whole art of gardening would be reduced to a wooden system in which there would be little room for surprise or pleasure. But Fate has decreed that our gardens shall differ in spite of the apish copying spirit which still fills so many of our breasts. Our sites vary, our soils vary, and our atmospheric conditions vary to such an extent that any gardener, if he is to produce a result of any worth, must perforce use his native intelligence in order to overcome the specific difficulties peculiar to his plot of earth.

POPPY ANEMONES

Gardening readers will remember Dean Hole's story of the enthusiastic flower-loving navvy who, obtaining the post of gatekeeper on the railway, was provided with nothing but a barren gravel pit as apology for a garden. "Twelve months afterwards," says the Dean, "I came near the place again—was it a mirage which I saw on the sandy desert? There were vegetables, fruit-bushes and fruit-trees, all in vigorous health; there were flowers, and the flower-queen in her beauty, 'Why, Will,' I exclaimed, 'what have you done to[13][14] the gravel-bed?' 'Lor' bless yer,' he replied, grinning, 'I hadn't been here a fortnight afore I swopped it for a pond!' He had, as a further explanation informed me, and after an agreement with a neighbouring farmer, removed with pick and barrow his sandy stratum to the depth of three feet, wheeled it to the banks of an old pond, or rather to the margin of a cavity where a pond once was, but which had been gradually filled up with leaves and silt; and this rich productive mould he had brought home a distance of two hundred yards, replacing it with the gravel, and levelling as per contract."

That man's garden was a real living creation: it was indeed a "great work." And it is in everything true that great natural possessions, though they may render life more comfortable and possibly more apparently successful, yet make the battle the tamer and less interesting. Indeed the greater the odds to be overcome, the more magnificent will every victory appear, and the gardener who creates a flowery Eden out of a piece of bare and starving desert has scored a greater success than his who but grows beautiful flowers and delicious fruits where soil and site and surroundings have been entirely on his side.

I am writing in a garden which is as remarkable an example of difficulties overcome as was the garden of Dean Hole's navvy. Those who are familiar with the sand-dunes or towans which form so pronounced a feature of much of the northern coast-line of Cornwall, will realize that these scarcely afford ideal spots for easily made gardens. A thin coating of poor grass, reeds, wild thyme and occasional sea-hollies form the only drapery for the blown sand which makes up the whole body of soil.

Yet it was on such a spot that a friend of mine pitched his camp, or rather built his cottage, and set to work to create a garden. His aim in life being to kill care, he desired nothing more eagerly than to be constantly occupied. For three years he spent fully one half of his days in bringing into his territory leafmould and soil, clay and manure. He soon had a good protective screen of pines, euonymus, privet and hazel, and only then did he seriously begin to plant his garden. He had, during those three years, raised crops of clover, trifolium and the like, digging them again into the newly created soil from whence they came.

He read all the gardening books on which he could lay hands, he saw all the gardens within walking distance, and he studied the wants of every flower before he sowed or planted it, just as though it were an honoured guest whom he were inviting. He had no rule-and-compass scheme before his eyes, and planted his shrubs and flowers in those situations where they might most healthily yield their beauty and their fragrance. Such paths as his garden has are merely gravelled developments of the beaten tracks which usage indicated as necessary or convenient; and I am afraid that they would meet with the disapproval of that great authority, Mr Reginald Bloomfield, who has said that a garden "should be laid out in an equal number of rectangular plots where everything is straightforward and logical."

My friend is nearly twenty years older than when he began to create his garden, and it has already acquired much of the character of an old house to which successive additions have been made. The year through, the earth is draped and decorated with beautiful plants, Aconites, Snowdrops, Crocuses, Primroses, Violets, Fritillaries, Columbines, Pinks, Roses, Lilies, Sunflowers and all the host of old-fashioned flowers.

The great problems of "architectural" gardening, "landscape" gardening, and the rest, did not interest him. So simple and unpretentious was his little house that an attempt at terraces, clipped evergreens, and the like, would have struck a jarring note at once. Therefore, it is quite in keeping that beautiful flowers and beautiful shrubs border one's way right up to the entrance door; nor does Nature end there, for over all the outer walls are trained lovely and fragrant climbers—Clematis, Rose, and Honeysuckle—which give the idea that the cottage does indeed "nestle" in the garden.

Through the open windows also, at almost any time of the year, pours the delicious scent of leaf and flower—of Winter Sweet, Violets, or Sweet Peas; of Stocks, or Mignonette; of Wallflowers, or Roses. Just to name a few of the plants whose scent fill the rooms, what glories are thereby called up:—Honeysuckle and Jasmine, Lily of the Valley, Lilac and Narcissus, Carnation, Syringa and Heliotrope, Thyme, Bergamot, and Aloysia! These, and a hundred other fragrances mingled together in infinitely varying combinations, give sensuous joys which even the most jaded can but appreciate. For there is probably no pleasure so democratic as that which is yielded by the fragrance of flowers and leaves. The colour and form of plants require a little attention for their appreciation, but their odour overwhelms our senses whether we attend or no. The variety of perfumes yielded by plants is almost as great as their forms, for blossom of Apple and of Jonquil, leaf of Strawberry, Currant and Sweet Gale gives each an æsthetic pleasure peculiar to itself.

In Elizabethan times, a royal visit seems to have been preceded by a process of sweeting the house, which consisted in filling the rooms with scent of crushed leaves and flowers, scattering also extracts and essences of fragrant plants. This sweeting of the rooms is a continuous process through the open windows of the cottage, and no queenly visit would induce any augmentation of it.

Through the trees, which now have grown to moderate size, may always be seen the most beautiful setting which a beautiful garden can have—the ever restless sea. The contrast is good and effective, and is calculated to prevent any undue development of horticultural vanity.

I thought of Ruskin's statement that "the path of a good woman is indeed strewn with flowers, but they rise behind her steps, not before them," when one day I sat on a quaint old seat under a pear tree in this little flowerful garden; for it is literally behind his steps, not before them, that all the beauty of my friend's garden has sprung up. Each beautiful leaf and stem and flower are products of his labour and care almost as much as of sun and rain. Yet to a stranger the garden shows no sign of human fingers, human muscles, or human interference.

To many, possibly to most, there is attractiveness in a garden of well-kept, straight-bordered paths, of tidy beds symmetrical beyond reproach, of plants arranged like soldiers under review; but to me such gardens—however pleasant to look at—seem unsuited to repose and impossible to sit and dream in.

This garden is very different. It has no trees cut to the shape of peacocks or wind-mills, no hideous collection of stakes and raffia, which goes by the name of "the carnation bed" (after the manner of Thackeray's "library where the boots are kept"). It is merely a bit of enclosed and humanised natural beauty, a place where one may quietly enjoy delightful flowers and delightful fragrance without the jarring condition of viewing behind the scenes all the time that the performance is being enacted. Every flower in the garden was originally planted by my friend, and has been regularly watched over and tended by him ever since, yet not one but looks as though it had been planted at the creation of the world and had been subject only to the forces of Nature all its life. There is a suggestion of woodland, a suggestion of hedgerow, a suggestion of hillside, yet, of course, the garden differs from them all. It is the absence of bare earth—for scarcely one inch of soil lies undraped by plants—which partly gives the garden that feeling of settled-down-ness. A half-dressed person, a half-papered wall, a half-filled bookcase, a half-finished house—all these things hinder the feeling of repose. So it is that nearly all gardens, looking, as they do, to be in a state of preparation and incompleteness, make restfulness out of the question. But in this garden repose seems the natural emotion, and to sit there beneath a tree and read or chat is always the appropriate thing.

It is not, however, that the earth is all draped which alone causes the feeling of rest. This is due very largely to the fact that the garden is not a "show-garden," was not created for show, but for the satisfaction of its creator.

The "comfortable feel" of the garden is largely assisted also by the nature of the flowers and plants which he has elected to cultivate: Gilly-flowers, Pinks and Purple Columbines, Sweet Carnations, Daffodils and lovèd Lilies. To quote Korumushi, a poet of the race which has the spirit of flower-worship in its heart—

And no man is so devoid of feeling as to be unmoved by the sight of the flowers associated with the ideals of the race—the flowers which Chaucer loved, and Shakspere.

I have seen a beautiful garden, containing none but flowers mentioned by Shakspere. This, however, was after all but a piece of pretty pedantry, and necessitated the absence of Foxgloves, Forget-me-Nots, Snowdrops, and other beautiful flowers. It is indeed strange that he, the greatest poet of gardens as of other things, never mentions these flowers, although they must have been well known to him. Speaking of the Snowdrop, Gerard, who was a contemporary of Shakspere, said: "These plants doe grow wilde in Italy, and the parts adjacent, notwithstanding our London gardens have taken possession of most of them many years past." This rather indicates that the Snowdrop then held a very different place in the gardener's heart, from the place which it since has won; and doubtless the same holds good of the other flowers which Shakspere left unmentioned. If Shakspere were writing now, using the names of flowers as he used them—"not to show his own knowledge," but because the particular flowers supplied the appropriate simile or key to sentiment—he could scarcely fail to mention the Foxgloves or Lady's Fingers, the sweet Forget-Me-Nots, and, more beautiful still, the chaste, unflinching Snowdrops. A flower takes time—generations even, it may be—really to eat its way into the heart of man; for it is not enough that it be merely beautiful or merely fragrant—attractive to our senses though these properties are—in order that we may really become incorporate with a flower. But it must, in addition, be full of association, and have been long watched and lovingly studied. There is one book, difficult now to obtain, containing a record of the truest appreciation and most careful study of flowers, and of the beauty of flowers, which we have in the language. That book is called "Flowers and Gardens," by Dr Forbes Watson, and the following passage from its pages beautifully explains the sentiment of the gardener who grows mainly old-fashioned flowers, or, at any rate, flowers with which he has been long familiar—

"We make the acquaintance of any individual existence under an immense number of different aspects, and it is the sum of all these aspects which constitutes that existence to us. A Snowdrop, for instance, is not to me merely such a figure as a painter might give me by copying the flower when placed so that its loveliness shall be best apparent, but a curious mental combination or selection from the figures which the flower may present when placed in every possible position, and in every aspect which it has worn from birth to grave, and coloured by all the associations which have chanced to cling around it. To the bodily eye which beholds it for the first time it might be of no consequence what lay within the petals, though even then the imagination would be whispering some solution of the secret; but to the eye of mind, when the flower has been often seen, that hidden green and yellow which is necessary to complete the harmony becomes distinctly visible—visible, that is, in that strange, indefinite way in which all things, however apparently incompatible, seem present and blended together when the imaginative faculty is at work. The common Star of Bethlehem (Ornithogalum umbellatum) is a good illustration of the working of this principle. When I look at the beautiful silver-white of the inner surface of the petals, my mind is always dwelling upon and rejoicing in the fact that their outer side is green, though of that green outside I cannot see a hair's breadth. Again, we find the same principle at work in the feeling which compelled the old sculptors to finish the hidden side of the statue. They said, 'For the gods are everywhere.'"

There are people of whom we say (indeed, it is possibly true of everyone)—à bas the cynics—that the more intimately we know them, and the longer we know them, the more we see to love and admire. So it is with a really beautiful plant, and for this reason they who would obtain all the possible pleasure and beauty from their gardens should become, not gardeners only, but also botanists and students of poetry and of beautiful form.

In spite of Shakspere's omission, then, I advise everyone to grow many species of Snowdrops; indeed, for a week or two in February, my friend's sea-side garden seems to be all draped with their green leaves and serene green-white "drops," yet not one podgy, graceless double flower is there among them all. For he agrees with Forbes Watson that the "doubling" of beautiful flowers generally results in deformity and the destruction of all beauty and meaning. Double Roses, Pinks, and Carnations, he grows of course; for their fragrance, their history, and, in the case of Roses, their continuous bloom compensate to some extent for the loss of character in the petals, and for the "pen-wiper" appearance which has only too often been given to the individual flowers.

To return to the Shakspere garden, one finds that Shakspere's floral year practically began with the Daffodil.

The yellow Crocus seems to have been introduced into English gardens whilst Shakspere was writing his plays, and there was then, alas, no Gardeners' Chronicle to bring him the news. Gerard describes it as having "flowers of a most perfect shining yellow colour, seeming afar off to be a hot glowing coal of fire. That pleasant plant was sent unto me from Robinus, of Paris, that painful and most curious searcher of simples." What pictures are summoned before our minds' eyes even by the few words just quoted: "pleasant plant;" "sent unto me from Robinus of Paris;" "that painful and most curious searcher of simples." Each phrase shows a type of mind or a view of life.

The garden of my friend is a "pleasant" garden, and he, too, is a "curious searcher" of beautiful and pleasant plants. That is why his garden seems to be an old-fashioned garden, and not because it is at all like Shakspere's garden, or Mary Arden's garden, or the hideous Elizabethan gardens pictured in the "Hortus Floridus," published in 1614. His, though not by any means a Tottenham Court Road product, is no Wardour Street garden, but is old-fashioned in the sense that some of Heal's bedsteads are old-fashioned, or that beautiful English prose is old-fashioned as contrasted with the English of the yellow press.

He would not be without his Snowdrops, and quite as emphatically would he not be without his Crocuses. Great clumps everywhere, among the shrubs, at roots of trees and by the path-sides, radiate light and beauty like so many fairyland flashes. First come the violet cups of Crocus imperati, often before January has passed; then the brilliant array of yellow Crocus luteus (overwhelming the Snowdrops, by then well past their chief beauty and chief interest), followed by Crocuses of every shade of purple, lavender, and white. These, like the Snowdrops, are left quite undisturbed year after year, and if there be some little falling off in the size of the flowers, which is doubtful, there is more than compensation in the added beauty which the resulting gradation of colour and natural grouping yield. When I think of these glories, I can but reflect on how much beauty that academic "Shakspere-garden" goes lacking. Indeed, we shall all do well to steer clear of formulas and rigidity, as well in our lives as in our garden-beds.

The term "cottage garden" is an elastic one, and may be made to include all that big class of gardens where, in the words of the flower-show schedule, "no regular gardener is employed." But I think that most people, when they think of cottage gardens, picture to themselves those little wayside plots attached to the homes of working folks which cheer the passer-by nearly as much as they cheer their owners. One thinks of Rose and Clematis climbing over the doorway, of Sweet-Williams, Pæonies, Hollyhocks, Sunflowers and Pansies flowering in bed or border. Old-fashioned herbaceous plants are those which one associates with these cottage gardens, and nearly the year through one expects to find something of interest and of beauty.

Such is the ideal; sometimes such is the reality.

In some of our rural districts, where the local squire is of the resident benevolent feudal school, the cottages are surrounded by little paradises of flowery beauty. Those who have travelled through the Porlock Estate of the Acland family will know what I mean. In many places, however, little pride or interest is taken in gardening, and the yards fronting the cottages are dull and dismal from January to Christmas. Indeed, there are few districts where pretty cottage gardens are the rule.

Yet it were as easy to create a lovely picture within an area of twenty square yards as in the space of a palace garden, though possibly not so imposing or valuable an one. The size of the canvas is a detail; the other limitations are, however, more important. In a little plot we must often do without those lovely backgrounds of tree and shrub and those lovely foregrounds of grass or other dwarf herbage which are such helps in creating great garden pictures. It is at a sonnet that we small gardeners must aim and not at an epic or great narrative poem. Yet I often feel that brevity is of the very essence of fine poetry, and it is possible that limitation of space may be contributory to the finest expression of gardening. At all events, it affords a greater test of one's skill and taste as a gardening craftsman, for, whereas, in a big place, trees, shrubs and lawn almost create a beautiful garden of themselves, in a little garden we have to practise more selection and more rejection, and to exercise greater judgment and care in arrangement, since here every detail counts and every fault jars.

The cottage gardener has usually to employ the simplest flowers wherewith to express himself, but it is probable that this limitation is helpful rather than a source of increased difficulty. He may say, in the spirit of Lewis Carroll:—

And these old common plants thrive as well and flower as beautifully in the garden of the shepherd as in the grounds of Windsor Castle. The wind blows from the same quarter, the rain falls equally, and the frost is as severe in the one as in the other.

I like each garden to contain some one feature of special and unique interest—some well-grown plant which is not much cultivated in the neighbourhood, or some brilliant floral pageant peculiar to the particular garden. Thus, one garden which I know is always associated in my mind with a little thicket, about ten feet in height, of the White-stemmed Bramble (Rubus biflorus), which, on a moon-lit evening, is a most impressive sight, and even in winter is very beautiful. In another little garden I always look for its show of beautiful Pansies, of which its owner—a fisherman—is very naturally and rightly proud. Of course, a special feature of this kind need not interfere with the perennial interest which every garden, even the smallest, should possess. For instance, in the garden with the Nepal Bramble (which, by the way, is surprisingly little known when one recalls the fact that it was introduced many a hundred years ago) are Poppies and Roses, White Musk-Mallows and Columbines, Canterbury Bells and Michaelmas Daisies; and my friend of the Pansies has the earliest Crocuses and Snowdrops in his village, and relies on a hedge of Chrysanthemums and Rosemary to brighten his plot when the Pansies are over.

If our suburban villas were fronted by unpretentious plots cultivated frankly as cottage gardens and bordered by simple palings, how very different would be their aspect, and how much more pleasant would a suburban walk become. For there are numerous plants of great beauty which would thrive even in the suburbs of London, given care and a little knowledge as to the correct preparation of the soil.

In the country, very much may be done by those who care to do so. Country squires, doctors, parsons and others who have money, or time, or influence can very materially alter the appearance of their district by encouraging the gardening spirit among working folks, by helping with advice if they are themselves gardeners, by helping with surplus plants, seeds and cuttings, and by organising competitions and offering prizes for the best kept cottage gardens.

Small gardens are the largest which are at the disposal of most of us, but we need not bemoan our fate on that account. Fully as great pleasure may be extracted from a tiny plot as from broad acres, and a few plants well grown are as productive of satisfaction as is the largest collection. "It was a singular experience that long acquaintance which I cultivated with beans," said Thoreau, "but I was determined to know beans." That is the true gardening spirit, and with that as a possession one may pluck as much joy from the cultivation and study of Thistles or Brambles, or even Docks (as Canon Ellacombe reports a friend as growing—his acquaintances, of course, laughing at him for making a Dock-yard), as from the rarest Orchids of the millionaire.

One of the greatest gifts of a perfect garden is the gift of solitude, and that is generally beyond the power of the little cottage plot to offer; but, as a source of infinite pleasure to its owner, as a source of pleasure to all those who pass by, as a cheering feature of English landscape, and as a great force tending towards contentment and peace, the cottage garden is beyond price.

When the last of the Michaelmas daisies and of the out-door chrysanthemums have cast their blooms, many gardeners are apt to think that the interest and beauty of the garden are over, and that for three months there is nothing to be done but to dig and enrich the soil, and to wait patiently for the onset of spring. This is a narrow and an ill-informed view, for, though through the months of winter we cannot hope to see many or gaudy flowers, we may yet have our gardens bright and interesting with evergrey and evergreen shrubs and herbs, with the delightfully-coloured barks of willows, dog-woods and other trees, and, not less interesting, with the often beautiful stems of the last season's growth of herbaceous plants, usually sacrificed to the tidying spirit of those who would tidy the floor of heaven itself. Moreover, even in winter, flowers of no mean rank may be had in the open borders of English gardens.

FRITILLARIES

The Christmas and Lenten Roses or Hellebores alone can be so used as to make a border interesting during the whole of the winter months, for not only do they all possess handsome foliage, but their flowers also are very beautiful and varied in colour. They are easy of culture, liking a deep, fairly stiff and rich, though well-drained, soil, and thriving best in dense shade, under trees or on the north side of a hedge or wall. The Hellebores are impatient of disturbance and meddlesomeness. The flowers, coming as they do in the rainy season, should be saved from being soiled with splashes[29][30] of mud by having moss placed on the earth beneath them. Of the many species and varieties, the old Christmas Rose (H. niger) is by far the most valuable. Its large white flowers, appearing at the end of the year, when most flowers have succumbed to numbing cold or blighting winds, stir the imagination in the same way as does a beautiful face in the Bow Street dock or a butterfly in a foundry. The so-called Helleborus niger maximus, or H. altifolius, has larger flowers, which, moreover, appear earlier than those of H. niger, but the colour is not so pure, many of the flowers being tinged with pink. The crimson H. abchasicus, and H. colchicus with flowers of darkest purple, as well as some of the hybrids derived from them, should be grown in every garden. The green and inconspicuous flowered varieties, such as H. fœtidus, H. lividus, which came from Corsica about the beginning of the eighteenth century, and H. viridus, are well worth growing for their foliage, and indeed for their flowers also, if there be any shady moist corner where few plants will thrive.

A plant somewhat related to the Hellebores, though smaller in every way, is the pretty little Winter Aconite (Eranthis hyemalis), which brightens the ground early in January with its yellow cups resting on the daintiest of green ruffles. It looks its best when it has become well established and naturalised in grass, or among trees and shrubs. Long after the flower has fallen, the beautiful foliage continues to drape and decorate the earth during the early months of the year. In warm, sheltered situations, two species of Scilla often produce their flowers in January:—Scilla bifolia, which sends up spikes of dark blue bells, the spikes being about eight inches in height, and the much smaller and somewhat later S. siberica, with flowers of peculiarly intense blue. Some of the anemones often begin to flower in winter, especially the Blue Wind-flower of Greece (A. blanda), and in warm situations the old A. coronaria itself. In any case the foliage of anemones, and beautiful foliage it is, is one of the ornaments of the hardy winter garden. Some of the species of crocus, also, belong to the section of winter bloomers, notably the mauve C. imperati, and the pale lilac C. pulchellus. In sheltered shady spots, where it can enjoy well-drained leafy soil undisturbed, the round-leaved Cyclamen (C. coum) and its white-flowered variety (C. hyemale) produce abundance of welcome little flowers often quite early in January. Those who fear the assaults of evil spirits should remember a couplet quoted in Folkard's "Plant Lore, Legends and Lyrics":—

Its potency as a drug was so thoroughly believed that Gerard fenced round all his cyclamens, and also laid sticks over them crosswise lest any unfortunate individual might tread on the corms, and so bring about the direst results.

In wild waste spots, or under trees where few things will thrive, the fragrant Winter Coltsfoot is well worth growing. It spreads at a terrible pace, and must therefore not be introduced into the mixed borders. The common primrose and its garden varieties, as well as many other species of primula, are of the utmost value in the winter garden, both for their foliage and for their flowers, which in some cases begin to appear soon after Christmas. One of the very earliest is the purple Caucasian Primrose (P. amœna), which bears its umbel of flowers often in the very depth of winter. All the primroses like shelter, partial shade, deep moderately-rich soil, and "peace and quietness."

But of all the flowers of winter, the most beautiful is the fragrant Iris reticulata. No description can convey a tithe of its effect. Two grass-green sheaths drape the lower part of the flower-stalk, the sheath on the convex side becoming at its margin so thin and transparent as to seem to melt into the stem itself. The flower-stalk up to this point is of a curious green colour veined with purple, but gradually, as the flower is reared, the purple increases so as to colour the whole surface of the stem; and, indeed, at the root of the petals the stem becomes almost black. Nor is the flower itself unworthy so dainty a support, for the colouring and form are exquisite. The falls, which are coloured on the outside a dull purple with centrally some green spotting, turn at about one quarter way from their extremities suddenly outwards almost at a right angle, thus forming horizontal landing-places. The inside of the fall is of a rich light violet colour, running up the centre from the claw's root being a white patch with yellow and dark purple markings, terminating at the horizontal blade in glowing orange. The effect is slightly reminiscent of that produced by a leopard's skin. The standards are bright violet with relief of yellow pollen just below the centre, above which are little stigmatic ledges which brush pollen from entering insects. The flower stalk is definitely arched as though the flower were too heavy for its strength, but near the flower itself the stalk becomes erect, thus giving the whole an appearance of health and vigour. The early Irises are not difficult to grow in moderately light and well drained soil, but they should usually be afforded a warm and sheltered site. Other fragrant species which bloom in winter or very early spring are the soft blue Iris stylosa, of which there is an equally beautiful white variety, and the purple and rose Iris histrio, somewhat resembling Iris reticulata in habit and colouring.

The flowers which usher out the winter and announce the near approach of the spring, the winter gilliflowers or snowdrops, have long been among the treasures of English gardens. Naturalised in grassy lawns or orchards, or grown undisturbed in shrubbery borders, the single and double common snowdrops (G. nivalis) almost invariably thrive and increase. The common snowdrop is on the whole the most important and most valuable, but in light warm soil the handsome Galanthus Elwesi should be grown, and in any soil the broad-leaved G. latifolius, and a fragrant hybrid derived from it, G. Alleni, with large flowers and leaves almost like those of the tulip.

Several of the periwinkles, notably the lilac Vinca acutiloba, bear flowers during the months of December and January, and in warm sheltered spots violets and roses may often be picked in the open air.

Among the shrubs, several of the most beautiful bear their flowers in the depth of winter. The fragrant yellowish flowers of the Winter Sweet (Chimonanthus fragrans), which is one of the many gracious gifts of Japan, are among the best of winter blossoms. The Chimonanthus is worth a place against a warm wall facing south. After flowering, the young shoots should be pruned back to the old branches. The variety known as Grandiflora bears somewhat larger flowers. The scarlet flowers of Cydonia japonica (the Japan Quince), are familiar to everyone although it is but a nineteenth century introduction into this country. Other species and varieties of Quince, however, are equally well worth growing. C. Mauleii, with orange-red flowers freely produced seemingly over the entire plant, C. nivalis, with large white flowers, and C. cardinalis are all good.

When the climate is mild, and the soil not too heavy, the Laurustinus (Viburnum tinus) is of great value in winter and early spring. The yellow Jasmine and the shrubby Honeysuckles, Lonicera fragrantissima and L. Standishi, are easy to grow, and should be seen in every open-air winter garden, as also should the old Daphne Mezereon, single and double, the double Furze (Ulex Europaeus flore pleno), and the evergreen Garrya elliptica with its hardier variety Thuretii. The Garrya is hardy enough in many gardens, but in exposed or cold situations profits by being afforded the shelter of a wall or other screen. Many other winter flowering shrubs and flowers might be named, but I must refer readers to the list of winter bloomers which forms an appendix to my "Chronicle of a Cornish Garden."

Great, however, as is the importance of growing as many as possible of the plants which bear flowers through the months of winter, the value of evergreen and evergrey foliage must not be overlooked. Among the latter may be named Lavender, Rosemary, Pinks, Carnations, Mulleins, Alyssum, Lavender Cotton, Stachys chrysantha, Achillea umbellata, Achillea moschata, Silene maritima, Hieraceum villosum, H. gymnocephalus, Cistus (of sorts), Artemisia lanata, Agrostemma, Senecio leucophyllus, Teucrum aureum, Cerastium tomentosum, Arabis variegata, Gypsophilum repens, Festuca glauca, Sedum Turkestanicum, Olearia insignis, Agrostemma coronaria, Onopordon arabicum. To give a list of useful evergreen plants would require much more space than I have to spare, but the following names may possibly be of some help. Of evergreen trees and shrubs, Yew, Hollies, Box, Tree Ivies, Pernettyas, Ruscus racemosus, the silver-edged Euonymus radicans variegatus, Berberis aquifolium, Aucuba Japonica (and other kinds), Kalmia latifolia, Rhododendrons, Ericas, Sand Myrtles, Dwarf Partridge Berries, Andromedas, Skimmias, Olearia Haasti and Phillyrea Vilmoriana, are among the most useful and interesting. The number of valuable evergreen border plants is almost infinite; the following list includes some of the best:—

• Saxifrages, kinds numerous.
• Sedums, kinds numerous.
• Sempervivums, kinds numerous.
• Gentiana acaulis.
• Gentiana verna.
• Primulas, kinds numerous.
• Helleborus, kinds numerous.
• Dwarf phloxes.
• Forget-me-nots.
• Thymus, of sorts.
• Acanthus.
• Iris, kinds numerous, especially valuable being I. fœtidissima with brilliantly red seeds.
• Omphalodes, of sorts.
• Aubrietia.
• Arabis.
• Vinca.
• Violas and Violets.
• Iberis.
• Sternbergia.
• Megaseas.
• Aquilegias.
• Asarum, of sorts.
• Wallflowers.
• Cyclamen, of sorts.

Evergreen ferns should be grown in gardens much more than they usually are. The following are a few of the hardiest kinds:—

• Asplenium angustifolium.
• Asplenium ebenum.
• Aspidium Floridanum.
• Camptosorus rhizophyllus.
• Dictogramma Japonica.
• Lastrea marginalis.
• Lastrea Standishi.
• Lastrea aristata.
• Lastrea corusca.
• Lastrea fragrans.
• Lomaria alpina.
• Niphobolus lingua.
• Polystichum acrostichoides.
• Polystichum setosum.
• Phygopteris alpestris.
• Woodsia alpina.

The British species of Asplenium, Blechnum, Ceterach, Polypodium, Polystichum and Scolopendrium are often useful and always available.

The dividing line between the seasons is, of course, quite arbitrary, for Nature progresses evenly, gradually, unceasingly, and not in the jerky way which our clumsy divisions of time imply. Still it is convenient, almost necessary indeed, to adopt some such broad classification of the periods of the year as that into the four seasons which has done duty for so many centuries. One may take the flowering of the snowdrop to indicate the onset of spring, though itself belonging more especially to winter. Yet the Dutch Crocus seems to be the earliest real spring flower, and a brighter little herald of the glories to follow could not be selected. The parents of most of the Dutch Crocuses are two species which grow wild in South-Eastern Europe, C. aureus and C. vernus. The latter is sometimes considered to be a native British plant, but in all instances of its discovery in English hedges or meadows its presence is most likely due to removals of garden soil or garden rubbish.

There are nearly seventy distinct species of Crocus known to botanists, and most of these are well worth growing, though more bloom in the autumn than in the spring. Even in the seventeenth century, Parkinson described as many as thirty-one kinds, but probably some of these were merely garden varieties.

Crocus imperati, found wild near Naples, is one of the earliest species to flower as it is also one of the most beautiful, the inside of the petals being coloured a deep purple, whilst the outside is of a lightish brown, the stigma standing as a brilliant orange lamp in the centre of the flower's cup.

The Crocuses will grow and prosper in almost any good soil, especially if it rest on chalk or other porous subsoil. The commoner kinds may advantageously, especially in soils not too heavy and wet, be left in the ground undisturbed for many years, and there are few floral sights more beautiful than that afforded by a skilful grouping of yellow crocuses naturalised in grass either under deciduous trees or in the open. The very early species should be grown in a warm and sheltered position, where the winds and frosts of January will not be able to destroy their beauty. Almost as valuable as the crocus, and even more easy to grow, are several of the species of scilla, a bulb long cultivated in English gardens. Two of the species, which are especially worth growing on account of their beauty and extreme earliness, are the dark-blue S. bifolia (with its varieties, præcox and taurica) and S. sibirica, with its intense, vivid blue colour, as of some gem resting on the dark green leaves. Later, larger and sturdier, though scarcely so valuable, are the well known light blue Spanish Scilla, S. campanulata, and the numerous varieties of our beautiful wild bluebell, S. nutans. Scillas, like crocuses, should be planted in bold natural groups among other plants, or naturalised in woodland glades or shady lawns and meadows. Somewhat resembling the Scillas, though even more beautiful, are the recently introduced Chionodoxas (C. Luciliae, C. Sardensis, and C. grandiflora), which exhibit every shade of purest blue, mingled in varying proportions with white. In light soils they increase very rapidly both by division of bulbs and by seed.

A stately flower, which formerly held a much more respected place in the garden than it now occupies, is the Crown Imperial (Fritillaria imperialis). In rich, deep, garden soil, or in a rich shrubbery border, it usually thrives; and when well established is an interesting and showy plant, growing upwards of four feet to the top of its flower stalk in April or May. There are varieties displaying various combinations of red, yellow and orange. Parkinson placed it "before all other Lilies," and Chapman referred to it as "Emperor of Flowers." Valuable as it is, one is not disposed to place it on quite such a pinnacle to-day. Most of the other Fritillaries are dwarf bulbous plants, which thrive in rich, light soil, preferably in the partial shade of deciduous trees. The commoner kinds are very suitable for naturalisation in grass or woodland. Most of the Fritillaries produce sombre-coloured, curiously-chequered, snaky-looking, pendulous flowers.

Even in the seventeenth century Parkinson describes twelve varieties, but since his day numerous species have been discovered. Among those best for growing are F. Meleagris and its varieties; F. Moggridgei, an Alpine species, with yellow bells beautifully marked with brown and red on their inner surface; F. aurea, and the brilliant, though somewhat tender, F. recurva. The Fritillary was so called because of its chess-board-like markings, and for the same reason Gerard spoke of it as the Ginnie-hen flower.

The Grape-Hyacinths, or Muscari, do not seem to have developed in popularity, as their beauty in colouring and hardiness would have led one to expect. In rich, deep, sandy soil, in the rock garden or border, these bulbs thrive and multiply. Parkinson enumerated eight varieties, which he called "The Ash-Coloured Musk Grape Flower, the Red Musk Grape Flower, the White Musk Grape Flower, the Dark-blue Grape Flower, the Sky-coloured Grape Flower, the Branched Grape Flower, the White Grape Flower, and the Blush Grape Flower." The varieties which are most worthy of garden cultivation are M. racemosum, with its fruit-scented purple flowers and long drooping leaves; M. botyroides; M. armeniacum, which blooms later than most other kinds; and M. moschatum, with little fragrant yellow bells. The allied Feather Hyacinth, M. comosum monstrosum, is equally well worth growing for the beauty of its feathery lilac blooms.

The Snowflakes, or Leucojums, are again becoming popular and better known. They have not the characteristic grace of the Snowdrop, the stems being sturdier, the arch being quite different in character, and the petals being all of the same length; but they have much beauty of their own and are easy to grow. Most of the Alliums are interesting, and should be planted where there is space at disposal, as also should Tritelia, or Milla uniflora.

But more important than most of these are the various Anemones, both the "fair and frail" wild species which is found in our own woods (A. nemorosa) and the numerous kinds—all beautiful—which have been introduced into our gardens from Southern Europe. The old Poppy Anemone (A. coronaria) is a favourite with everyone, blooming as it often does during all the early months of the year. It is easy to raise from seed sown in light soil in the open during March, April or May. The seedlings should be pricked out in September, and that is also the month for planting the roots, should that method of obtaining plants be adopted. In warm soils A. coronaria lives on from year to year if left undisturbed, but in other soils it is sometimes necessary to raise fresh plants annually. The Scarlet Anemone (A. fulgens) is the most brilliant flower of early spring, whilst A. Apennina, A. blanda (two species with flowers of the loveliest sky-blue), A. sylvestris (the Snowdrop Wind-flower), and A. ranunculoides (a charming yellow-flowering kind), are all beautiful and hardy plants in most garden soils.

COLUMBINES

Anemones are not bulbous plants, but their tubers are usually listed in the florists' catalogues with bulbs, and[41][42] in many ways this is a convenient arrangement; but of all bulbous plants those which have most attracted the attention of florists and hybridists are undoubtedly the Tulip and the Daffodil. The Daffodil has won the heart of the poet as well as of the florist, and English verse is full of references to the "darling Daffodils" (as Marvell called them) and "faire Narcissus." Keats named these graceful flowers as an example of those things of beauty which are joys for ever, and Shelley, whose garden of the Sensitive Plant contained many beautiful flowers, referred to the Narcissus as "the fairest among them all."

Perdita's description of Daffodils,

is familiar to all who read their Shakespeare. The daffodil is indeed an old-fashioned flower, for dry specimens of Narcissus Tazetta have been found in Egyptian mummy cases dating back nearly four thousand years. Mr Burbidge thinks that many species of Narcissus were introduced into England by the Phœnicians when they came to Cornwall for tin, "and, as Cornwall has a climate and soil eminently suited to daffodils, these have been there perpetuated." Daffodils will grow in almost any garden soil, but in many gardens, especially in very rich soils or in soils which are badly drained, they tend to disappear in the course of one or two seasons. A little shade from the heat of the sun is desirable, as also is a little shelter from cold winds. Stiff loam of moderate richness is suitable for most varieties of daffodil, and the bulbs should be planted by the end of August. After being planted they should in suitable soils be left undisturbed for from two to six years; and when lifted they should be placed to ripen in a shady place, and replanted in the course of a month. The bulbs should be planted from four to six inches apart, and from four to six inches deep, according to the size of the bulb and the lightness of the soil. Where all the varieties are beautiful it seems hopeless to select. To a beginner, perhaps, the following list may be of some help:—Poeticus-ornatus, Obvallaris, Emperor, Leedsii Minnie-Hulme, Empress, Golden Spur and Grandee; to which should be added the sweet Campernelle Jonquil.

For naturalising in grass, the poet's and star narcissi, as well as some of the trumpet daffodils, are particularly suited.

In the whole history of the craft, few things have occurred so calculated to throw ridicule on gardening and gardeners as the celebrated outbreak of Tulipomania in the seventeenth century, though at times the contemporary Daffodilmania threatens to rival it. The Tulip was introduced into England towards the end of the sixteenth century, and but half a century later Parkinson describes a hundred and forty varieties. Apart from the various species which the florist has not as yet seriously taken in hand, the bulk of the tulips commonly grown in gardens are of two great classes, the short stalked April-flowering tulips which are descended from T. suavolens, and the taller May flowering descendants of T. Gesneriana which are known as "Florist's Tulips." These garden varieties are of every shade of colour and do well in any rich well-drained garden soil. It is advisable to lift them every year, or in light soils every three years, as otherwise they tend to become crowded and poor. The bulbs should be planted in October, about four inches deep and four inches apart, and, like all other bulbs, if grown for decorative effect, should have the earth between them carpeted with some dwarf surface-rooting plants as elsewhere suggested. Far better for ordinary garden decoration than any of the florists' striped or feathered varieties is the parent of the race, the brilliant red or crimson Gesner's tulip. Its effectiveness is much increased by the great dark brown blotch at the bottom of its cup, and this is even more marked in the variety spathulata. Many of the self-coloured Darwin tulips are also delightful and vigorous growers. The early dwarf species, T. Greigi, with its brilliant red flowers and quaintly marked leaves, is well worth cultivating either in small groups or bold masses, as also is the native species, T. Sylvestris, with pale yellow flowers of great beauty. Among other species and varieties specially worthy of a place in the garden are T. Elegans, T. retroflexa, T. australis, the dwarf T. kolpakowskyana, T. viridiflora, T. clusiana (introduced early in the seventeenth century), T. vitellina, and the kinds known as Golden Eagle, Picotee, and Bouton d'Or. To modify the observation of a writer of the seventeenth century, "The tulip is a queenly flower, and asketh a rich soil and the hand of a lover." And indeed given these conditions tulips may be easily and successfully grown.

The bulbs already named are but a few of those worth growing for effects of beauty in the spring garden, for a complete enumeration would occupy many times the amount of space at disposal. There is, however, one other bulbous plant which should be included in any collection of spring flowers, the Erythronium or Dog's Tooth Violet. The beautiful European species, E. dens-canis, has been grown in England for nearly three hundred years, and, in light soil and an open sunny site, produces its rose coloured flowers with freedom. The more recently introduced American species are equally worth growing. Spring is the great season for the flowering of bulbous plants for the very obvious reason that only plants with an accumulated store of last season's solar energy can produce flowers so early in the year. For like reason it is that the thick-rooted primroses and other species of primula are such early bloomers. The hybrid primroses (mostly descendants of P. acaulis and P. altaica) often produce their variously coloured flowers long before the native P. vulgaris begins to bloom. The primroses rejoice in moderately rich soil and partial shade. It is well to divide and replant every two or three years—especially in the case of the pretty P. rosea. In July it is a good plan to top-dress them with a fine and well rotted mixture of manure, leaf mould and loam. Most of the primroses are easily raised from seed, sown as soon as ripe in light soil kept shaded and slightly moist. The old double primroses cannot of course be raised from seed, and are by no means so vigorous as the single kinds. They require partial shade, and are somewhat intolerant of frequent interference.

Oxlips, Cowslips and Polyanthuses are all beautiful and easily grown. Among other species of Primula which are easily grown and worth growing are P. denticulata, with long stems surmounted by large mauve flower heads, P. d. Cashmeriana, similar to denticulata but with yellow centres to the flowers, P. cortusoides, with beautiful rose-coloured flowers, and the many varieties of the handsome P. japonica, which specially likes moisture and shade.

Given a well-drained, yet not too dry, situation, the various Alpine Auriculas are not difficult to grow, and include varieties with many beautiful colours.

The charming Hepatica Angulosa and H. triloba, in its many kinds, are lovers of shade, leaf-mould, moisture and non-interference. Of the Gentians, the two species best worth cultivating are the little G. verna and the old Gentianella (G. acaulis), both bearing flowers of the purest blue. They are not plants which thrive everywhere, but they like well-drained soil, an open situation, and moisture in summer. The Gentian of Pliny was probably the medicinal G. lutea, which is not very valuable for garden decoration.

Candytuft, Violets, Doronicums, Aubrietia, Alyssum, Adonis vernalis, Double Daisies, Thrifts, Lilies of the Valley, Wallflowers, Dog's-tooth Violets, Asphodels, Trilliums, Dodecathons, Veronica prostrata, Saponaria ocymoides, Lithospermum prostratum and some of the species of Trollius are but a few of the very many beautiful spring flowers which may be grown in the open borders of English gardens.

To give the names of trees, shrubs and climbing plants which flower in spring is unnecessary, for everyone must be well acquainted with the blossoms of Apple, Pear, Plum and Cherry, of Hawthorn, Wistaria, Guelder Rose, Syringa, Lilac and Laburnum. There are, however, a few good shrubs which are not grown nearly as much as they should be. Those who can afford warm and sheltered sites should certainly try to grow the magnificent Magnolias, especially M. conspicua and M. stellata; and everyone may grow Forsythia suspensa, with long sprays of yellow flowers in April and May, Spiræa Thunbergii, the leaves of which turn a crimson in autumn, as also do the leaves of S. prunifolia, which is covered with white double-daisy-like flowers in spring, and Exochorda grandiflora (The Pearl Bush), which likes plenty of sun and hates being cramped or cut.

The flowering of the Columbine is the beginning of summer. Tulips and Double Narcissi and stray Anemones may still afford bright colour or sweet fragrance, but they do not charm us any longer, for they are of the spring, and the spring is past. What a beautiful old flower it is—"the Columbine commendable," as Skelton called it four hundred years ago! Indeed, all the old garden writers mention it, its vigour and grace having always earned it a secure place in the English garden, where it has been grown for centuries "for the delight both of its form and colours." The Columbines of our ancestors were all varieties of the wild English species (Aquilegia vulgaris), and so vigorous and handsome do some of these plants become under garden cultivation, that it is questionable if any of the newer kinds surpass them in beauty. However, the various species of Aquilegia which have from time to time been added to our garden flora are to be counted with the most valuable of plants, among the best of them being the very curiously coloured red and orange species known as A. Skinneri, the tall golden A. chrysantha, and, perhaps most beautiful of all, the Rocky Mountain Columbine, A. cærulea, with its quaint green "horns of honey."

This is the month when the Pyrethrums and Pæonies, of which such splendid varieties have been raised by Messrs. Kelway and others, are in their glory, as also are the Snapdragons, Bride Gladioli, Pansies, Ranunculuses (of which the old R. asiaticus, though somewhat tender, may be easily grown in rich light soil if planted in February at a depth of two inches and kept well watered during the growing period), Madonna Lilies (which must be planted in good garden soil and left alone), Lilium elegans, and L. longiflorum, with its beautiful varieties (which like well-drained spongy soil containing plenty of leaf-mould).

If asked what was the typical garden flower of June, I suppose that nearly everyone would name the Rose. As a matter of fact, however, the great bulk of the Roses now grown in gardens—that is the members of the two great classes known to gardeners as Hybrid Perpetuals and Tea-Roses—are not seen at their best before July. But it is in June that the Wild Dog Roses of our English hedgerows are in their glory, as also are most of the Briars imported from other countries, together with the old Provence and other "Summer Roses." And, with the possible exception of some of the Teas, it may well be doubted if any roses surpass in beauty such "unimproved" species as the deliciously fragrant Macartney Rose (R. bracteata), the trailing Rosa Wichuriana with its pure white cups, or the sweet Eglantine. Speaking of the Eglantine, one is reminded of the lovely hybrids derived from it, known as the Penzance Briars, which combine the fragrant foliage of the Sweet-briar with various beautiful blossoms according to parentage. Perhaps the most beautiful of all of them is the variety known as Lady Penzance—descended from the Austrian Copper Briar and the Eglantine—which has single flowers of the most delicate blend of pink, yellow and orange. One great advantage which these single-flowered briars, as well as most of the June-flowering roses, have over the Hybrid Perpetuals is that they may be left practically unpruned, and so display the naturally graceful habit which is as important a part of the beauty of the Rose as is the flower itself.

Of all the flowers of June, I should myself crown the Pink (or Pentecost flower—for such is said to be the source of its name) for its fragrance, the Spanish Iris for the beauty of its flowers, and the Rose for its grace. The Flower-de-luce, or Iris, is of nearly a hundred species and of many hundred varieties, among which are some of the most beautiful flowers which can be grown in the open air of England. Many of the irises, however, require the expenditure of much knowledge and skill that they may prosper, but the so-called Spanish Irises, which are among the most wonderfully formed and coloured of all, may be grown by anyone who can grow ordinary hardy plants. They rejoice in sun, shelter and a light, well-drained soil.

The Iris is well named, for nearly every shade given by the rainbow is represented in one or other of its kinds, though there is none of the gaudy glaringness, commonly—though wrongly—attributed to that phenomenon. Spenser appreciated the unique quality of the beauty of the Iris, although he had not met with many of the splendid kinds which everyone may now grow.

June is a great month for old-fashioned flowers—the flowers of sentiment, as time and literature have made them—"gold-dusted Snapdragon," "Sweet William with his homely cottage smell," "Woodbine hanging bonnilie," "Foxglove cluster dappled bells," Pæony, Lilac, Laburnum and "fresh Hawthorne," each full of tender associations, and each very beautiful in itself.

In June a spirit of indolence begins to come over the gardener who grows his flowers in the open air. All through the months of spring, the garden contains—or should contain—numerous objects of beauty and numerous objects of interest, but not until June does the garden become swamped by a great sea of beauty, in the presence of which the modest gardener can but stand aside and gaze with wonder and enjoyment.

Roses are lovers of pure air and are therefore difficult to grow in large cities, though even there beautiful specimens are occasionally to be seen. They require the shelter of a high hedge on the north side, and also dwarfer shrubby screens at a little distance on the east, south and west in order to break the force of winds from those quarters. Yet these screens must not be sufficient to shade the plants, for roses are great sun lovers.

Like other hardy plants, they rejoice in deep, rich, well-drained soil containing plenty of humus derived from the decomposition of stable or farm-yard manure. Most of the hybrid perpetuals do best in a rather heavy soil, though sandy loams are often to be preferred for the culture of Tea roses.

Purchase roses grown on the briar stock or on their own roots, and insist on the plants having plenty of fibrous roots.

HONESTY

Order from a reliable florist early in October, requesting that the roses may reach you early in November. The ground having been trenched and manured some weeks previously, the roses should be carefully planted immediately on their arrival. For each rose should be dug a hole about a foot square, and of such a depth that the planted rose shall have the junction of its stock and scion about two inches below the surface of the soil. In this hole the plant should be placed, and its roots (which may with advantage be dipped into a pail of water just before being planted) carefully spread out and covered[53]
[54] with a few inches of fine soil. This should be firmly trodden in and the hole then filled with the ordinary soil. If the weather be dry, yet not frosty, it is well to settle the soil above the roots by means of a heavy watering. If the roses are to form a bed, they may, if dwarfs, be planted at an average distance of about eighteen inches apart.

But a bed of roses, beautiful as it is, is but one expression of the culture of these precious flowers. Over walls, trellises, arches and arbours they should be allowed to trail and climb at will, showing the graceful curves of briar stem, as well as the beautiful flowers themselves. Many roses, too, can be used to form hedges either alone, in the case of such varieties as the Ayrshires and Evergreens, Rosa Brunonii, the Crimson Rambler, the Scotch Briars and some of the Penzance Sweet Briars, or with other shrubs in the case of more leggy and straggling kinds.

In the April of each year, cut out all weak sappy growths, and, in the case of hybrid perpetuals, cut back to about eight inches from the surface of the ground the strong shoots which remain. Teas, if required for garden decoration, need only be thinned out, any dead wood being removed at the same time, and similar treatment is applicable to most of the summer roses.

It is difficult to select a few varieties as specially worthy of cultivation where so many are excellent. The old Provence, Gallic and Moss Roses bloom only in June and July, but are well worth growing for their fragrance, beauty and associations, as are also such summer bloomers as that vigorous hybrid China known as Blairii No. 2, and the very floriferous white Madame Plantier. The hybrid sweet briars, notably Lady Penzance and Anne of Geierstein, are of the easiest culture, but a warm sheltered situation is required by the beautiful Austrian copper briar, which is not everyone's rose.

Easiest of all roses to grow are the Climbing Evergreen and Ayrshire varieties, of which Bennett's Seedling bears white flowers, most of the other kinds producing flowers of sundry shades of pink. The Japanese roses (R. Rugosa) are almost equally vigorous and rampant, and are specially valuable for their scarlet fruits which help to brighten the garden in late autumn.

But, after all, it is the so-called perpetual bloomers on which most gardeners will place the highest value, and here the choice of good varieties is very great. There are seven principal classes of perpetual or autumnal roses, known respectively as Hybrid Perpetuals, Teas, Hybrid Teas, China Roses, Bourbons, Noisettes and Hybrid Moss Roses. From these classes, if I were asked to select eight varieties for a beginner to "learn on," I should name Madame Berard (Tea), Marie van Houtte (Tea), Blanche Moreau (Moss), Celine Forestier (Noisette), Souvenir de la Malmaison (Bourbon), Ducher (China), Prince Camille de Rohan (Hybrid Perpetual) and Viscountess Folkestone (Hybrid Tea).

A few more names of good roses are these—Among Hybrid Perpetuals: Fisher Holmes, Ulrich Brunner and Mrs John Laing; among Hybrid Teas: Mrs W. J. Grant, Bardou Job, La France and Kaiserin Aug. Victoria; among Teas: Marechal Niel, Hon. Edith Gifford, Niphetos, Madame Lambard, Belle Lyonnaise, Madame Hoste, Madame Falcot and Souvenir de S. A. Prince; and, among Noisettes: William Allen Richardson, Aimée Vibert, Madame Alfred Carrière and l'Idéal. To mention Gloire de Dijon is, of course, superfluous, though I am inclined to regard its general utility as somewhat overrated.

A flower with a history, with a name long honoured, full of that blue blood which a genealogical tree is supposed to imply, the Carnation needs no apology or recommendation. It was among the most admired of the flowers used by the Greeks and Romans in the making of chaplets, and hence derived its name of Coronation by which Spenser and other early writers knew it. Its generic name, Dianthus, or Flower of Jupiter, equally points to the high honour in which it was held by the Latins. It was formerly much used both medicinally, "wonderfully above measure comforting the heart," and for the flavouring of liquors—whence it obtained its name of Sops-in-wine:—

The beautiful form of the flowers of the various species of Dianthus—Pinks, Carnations and Sweet Williams—partly accounts for its distinguished position, but the characteristic fragrance has been even more contributory to its reputation. The old name of July-flower, gilli-flower, or gylofre was but a corruption of caryophyllus—the nut-leaved clove tree—which name it earned by its delicious spicy scent. Much more regard was paid to fragrance by the old gardeners and flower-lovers than seems to be the case to-day, and it is very much to be regretted that many of the most beautiful of the newer varieties of carnation are nearly scentless, or as nearly scentless as any member of the family can be. In ordinary good garden soil most of the carnations can be easily grown. It is a good plan thoroughly to prepare and enrich the ground in August, and to raise on it a crop of mustard, digging in the latter a month later, at which time the Carnations should be planted. Two varieties which I would recommend to a beginner are the pure white clove variety, Gloire de Nancy, and the old Crimson Clove. It should be borne in mind that carnations do not thrive in the shade, and that they will not tolerate the presence of rank manure. They are, however, among the plants which can be grown in the muggy atmosphere of cities.

Blue is the only colour which is not to be found among the carnations, and indeed it is a colour not very common in the garden flora. Gentians, Forget-me-nots, Veronicas, Borage, and a few others are the only blue flowers commonly to be seen, but among these few others there is one of the stateliest and most beautiful of the ornaments of the July garden. The Larkspur, Lark's-heels, or Delphinium (Dolphin flower) is one of those few old fashioned flowers which have been really improved in every way by the selection and hybridising of the florist. The varieties raised during the past few years by Messrs Kelway of Langport and others are more robust and more beautiful than the original species or than any of the old garden kinds. The sepals are of every shade of blue and their beauty is enhanced by the white petals within. The foliage too is very beautiful, and, the plant being of the same width throughout—cylindrical rather than conical in form—the leaves, with the exception of those near the ground, are finely divided in order to allow light to reach the leaves below. The Delphinium is elaborately equipped with machinery for securing effective cross fertilisation by its bumble-bee visitors. The stamens ripen before the pistil, and are so placed that the bee cannot get at the honey without covering its head with pollen, which it then bears to another flower. The stigma is not in evidence until the stamens have died, when it occupies a similarly obstructive position in the road of the pollen-covered bee. Martagon Lilies, Alstroemerias, Montbretias, English Irises, Hollyhocks, Lupins, Perennial Peas, Coreopsis, Scabious, Galega officinalis alba and all the species of Campanula are among the July bloomers. Pretty as they are, the old blue and white Canterbury Bells are by no means so graceful as many of the other Bellflowers. C. pyramidalis, C. persicifolia and C. glomerata are among the best of the tall kinds, whilst from the dwarfer species may be selected C. isophylla, C. carpatica, C. alpina, and C. turbinata.

In July also the handsome plants of the Thistle family are at their period of greatest beauty. Echinops ruthenicus, E. ritro, Eryngium amethystinum, E. Oliverianum, E. giganteum and E. glaciale are among the finest, but those habitants of the kitchen garden—the Cardoon and the Globe Artichoke—require much excellency in their peers.

July is the month of climax for the gardener who grows only annual flowers raised afresh each year from seed. A very fine show he may have, too, during his somewhat brief season. To the grower of herbaceous plants who aims, and wisely aims, at having flowers all the year through, July is but one month out of twelve. Spring means for him not a season for sowing, so much as a very flowery season, full of Crocuses and Anemones, of Primroses and of Hepaticas; for him even winter itself is not flowerless, since he has his Hellebores and winter Aconites and fragrant Coltsfoot. But with annual flowers the case is different. It is true that, by sowing in July or August, one may obtain such beautiful flowers as those of Erysimum, Nemophila and Saponaria calabrica in the spring, but the great bulk of annual flowering plants are summer bloomers. Many of them are among the most beautiful, and certainly among the most showy, of our garden occupants. Sweet-peas, Convolvuli and Nasturtiums are as beautiful as any perennial climber; and one has but to name Cornflowers, Mignonette, Coreopsis, Escholtzias and the glorious and gaudy army of Poppies in order to show what a garden of annuals may offer in the months of summer.

I know of no floral sight more brilliant than that of a garden full of poppies in full bloom. Each flower is bright almost to gaudiness, yet with petals so thin and flimsy that no insect can rest on them, and each cup is accordingly furnished with a substantial alighting stage in its centre. Shirley poppies in every shade of red; Iceland poppies in every shade of white, yellow and orange; scarlet Tulip poppies; white Alpine poppies—one knows not which to prefer. The poets have generally used the poppy only for its assistance in pointing a moral. Thus, for example, Burns—

"Faire without and foule within" has generally summed up its popular reputation, though Ruskin has spoken with appreciation of its beauty and delicacy.

All the hardy annuals are easy to grow, their requirements being ample sunshine, deeply dug soil, finely broken up and moderately, though not excessively, enriched, and ample space for individual development. Where failure occurs, it may usually be traced to omission of one or other of these conditions—most commonly, perhaps, of the one last named. There are few annuals which will thrive in the shade, though Forget-me-nots, Venus's Looking-glass and Nemophilas will succeed in damp situations if the shade be not too intense.

Personally, although I should not like to grow annuals alone, I should regretfully miss my hedge of Sweet-peas, my Poppies, and the soothingly fragrant, though insignificant, flowers of my Mignonette.

One other annual flower is the prettily and appropriately named Love-in-a-Mist, with the daintiest of blue flowers enveloped as in a green cloud. If our poets were wont to look at flowers for themselves instead of copying one another's natural history, they might be referred to this delightful plant. Mr Swinburne, I think alone among poets, has used it as subject for one of his roundels. Fortunately, the neglect of poets has little influence on the beauty of flowers.

During the heated days of late summer, few but the most enthusiastic of gardeners care to loiter in the open garden until evening. Then, the sun having sunk in the west, we venture forth from the shade of house or of trees, and leisurely walk the round of our paths, refreshingly fanned by the little rippling breeze which makes the leaves flutter as it rhythmically comes and passes. The last bees have reached their hives, laden with the sweet product of their hard labour. The honeyed flowers, which look to their visits and to the visits of other sun-loving insects for aid in fertilisation, have, so far as possible, covered their tempting cups to avoid the damping or loss of the precious pollen within. Snails and slugs crawl from hidden caves, prepared to work in darkness the evil which fear of feathered warders hinders by day. Except for these workers of ill, these foes of beauty, the garden is apparently going to sleep. But wait. Wherefore is this increasing fragrance streaming from the honeysuckle trellis into the cooling air—a fragrance surely not without seductive purpose? Straight as the course of a homeward bound bee, a hawk-moth flies to the expanded blossoms and extracts the honey from the narrow tubes, too deep for bee or wasp to sound. Look, too, at this bed which but an hour ago showed nothing but a green mass of leaves serrated as those of dandelions. Great white flowers, three inches or more across, have now appeared and produce a truly wonderful effect. These are the flowers of one of the evening primroses (Oenothera taraxicifolia), originally imported from America. Not so pure a white are the larger blossoms of another evening primrose (Oe. marginata) which is just beginning to send forth from the border a fragrance as of magnolias. The old double white Rocket (Hesperis matronalis), or Damask Violet, as it was formerly called, smells more strongly as evening draws in, and its scent now takes on the character of the scent of Violets. Even more noticeable is the delicious fragrance which begins to be yielded by the Night-scented Stock (Hesperis tristis), a fragrance which will continue until the commencement of the dawn. In the presence of these happenings, we begin to realise that the garden is not after all asleep. Indeed, we see that a part at least of the living beauty of nature only awakes at the approach of night.

Convention rules over us, and in the most unlikely places we see those unadaptive, stereotyped results which mark the realms where she is sovereign. How otherwise can we account for the fact that, although evening is the best time for enjoying the flowers of our gardens during the months of July and August, few gardeners ever think of devoting any part of their borders to the cultivation of flowers which bloom at night? Yet the pleasure to be obtained from them is very great, and the possible variety is considerable. Nearly all are fragrant, as otherwise it would be difficult in the darkness for them to attract the moths which they mostly desire as pollen bearers.

None of these flowers of night are more remarkable than Silene nutans, one of our native catchflies (so called from their viscid stems which prevent ants and creeping things from reaching and robbing the honey stores), which may occasionally be seen growing on limestone rocks. This plant bears many large white flowers during June and July, each flower living but for three nights. At about seven o'clock of the first evening, the flower quickly opens and emits a strong scent as of hyacinths. Five of its stamens quickly develop, the pollen ripens and the anthers burst. At three o'clock in the morning, or thereabouts, the scent ceases to be produced, the five anthers wither, and the corolla closes. During the following day the flower looks as though dead or dying. At the same hour as on the previous evening, however, it again opens and again becomes fragrant. Five more stamens develop and ripen their pollen, after which the plant again closes as before. The proceeding is again repeated on the third night, the pistil, however, now developing instead of the stamens. The stigma having been fertilised with pollen brought by moths from another flower, the corolla closes as before in the early morning, and never again reopens. Other of the Silenes, such as S. noctiflora, S. inflata, S. vespertina, and S. longiflora, also bloom at night and are equally interesting.

Almost a shrub in size, the Marvel of Peru (Mirabilis jalapa) is one of the handsomest of night blooming plants, opening its variously coloured ephemeral flowers at about eight o'clock, and closing them again for good and all before three o'clock the following morning. It is a somewhat delicate plant and will only thrive in warm soils and sunny situations. A plant not often seen in gardens is the fragrant Sand Verbena (Abronia fragrans), a Californian perennial of fairly vigorous trailing habit, producing a quantity of beautiful flowers of purest white which open and yield a vanilla-like fragrance at night.

MACARTNEY ROSES

Although too delicate to be grown all the year through in the open air of this country, several of the Thorn apples or Daturas can easily be grown as half-hardy annuals, and during July and August are objects of great beauty. The mauve-tinged white trumpets of D. Ceratocaula which open and afford sweet fragrance[65][66] at night are especially handsome, but some of the other kinds are almost equally worth growing.

In addition to the evening primroses already referred to, there are several other very attractive species, some being delightfully fragrant. They are quite easily grown in almost any soil, and night-gardeners should cultivate all of them. Oenothera eximia, which likes a light soil, is one of the best of the white-flowered kinds, its scent somewhat resembling that of the magnolia. Oe. speciosa (white to rose), Oe. odorata (yellow), Oe. fruticosa (yellow), Oe. macrocarpa (yellow), Oe. biennis grandiflora (yellow), and Oe. triloba (yellow) are but a few names. Some of the evening primroses remain more or less open in the daytime, in which case they are usually visited by bees as well as by their guests of the night.

The catchflies are a family of night-bloomers, and their relative, the Soapwort (Saponaria officinalis), resembles them in this respect, for its large rosy flowers open and become fragrant much after the manner of those of Silene nutans. The common pinks, too, which are allied plants, yield increased fragrance during the hours between sunset and sunrise, and are then frequently visited by moths.

The petunias are not often capable of being grown as hardy perennials in English gardens, but are easily grown as half-hardy annuals. They lend much beauty and fragrance to the night-garden, the white P. nyctanigiflora being especially good. All the scented pelargoniums are delightful, the night-scented P. triste and P. atrum being as good as any. The hardy terrestrial orchids, Habenaria bifolia and H. chlorantha, which yield their spicy fragrance at night, are easily grown in the bog garden, or indeed in any damp shady place if plenty of leaf-mould be mixed with the soil.

Although usually to be seen only under glass, it would be impossible to dismiss the subject of night blooming plants without referring to the ephemeral blossoms of the night-flowering cactuses, Cereus grandiflora—with its vanilla scented brown and yellow flowers, often measuring a foot across—and C. nycticalus, known as the Queen of the Night. The flowers of these plants open at about nine o'clock and begin to wither some six hours later.

One might go on adding to the list, but, even from the few plants here enumerated, it will be seen that the night gardener has a considerable field in which to work; whilst to those who share Baudelaire's love of scents, the realm of night-blooming flowers should be a very Paradise.

August is really but July continued, for no important new feature is peculiar to it. July is very distinct from June, as the latter is from May, and that again from April, but July and August are essentially alike. The weather is similar, the flowers are similar, and, as a result, it is probable that the enthusiasm of gardeners reaches a lower point in August than in any other month of the year.

Roses and Carnations are still among the most important flowers in the garden, and the majority of summer blooming annuals and perennial herbaceous plants are still flowerful.

It is somewhat depressing to observe how the beautiful race of Fuchsias has gone out of cultivation since it went out of fashion. I do not know quite when the Fuchsia was introduced into this country, but I believe it was about the middle of the eighteenth century. The Rev. William Hanbury, "Rector of Church Langton, in Leicestershire," in a two volume work in folio, entitled "A Complete Body of Gardening and Planting," published in 1771, of which I possess a copy, says that in his time only one species of Fuchsia was known. "This being the only species of the genus, it is named simply Fuchsia. Father Plumier calls it Fuchsia triphylla flore coccinea. It grows naturally in most of the warmest parts of America." Hanbury included it among stove plants, alleging that it is "very tender at all times," but as a matter of fact F. coccinea can easily be grown in the open air in most districts of England, though it thrives best in the milder parts. The scarlet drops hanging from a tall bush of this plant—and it sometimes reaches a height of five or six feet, or even more—are very attractive, and one can but admire the taste of the humming birds which in its native home the Fuchsia seeks to attract.

Except near the sea and in certain warm situations, Fuchsias can hardly be regarded as thoroughly hardy plants; but, wherever they will succeed, they should certainly be grown, for they are amongst the most beautiful ornaments of the garden in late summer and autumn. Perhaps the hardiest of all is F. Riccartoni, with bright red flowers, but the old F. globosa is almost its equal in vigour.

F. macrostema gracilis is of taller and, as its name implies, of more slender habit than the other hardy kinds. It has the further advantage of producing its pretty scarlet and purple drops somewhat later in the autumn. A Fuchsia bush rarely looks shabby on account of dead and dying flowers, for, when their work is done, the petals usually fall before they have begun to wither.

I am sure that gardeners who study the native flora of England derive much more pleasure from their flowers than those who focus all their attention on the cultivated species and hybrids which are grown in gardens. The hedges and woodlands are full of examples and full of suggestions, for they show us the habit and manner of life of the English relatives of our exotic plants. By studying the wild species with their wonderful grace and simple beauty, indicative of adaptation of means to ends, we are less liable to become the slaves of the florists.

The hedges, or rather the wayside patches at the hedgerow's base, are very beautiful just at this season, with the yellow flowers of two of the Cinquefoils, the silky fern-like-leaved Potentilla Anserina (Silver weed) and the creeping P. reptans. The Cinquefoil much resembles the Strawberry, producing its honey by means of a dark-coloured ridge which runs round the tube of the flower near its base. Its stamens and pistil however develop coincidently, whereas the stigmas of the Strawberry ripen long before the stamens, and consequently self-fertilisation is far more common than is the case with the latter.

It must have been the quinately leaved P. reptans which was formerly in favor as a heraldic device. Folkard says that the number of the leaves answered to the five senses of man. The right to bear Cinquefoil was considered an honourable distinction to him who had worthily conquered his affections and mastered his senses.

Many species of Potentilla are valuable garden plants, from the little Alpine P. nitida, whose leaves shine more brilliantly than our Silver weed, to the showy P. atrosanguinea, and the hybrid varieties derived from it, which are the kinds usually seen in gardens. Among these hybrids are a number of single and double sorts, nearly all of which possess good colour—mostly ranging from yellow to scarlet.

Two other races of garden hybrids are of extreme importance in late summer, the Pentstemons and Phloxes, the latter being among the most valuable of border plants. In selecting varieties of either of these flowers one should be careful to avoid the very washy and hateful magentas and purples which are but too frequently seen. The Pentstemons are worthy of greatly increased culture, for they often continue to flower until the frosts of November.

The great race of hybrid Gladioli derived from G. brenchleyensis and G. gandavensis are now fashionable, as they deserve. The scarlet G. brenchleyensis is itself very hardy and should be grown in quantity.

The hybrids require some care and should be planted in March at a depth of three inches and a distance of nine inches apart in deeply dug, rich, well-drained soil, free from fresh manure. About the second week in September, before the foliage has died down, the corms should be lifted and thoroughly dried off in a freely ventilated shed.

But most brilliant of all the flowers of August are the scarlet Lobelias, L. cardinalis (described by Parkinson), and L. splendens with their varieties. They are not very hardy, but with a little protection during winter can be grown in most well-drained gardens. Moisture during summer is essential, so that a slightly shaded position should be selected.

It is the deciduous trees and shrubs which announce the arrival of autumn. Green leaves take on a colouring of yellow, brown, or red more pronounced than the yellows and reds of spring. As the wind blows, a few of the ripest leaves fall, and one becomes conscious of a feeling of evening, of the end of a play, or of the end of a beautiful poem. If it were but by these autumnal colourings, and by the feelings which the fall of the leaf produces, one would be well repaid for the planting and cultivating of trees and shrubs.

Because the active life of these larger plants is over for a season, however, one need not imagine that the well managed garden is suddenly to become flowerless. Roses and Pentstemons, Potentillas and Phloxes, Sweet-Peas and Nasturtiums, and a host of other summer bloomers still remain and often continue to bear flowers till hard frost pulls down the curtain. But it is not on summer flowers that we need rely, for there are numerous beautiful hardy flowers peculiar to autumn itself. Dahlias, Rudbeckias, Sunflowers, Tritomas, Michaelmas Daisies, Japanese Anemones, Fuchsias and Chrysanthemums are those which immediately rise in the memory.

The common Torch Lily, or Red-hot-Poker, is almost the hardiest of the Tritomas—or Kniphofias, as they are now called—and in a moderately light soil will live year after year with little or no attention. Often, in neglected cottage gardens at about the end of August, a group of these Flame flowers, burning red and glowing yellow, arrest the attention and cheer the landscape. The variety known as grandis is even more effective, often reaching a height of nine feet or even more.

The dark crimson Kniphofia Burchelli is valuable on account of its long blooming period, as also is the orange and scarlet K. Saundersii, but all the kinds are good, though not all are distinct. Considering that it was introduced from the Cape nearly two hundred years ago, it is somewhat curious that the Kniphofia is still comparatively a rare flower.

Although it was mentioned by Hernandez in his History of Mexico, as long ago as 1651, the Dahlia was not introduced into this country until 1789, when Lady Bute brought a plant from Madrid. It is scarcely hardy in heavy soil or in the northern half of England, and it will generally be necessary to lift the roots in late autumn, and, having ripened them in a shed, to store them for the winter in a cool dry place, where the temperature will not fall below freezing point. In the spring, the separate tubers may be planted in deep rich soil; or the roots may in February be placed in a hot bed, and as the young shoots which form are about three and a half inches long, they may be separated together with a small piece of the tuber, and potted in small pots which should be placed in the hot-bed until the young plants are ready to be planted out. The old double kinds are much inferior to the single and cactus varieties. Dahlias compass a very wide range of colour, and there are so many good sorts that each grower may well be left to select for himself. In choosing Cactus Dahlias, it is wise to select kinds in which the flowers stand out well beyond the foliage.

WHITE WOOD LILIES

The vigorous Sneezeweeds or Heleniums are among the easiest of all plants to grow, and will exist on almost any soil. Like other hardy plants, however, they pay for deep cultivation and manure. They bear yellow[75][76] composite flowers, and grow to a height of five or six feet. H. autumnale is the most generally valuable.

The Cone-flowers, or Rudbeckias, are also handsome American plants, the best being R. speciosus, which bears orange flowers with dark yellow centres, and is a very fine bloomer.

But even more useful and important than Heleniums and Rudbeckias are the various perennial sunflowers, of which Helianthus multiflorus and H. rigidus, with their varieties, are perhaps the best worth cultivating.

All these North American composites are such very vigorous growers that they should not be placed in close proximity to small or delicate plants, and it is advisable—except in quite wild places—to take them up every two years and divide the roots.

The Michaelmas Daisies, or tall-growing Asters, are steadily growing in favour coincidently with the growth of the popular taste. Deep cultivation, moderately rich soil, and division every two or three years, are the conditions of their successful culture. Aster ericoides, A. amellus bessarabicus, A. acris, A. Shortii and A. vimineus are a few good kinds.

Both the white and the rose-coloured varieties of Anemone Japonica should be grown, and are of the easiest culture. They may be rapidly increased by division, and should be allowed to develop into bold clumps. Megasea cordifolia and the Pampas Grass are among the autumnal bloomers, as also are the Crocus-like Colchicums, the even more delicately coloured autumn Crocuses, Sedum spectabile, Sternbergia lutea, the late-flowering Gladioli, and the beautiful Amaryllis Belladonna.

Quite unlike all other autumn flowers—indeed unlike all other flowers—the Japanese Chrysanthemum gives us the latest display of brilliant colouring of the garden year. For border decoration, they may be treated much as other herbaceous plants and divided in the spring. Owing to the season at which they flower and the frequent occurrence of violent storms at that period, it is desirable to grow Chrysanthemums against a wall or hedge. The varieties are infinite in number, so that when ordering plants for out-door use it is advisable to instruct the florist as to the purpose to which you intend to devote them. A few very hardy kinds are Madame C. Desgrange, Lady Fitzwigram, Roi des Précoses, and Ryecroft Glory.

The autumn tints assumed by the leaves of many deciduous trees and shrubs are very interesting and beautiful. Of such, the following short list may be of a little help:—

• Acer colchicum rubrum.
• Acer platanoides laciniatum.
• Acer Schwedleri.
• Azalea pontica.
• Amelanchier canadensis.
• Berberis Thunbergii.
• Cornus (of sorts).
• Liriodendron.
• Parrotia persica.
• Rhus (of sorts).
• Rubus (of sorts).
• Spiræa Thunbergii.
• Silver Birch.

In one of his most suggestive essays, John Burroughs pointed out that in autumn the battles of the spring are fought over again. But, whereas in the spring it is the summer warmth which eventually, in spite of many mishaps and reverses, wins the victory, in the autumnal ebb it is the cold which finally gains the day. This constant strife between succeeding seasons at the points of meeting lies at the root of the peculiar charm of the English climate and of the English flora.

The following lists are borrowed from my Chronicle of a Cornish Garden:—

A FEW GOOD TALLEST BORDER PLANTS.

• Hollyhocks.
• Delphiniums.
• Pæonies.
• Aconitum napellus.
• Aconitum autumnale.
• Rudbeckia maxima.
• Rudbeckia laciniata.
• Doronicum plantagineum excelsum.
• Digitalis.
• Tritomas.
• Campanula macrantha.
• Campanula pyramidalis.
• Galega officinalis alba.
• Phlox (in variety).
• Spiræa aruncus.
• Helianthus (in variety).

A FEW GOOD TALL BORDER PLANTS.

• Anemone japonica alba.
• Aquilegias (in variety).
• Papaver orientale.
• Iris germanica.
• Lilium candidum.
• Achillea ptarmica fl. pl.
• Dicentra spectabilis.
• Scabiosa caucasica.
• Campanula persicifolia.
• Campanula latifolia alba.
• Campanula Van Houttei.
• Campanula turbinata.
• Primula japonica.
• Coreopsis.
• Carnations.
• Helleborus niger.
• Helleborus orientale.
• Adonis vernalis.
• Alstroemeria.
• Erigeron speciosus.
• Montbretias.
• Gladioli.
• Pentstemons.
• Lobelia cardinalis.
• Asters.
• Chrysanthemums.
• Geum chiloense.
• Marguerites.

A FEW GOOD DWARF BORDER-PLANTS.

• Veronica prostrata.
• Veronica saxatilis.
• Veronica rupestris.
• Silene Schafta.
• Silene acaulis.
• Silene alpestris.
• Campanula isophylla.
• Campanula pulla.
• Campanula turbinata.
• Anemone apennina.
• Anemone blanda.
• Anemone coronaria.
• Anemone fulgens.
• Anemone nemorosa.
• Dianthus alpina.
• Dianthus deltoides.
• Dianthus plumarius.
• Gentiana acaulis.
• Gentiana verna.
• Iberis coriaefolia.
• Iberis sempervirens.
• Phlox amœna.
• Phlox subulata.
• Auricula (alpine varieties).
• Cyclamen (various).
• Viola pedata.
• Campanula carpatica.
• Campanula pumila.
• Campanula pelviformis.
• Hepatica (various).
• Aubrietia (various).
• Primula rosea.
• Primula vulgaris.
• Primula Sieboldi.
• Primula nivalis.
• Viola (various, violas and pansies).
• Papaver nudicaule.
• Cistus (various).
• Helianthenum (various).
• Alyssum (various).
• Fritillaria (various).
• Crocus (various).
• Galanthus (various).
• Narcissus (various).
• Tulipa (various).
• Scilla (various).
• Iris (various).
• Leucojum (various).
• Chionodoxa (various).
• Eranthis hyemalis.

There are many ways of growing hardy flowering plants, and of growing them to advantage, but all these different methods have certain fundamental conditions in common. Of these conditions the most important are the possession of a suitable site and the provision of suitable soil. Children are raised in slums and hovels, and even in besieged and famine-stricken towns; and, in like manner, there is no site so bad, no aspect so dull, no air so vile, no soil so poor and shallow but plants may be found which will there exist. But in order that we may grow any considerable variety of beautiful flowers we must screen our garden from bitter winds, and so prepare our soil that it shall be adapted for vigorous plant growth. Wind-resisting screens may consist either of walls or of suitable trees and shrubs. Which of these forms of protection should be selected depends on circumstances which vary with different gardens. In any event, it will be generally agreed that a garden should be so enclosed (Hortus—an enclosed space) as to afford not only shelter to plants from the more strenuous forces of Nature, but also that privacy from the vulgar gaze which we call seclusion. If the garden is to be enclosed by walls, let these be of a fair height—not less than ten feet; and let them be clothed with a variety of the lovely climbing plants now at the disposal of the gardener. There is considerable room for choice both among deciduous and evergreen climbers. Among the best of the former section are the self-clinging Ampelopsis Veitchii, the blue and the white Passion-flowers, numerous varieties of Clematis, the winter-blooming Jasminum nudiflorum, Wistaria, Honeysuckles, Bignonia radicans, and many of the Roses and Vines; whilst against walls facing north we may grow Tropæolum speciosum, Clematis flammula, the Evergreen and Boursault Roses and the Virginian Creeper. The Evergreens mostly prosper with any aspect. Among the best are the various Ivies and Cotoneasters and Crataegus pyracantha.

The trees and shrubs which may be used are numerous; but for dense hedges perhaps the most useful are Holly, White Thorn, Privet, Barberry, Laurel, Box and Yew. Where possible, the straight line of a long clipped hedge may be broken by groups of shrubs planted within, unless a formal garden effect be desired. It is well to distinguish between the use of shrubs or trees as bounding fences or screens and their use as beautiful individual plants; and, when a dense screen is required, to obtain it by means of suitable trees and a properly made and properly shorn hedge rather than by a thickly-planted and therefore overcrowded "shrubbery." Whether it be trees or shrubs or climbing plants that we propose to plant, the ground should be deeply trenched and well manured, so that annual meddling about the roots may not be required. Whilst a certain proportion of evergreen shrubs, such as the beautiful hollies and barberries, should be used, it is undesirable to make too free a use of non-deciduous plants. The ordinary overcrowded laurel and privet shrubbery is hideous and depressing.

Trees and shrubs, however, are useful not only for the shelter and seclusion which they yield, but also for their delightful summer shade. In one of his essays, Emerson quotes an Arabian poet's description of his hero:—

That is a beautiful description of a perfect friend, but it might serve equally as a description of a perfect garden. The flowers of July are infinite in their number and exquisite in their beauty, yet, if they are grown in a large, tidy, treeless, shrubless garden, they will yield but little pleasure. A garden is not a place merely for the exhibition of floral wonders, but a place wherein to rest, to talk, to read or to dream. With the blazing sun of July beating on one's unshaded head, dreaming, resting, and reading are equally uncomfortable and unprofitable.

A shade-giving tree is worth all the flowers of midsummer, though fortunately one is not called upon to sacrifice either. Trees and shrubs yield welcome shade, but, quite apart from this, they help to throw up, and provide suitable backgrounds for, the dwarfer plants which make up the majority of our garden contents. We have been too fond of cutting down trees, and many a suburb has reason to regret the revision of the old forest law of King William: "Gif the forestier or wiridier finds anie man without the principall wode, but sit within the pale, heueand dune ane aik tree, he sould attack him."

According to our soil and site, must we select the shrubs and trees which will be happiest under the conditions we can offer them. When we have ample space, no trees can surpass in beauty our native deciduous trees, such as the oak and hornbeam; but it is from the smaller trees and larger shrubs that owners of more moderately-sized gardens must chiefly look for shade and backgrounds. Japan has given us many things of infinite value, but few more precious than the white-flowering species of Styrax. The dense, bright foliage, the sweetly-scented, snow-white bells, and the general habit of the tree render Styrax obassia one of the most valuable constituents of a garden. Japan, too, has given us a number of Maples which afford a feast of colour unrivalled by any other group of trees in the world. They are worth trying in any mild or protected situation, though they should be planted on a small, experimental scale at first as they do not thrive everywhere. They seem to like partial shade and a north aspect. Those who have mild and weather-favoured situations may glory in the fragrant and—when well grown—handsome Magnolias, though with these again success is not to be fore-counted a certainty. But few are so badly placed but they may grow the Lilacs, Laburnums, Hawthorns, Guelder Roses, Spiræas, Dogwoods, Weeping Birches, Weeping Willows, and Flowering Currants. As decorative as most, however, and more useful than any, of the shrubs and trees worth growing in a garden, are the apples and pears, medlars and quinces, plums and cherries whose flowers and fruits have always impressed the traveller as a beautiful feature of English landscape.

Beneath the shade of deciduous trees there are many plants which will live healthy and flowery lives. In the spring we have for such situations the great array of bulbs, together with many of the Primroses, Sweet Woodruff, Hepaticas, Hellebores, Fair maids of France, Doronicums, and other early bloomers; and, even when the trees are in full leaf, we may enjoy, if the soil be but properly prepared, such pleasant flowers as those of the Martagon Lily and Lilium speciosum, Campanulas, both dwarf and tall, Foxgloves, Knotweeds, and Columbines; whilst ferns of many kinds, together with several of the Saxifrages and Megaseas, and such plants as Acanthus mollis and the herbaceous Geranium, all help to produce the pleasant effect which is yielded by the draping of the floor of coppice or of forest. When the shade is so dense and the soil so poor that even these plants will not thrive, we may fall back on Ivy, Creeping Jenny, and Periwinkle; though, where the soil is enriched with old leafmould and manure and properly dug, no shade of trees is too dense for many of the ferns, both deciduous and evergreen.

Many people imagine that in some mysterious fashion plants eat soil much as we eat beef-steak; and that, all soil being just "soil," one has but to make a hole in the ground and thrust the roots of a plant into it, in order to make the desert bloom as the rose. This idea is incorrect, just as was the idea of a Devonshire farmer whom I once saw feeding his month-old baby with cheese and cider. "Feed 'un on milk?" said he. "I'd zooner gee 'un zope-zuds. Let 'un 'ave summat wi' zum strength in't."

Soil is to plants not a source of food alone, but is a suit of clothes, a blanket and coverlet, a cooking-range and a drawing-room fire. It is a pied-à-terre in its most literal sense, and it is a cellar and tankard combined. To all the great and beautiful world of flowers, the soil is indeed mother earth, giving them warmth and nourishment in their infancy, affording them a root-hold throughout their life, and offering them sanctuary for their bodies when their earthly life is done.

He who would grow beautiful flowers must therefore first study the soil from which he would raise them. He must get to know it, to learn its wants, and learn also how he may best satisfy them. In time, if he be indeed a lover of flowers, he will grow also to love the earth and to understand it. He will become one of those true and happy gardeners so beloved of the gods that every flower they lovingly plant is made to flourish and multiply.

First, then, let us think of what this soil is made, and of how it came into being. Look at the surface of any old stone-built church or house and you will see how every stone is partly covered by moss or lichen or other lowly plant. These plants are growing in soil—formed by the slow action of rain and air on the surface of the walls. Similarly, in the gradual pulverisation and decomposition of rocks, has all soil taken its origin. Similarly also, as a rule, have lowly plants been its first offspring, the bodies of which have been afterwards incorporated with their mother soil. By the further action of the weather, coupled with the action of the accompaniments of the decomposition of these early plants, the soil becomes deeper, and becomes also furnished with dead vegetable matter, or humus, without which none of the higher and more developed plants are able to live.

According to the nature of the original rock, and according also to the sort of natural "weathering" or "watering" to which it has been subjected, so will the resultant soil be mainly sand or mainly clay, or an equal mixture of the two. Mixed with these will usually be found a certain amount of little stones or gravel, and a certain amount of dark coloured humus. In a soil which is nearly all sand, or in one which is nearly all clay, few flowers will thrive, but in what is called a loamy soil—that is, one in which clay and sand are nearly equal—nearly all plants will grow and prosper if other conditions be favourable. The presence of humus in the soil is important in many ways, for not only does it contain much that is essential food for plant growth, but also it assists the earth in retaining that moisture without which life is impossible. By its chemical activity, also, it produces useful heat and liberates stores of food from the mineral soil itself. Therefore it is that we add dead leaves, farmyard manure, sea-weed and the like to our garden soil. But, though moisture is essential to the health of plants, the presence of stagnant water is little less fatal than drought. If we find that a hole dug in our gardens to the depth of two feet soon contains water not obtained from above, we may usually assume that drainage is required.

If our soil be too light (i.e. sandy) we may improve it by the addition of dried and powdered clay, meal and organic manure, from cowshed or stable; if it be too heavy (i.e. containing an excess of clay) we may make it more suitable for our garden use by mixing with it sand, ashes, lime, gritty road-scrapings, or old mortar.

We all know how very much hotter in summer and colder in winter is a starched linen shirt than is one made of flannel or of some cellular open-woven fabric. This is of course due to the fact that the former is the better conductor of heat. In like manner, a loose, cellular, "open-woven," porous soil is a much worse conductor of heat than the caked and baked soil which we often see in ill-kept gardens.

The roots of plants like coolness in summer, but in winter they desire all the warmth that they can obtain. Hence the desirability of always maintaining the surface of the ground to the depth of an inch or two in a loose open condition by means of the hoe. This is of value also in checking evaporation, for, by keeping the surface inch of soil loose and fine, the capillary connection between the air and the deeper layers of soil is broken. Surface mulchings of litter, moss, leaves or manure act in the same way as does the simpler mulch of hoed soil. Of course the process of top-dressing with leaves or farm-manure, in order to add to the soil the food elements which they contain, is quite a different matter, and cannot be replaced.

FOXGLOVES

Very few gardeners can be said to make anything[89][90] approaching adequate use of the soil which they cultivate. The majority of amateur gardeners, and not a few professional ones, never get their spade more than a foot or, at the outside, more than eighteen inches below the surface. As a matter of fact, all garden soil should be dug to a minimum depth of two feet, or preferably to a depth of three feet when possible. In preparing a piece of ground for planting, it should, therefore, be trenched as deeply as possible, preferably to a depth of three feet.

This operation may be performed as follows:—

Let A B C D represent the piece of ground to be trenched. Measure off A E, E G, G M, D F, F H, and N H, each the distance of one foot. Stretch a line from E to F and notch the surface with a spade along this line. Proceed in the same way from G to H. Next dig the piece A E F D to a depth of one foot, wheeling this surface soil to form a heap at B. Also dig to the same depth the piece E G H F and add this soil to the heap at B. Next remove the subsoil from the piece A E F D to the depth of another foot, and wheel it to C. The deeper subsoil in the piece A E F D should then be dug to a depth of another foot and left in its old position. The subsoil from E G H F to the depth of a foot should now be placed with the spade on A E F D, and the deep subsoil below it dug and left in situ. A layer of farm-yard manure may next be placed on the A E F D, and on this should be placed the top foot of soil from G M N H. The subsoil from G M N H should next be placed on E G H F, on this being placed a layer of manure covered in turn by fresh top soil. In this the work should be proceeded with until the last two feet of the patch are reached. The subsoil from I B C J is to be placed on the deep subsoil of K I J L, on this a layer of manure covered by one half of the surface soil in the heap at B. The heap of subsoil at C and the remainder of the surface soil at B are to be placed in the space I B C L.

This proceeding may strike the novice much as a problem of Euclid strikes the mentally lazy, but the importance of deep cultivation is so great that everyone who would be a successful gardener should thoroughly understand its practice. By the method of trenching above described, the three layers of earth called here soil, subsoil and deep subsoil are maintained in their respective orders of depth, for nothing is more fatal than to bury the "living earth" of the surface below the reach of the roots of our plants, bringing to the surface in its place the barren subsoil devoid of humus and devoid of those living bacteria so essential to the fertility of the soil. By proper and continuous cultivation, the actual living soil attains an ever increasing thickness, so that in time the top two feet may be correctly described as surface soil and become freely interchangeable throughout its thickness.

The idyll of manures has been written by the Dean of Rochester, who has placed on eternal record his devotion to Sterculus, the son of Faunus, whom he imaged as riding proudly, pitch-fork ("agricultural trident") in hand, in his family chariot, the currus Stercorosus (Anglice, muck-cart). As I can confess to no such love, I will merely state the few facts which all plant-growers must bear in memory.

The great and safe manure for hardy flower culture is that of the stable or farm-yard, which is so valuable, not only for the actual food elements which itself contains, but also for the mass of straw and other organic material which by its fermentation sets up chemical activity in the soil, and so liberates a small continuous supply of the plant-foods therein contained. This latter property is what gives much of its manurial value to the mixed "rubbish" of the ash-pit—containing as it generally does such waste organic matter as cabbage leaves, potato-peelings, and "bits" of all kinds. Buried weeds, leaves and "garden refuse" act in a precisely similar way. These organic manures are, moreover, of the greatest service in keeping the soil open, porous and friable, in retaining water and so retaining also mineral plant-foods dissolved therein, and in adding to the warmth of the soil both by engendering heat in the process of fermentation and by mechanically rendering the soil a worse conductor.

In the preliminary preparation of borders or beds, provided the soil be well dug to a depth of two or three feet, a really heavy dressing of farm-yard manure should be well incorporated—say about a ton to every two hundred square yards. The manure should not be buried, but should be intimately mixed with the whole depth of soil. A light sandy soil will take a heavier, and a heavy soil a lighter dressing than the average one suggested. The beds should be manured and otherwise prepared sometime before the planting is to take place, as many plants and especially many bulbous plants cannot stand the proximity of fresh and rank manure.

When the ground is thus properly prepared at the start, little more actual cultivation is needed in the case of most hardy herbaceous plants beyond annual top dressing with manure, occasional loosening of the surface soil where not covered by dwarf plants, weeding, and occasional thinning or division of big clumps. Whenever a plant is taken up, the opportunity should be seized to add a fork-load of rotten manure to the spot vacated. Top dressings should as far as possible be placed round plants in early spring, just before new growth starts, as the manure is then soon covered and concealed by foliage.

Bone meal, finely-broken bones, small quantities of guano, and even carefully-applied nitrate of soda (half-an-ounce to the square yard) have their respective values, but the novice will be wise in placing reliance on farm-yard manure for the bulk of his plants.

The gardening beginner will be well advised to obtain the greater number of his perennials as plants; but there are some which are easily grown from seeds, and seed-sowing is the method by which all the hardy annuals and biennials are to be raised. In the case of annual and biennial plants, such as sweet-peas, mignonette, nasturtiums, convolvuluses, nigellas, and the rest, the seed may well be sown in the open borders or beds, if the soil be but well dug and finely divided. It is advisable, however, to mix a little sand and leafmould with the soil, and to give the seed-bed a good watering on the night previous to sowing the seeds, if the soil be otherwise dry. At the same time it is necessary to avoid sowing when the ground is sticky after or during heavy rain. The seed having been sown in finely-pulverised soil which is neither too wet nor too dry, it is a good practice to press the seed-bed, either by the use of a roller, or by patting it with the flat of a spade. This tends to promote the flow of a continuous supply of moisture from the deeper parts to the surface of the soil by means of capillary attraction. As, however, this proceeding also promotes a continuous loss of soil-moisture by evaporation, the surface should be loosened by hoe or rake as soon as the young plants appear—indeed, in the case of the more deeply-buried seeds, such as sweet-peas, the surface should be slightly disturbed as soon as the sowing and pressing have been performed. In dry weather, evaporation from the seed-bed may be checked by shading it with a screen placed about two feet above the surface.

As to the depth at which seed should be sown, much depends on the variety, as also on the nature of the soil and the season of the year; but it may be taken as a general rule that small seeds should be covered by a depth of soil about equal to their thickness, whilst seeds such as sweet peas should be sown two inches deep. The soil must not be allowed to become quite dry, but great care is to be taken in watering, which should be done, when necessary, with a watering-pot provided with a very fine rose. Those perennials, such as the columbines, campanulas, poppies, and primroses, which are easily to be raised from seed, may be sown in open beds, but, as they are somewhat slower in germinating, it will usually be found more satisfactory to sow them in shallow earthenware pans containing a mixture of loam, sand and leaf-mould. The soil in the pans can best be kept moist by occasionally dipping the seed-pan in a vessel of water, being very careful not to lower it so that the surface of the soil is below the surface of the water. A sheet of glass may be placed as a cover to the seed-pan until germination takes place; but, in order to check evaporation from the surface, care should be taken not to "damp off" the young seedlings through excessive moisture and insufficient air.

There is one great rule to be borne in mind in sowing all kinds of seed, and that rule, printed in largest type, should be placed wherever gardeners are to be found:—SOW THINLY. Do not rely too much on subsequent thinning out, but allow space for development from the first, for at no stage of its career should a young plant be pressed upon by its neighbour. A knowledge of the size and habit of the mature plant is therefore necessary in order to estimate the requisite space between the seeds. It must, however, be remembered that a certain proportion of seeds will fail to germinate, and that a certain proportion of seedlings will fall victims to disease and snails. In the case of plants which are intended to be transplanted from the seed-bed or seed-pan, it is of course the size of the seedlings at the transplanting stage which has to be borne in mind in judging of the correct distance between the seeds. But it is a point which cannot be too often drubbed into young gardeners—and old ones too for that matter—that one well-grown plant is better than twenty badly grown ones. Also it should ever be remembered that a plant starved in infancy suffers for it throughout its career.

Seeds of hardy plants may be sown at almost any time during spring, summer, or autumn, provided that due attention be given in the matter of watering, preparation of the soil and the like. Most of the biennials and perennials may with advantage be sown in June and transplanted to their flowering quarters in September. Annuals intended to bloom in the summer or autumn should be sown in March, April and May; whilst those intended to flower in the following year should be sown in August and September.

Most plants may be transplanted at any season of the year if the operation be properly performed. A dull day or an evening should be selected, and a ball of earth should if possible be removed attached to the roots. The ground into which the plant is to be removed, should be well and deeply dug, and a deep and capacious hole be made with a trowel or dibbler. Into this the plant is to be carefully placed, its roots being well spread out and well settled by means of water. For a day or two after being moved, it should be shaded from the hot sun, and for the first few evenings should be liberally watered.

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The division of the rootstock is a method of propagation applicable to the majority of perennial plants. In the case of most corms and bulbs, it is necessary, in order to increase the supply, to separate the young bulbels or cormels and to plant them out in a nursery bed until they develop to a useful flowering size. But in the division of the rootstocks of herbaceous plants a certain amount of violence is usually required, and a strong knife, a cold chisel and a mallet will be found useful tools. Each plant, if it is to develop into a new plant, must include at least one eye or bud and must usually also be provided with a supply of rootlets.

Many plants may be propagated by the process known as layering, which essentially consists in pegging down a shoot to the ground by means of a little crotchet stick, having notched with a sharp knife half way through a joint at the point where the shoot touches the soil, and covering the pegged down part of the shoot with a few inches of good gritty loam. In a little while, roots will form at the point of section and the shoot can be separated from its parent as an independent plant. The Carnation is usually propagated in this way, the layering being performed in July and the young plants being separated a few months later. Roses may be pegged down and layered in a somewhat similar way, but in their case it is the middle of a branch and not its base which is cut and pegged beneath the soil.

Another method by which many plants can be increased is that of cuttage. This is the method usually employed by growers of chrysanthemums, pansies, and certain other plants. To effect this, a cut should be made in a slanting direction through the stem to be severed, just below a joint. As a rule cuttings of herbaceous plants should be made in the spring. Some cuttings will root readily in light soil in the open air if a shady position be selected, but usually it will be found to be desirable to plant the cuttings in pots of sandy loam and to place in a hot bed, shading from the sun until they are rooted.

"Let the painfull Gardiner expresse never so much care and diligent endeavour; yet among the very fairest, sweetest, and freshest Flowers, as also Plants of most precious Vertue; ill savouring and stinking Weeds, fit for no use but the fire or mucke-hill, will spring and sprout up." So wrote Boccaccio nearly six hundred years ago, and the truth of his observation has not lost its savour in spite of the centuries—though I, for one, should be sorry to apply to any plant of my acquaintance the adjectives of abuse which Boccaccio so naturally uses.

Of course one tries, and must ever try, to keep the garden free from weeds, but it is a matter for congratulation that we can never entirely succeed. Probably the earliest gardening memories of most of us are associated either with weeds, or with that branch of gardening usually first delegated to children—the operation of weeding. A great deal of the pleasure of growing flowers is undoubtedly due to the difficulties which one has to combat, and gardening with no weeds to worry us, with no snails, slugs, or green fly for us to fight, would be about as insipid an occupation as that known among the provincial middle-class as "paying calls." What beauty there is in these much despised weeds! Few wall plants, for instance, surpass in general "usefulness" the little Ivy-leaved Toad-flax (Linaria Cymbalaria), which bears its dainty purple snapdragon-like flowers nearly the year through. It is a tidy little plant, too, for, as soon as its flowers have been fertilised and are beginning to fade, it bends them aside so that the seed vessels may rest in some suitable crevice where the ripened seed may safely be born. The flowers which stand out from the plant, therefore, always look fresh and attractive.

Not everyone can grow the Gentians, but certainly everyone can grow—though not all of us can exterminate—those beautiful Veronicas, the Germander Speedwell and the Field Speedwell, with their brightest of blue flowers. Merely to name the dandelion, daisy, plantain, convolvulus, dock, pheasant's eye, and even the groundsel, is to remind ourselves of the great beauty which our garden weeds possess, and of the essential place which they occupy in the mental picture of a homely garden. Yet is there one "weed"—or "good plant in the wrong place," as a weed has been well defined—more prevalent than all others, hardier than most, and as beautiful as any. No garden, no road, no wall or fence even, but grass does its best to drape and to beautify it. And if gardening has made men blind to the beauty of the grass leaf, so blind that they needs must roll and cut it for appearance's sake, then is gardening to be ranked with that spirit of vestrydom, of which Mrs Meynell says such true, sarcastic things. But gardening need have no such tendency. Rather should it tend to make its devotees observant and admiring where plant beauty is concerned. Still, with weeds, be they ever so beautiful, ever so interesting, must the gardener wage eternal war. Nature, like the artist she is, abhors bare earth as much as she abhors a vacuum, and, where she sees a piece of ground uncovered, there she sows her seeds or projects her roots. One of the best ways of keeping weeds within bounds, therefore, is to have as little earth as possible uncovered by plants, for then weeds have small chance of entry and smaller chance of development. There is a hackneyed saying to the effect that one year's seeding means seven years' weeding, and there is wisdom in it; but rare indeed must be the gardens where in some odd corner weeds do not succeed each year in ripening and scattering their seeds. As soon as a weed is seen, it should be pulled up, or Dutch-hoed off, and, if it have not a perennial root, straightway buried in the garden or used as a mulch round shrubs or herbaceous plants. In addition to its primary object, the mere pulling up of weeds, or hoeing off their heads, is of the utmost value in loosening the surface of the ground, and so checking evaporation and the conduction of heat. In fighting with weeds, garden flowers will be much assisted by deep cultivation, rich soil, and a provision of those general conditions which conduce to their health and vigour. As a rule the annual weeds are kept under with comparative ease, it usually being the perennials with spreading roots which give the real trouble. In preparing a piece of ground, every piece of such root—be it of couch grass, bindweed, or what not—should be picked out and burnt. Then, if, through several seasons, every shoot of perennial weed be pulled off directly it is seen, they will eventually be subdued or even vanquished. For weedy paths, it is no longer necessary to spend hours or days in hand-weeding with basket and knife—historically interesting though that practice is. All that is now required is to water the paths, when dry, with a solution made by boiling five ounces of powdered arsenic in a gallon of water, stirring the while, and then adding two gallons of cold water, and half a pound of soda.

Such is the fate of the man who would be a gardener. He must wage constant battle with flowers whose beauty he can but acknowledge. He must be full of zeal for the murder of plants he is bound to love and admire. It is a little like hitting a woman; and, when one sees the weed, which has been violently hurled from bed and border, patiently trying to live its humble life on wall or rubbish-heap, smiling as sweetly as it may on the "owner" of the soil, one is reminded of that pathetic—even if fictitious—story of the vivisector's dog.

Vigorously growing plants are far less liable than are feeble ones to the attacks of the various living enemies which the gardener is called upon to combat. Therefore the most important item in the suppression of insect or fungoid pests is careful and correct culture. But, even in the best kept gardens, green-fly and earwig, slugs, snails and wireworms will appear, and must be dealt with by repressive as well as by preventive measures.

The green-fly, which is sometimes such a trouble to our roses and fruits, should be treated with vigorous and repeated syringing or hosing with water. If this is found to be inadequate, the affected plants may be washed with tobacco water (made by pouring half a gallon of boiling water on an ounce each of soft soap and shag tobacco, and allowing the strained infusion to cool), or with an emulsion made by stirring well together half a pint of petroleum oil, two ounces of hard soap, and a quart of nearly boiling water, afterwards adding half a gallon of cold water, and thoroughly mixing. This last application should always be applied in the evening.

Wireworms, which are such a foe of the carnation grower, may usually be destroyed by spreading gas-lime at the rate of two pounds per square yard over the unoccupied soil in the fall, ploughing or digging it into the ground a month or two later. If this is impracticable, the wireworms may often be trapped by burying pieces of potato at intervals, removing them every few days.

For destroying the fungus of mildew nothing is more effective than sulphur mixed with soft soap and water in the proportion of one ounce of sulphur and four ounces of soap to four gallons of hot water.

Earwigs, which so often spoil the Dahlia blooms, may be trapped by crumpling a newspaper and placing it among the plants, or by filling a flower-pot with moss and inverting it over a stake—in either case examining the traps daily and destroying the victims.

Snails and slugs should be caught at night and killed by placing them in a bucket and covering them with salt. They may be trapped by placing cabbage or lettuce leaves at intervals about the garden, examining beneath them each morning; or they may sometimes be destroyed by watering the plants which they frequent with lime-water (made by adding a gallon of water to a quarter pound of freshly burnt lime, and straining).

Birds are sometimes harmful, but on the whole they do more good than harm in a garden, and I am inclined to agree with an old gardener, who, having caught a blackbird among the gooseberries, was asked by his master what he had done with it. "Oh," he replied, "I just gave 'im a warning and let 'im go."

1. Grow no plant which does not strike you as either beautiful or interesting.

2. Learn the requirements of every plant as far as possible before ordering it, and have everything ready before its arrival.

3. Do not overcrowd, but allow every plant to develop and display its own form of beauty. On the other hand, show as little bare earth as possible at every season of the year.

4. Have few beds and many and wide borders. It will often, however, be found convenient to grow in beds such flowers as Carnations, which require to be frequently replanted, and which will not tolerate the competition of other plants; but even with Carnations may be planted many bulbs, such as Crocuses, Tulips, Spanish Irises and Gladioli. In any case, aim at being a four-season gardener, and make your garden interesting in every part the year through.

5. The borders should generally be wide—where there is ample space not less than nine to twelve feet. They should be backed by a plant-covered trellis or wall, or by flowering and evergreen shrubs.

6. Cultivate the soil to a depth of two or three feet in the manner described in this book, and in dry weather supply abundance of water, and keep the surface mulched either with moss or manure, or with loose soil.

7. In arranging mixed borders, avoid dottiness, preferring rather to plant bold clumps or masses of individual species. Let the surface of the soil be carpeted by low-growing, surface-rooting plants, such as the dwarf Campanulas, Aubrietias, Arenarias, Silene acaulis, S. alpestre, Linaria alpina, Veronica saxatilis and the like. Let the taller growing plants be mostly towards the back of the border, and the smaller plants mostly near the front, but avoid primness by allowing an occasional clump of tall plants (especially those, such as Gladioli and Lilies, which need special care) to break the front margin, and by letting the dwarfer carpeting plants spread towards the back of the border.

8. Keep in a shed or in a corner of the garden a compost heap composed of two parts sand, one part fibrous loam (such as the top spit of meadow land), one part of two-year-old leaf mould, and one part of two-year-old stable manure. Whenever one is transplanting a herbaceous or other plant, it will be found very helpful to cover the roots with a few inches of this soil. Mixed with an equal quantity of sand it will also be useful to place round bulbs when planting them.

9. When planting, always dig a hole sufficiently large and deep to contain the roots well spread out. Place the plant in position, cover the roots with a few inches of the compost just named, and give a bucketful of water to settle the earth. Then fill up the hole with ordinary soil, firmly pressing with the foot if necessary, though the liberally watering often does away with the need. In any case the surface should be ruffled up into a state of looseness in order to check evaporation.

10. Keep a special garden notebook in which to note things which want correcting or developing. If not noted when recognised, they are likely to be forgotten when the season for making the change comes round. Also note any good plants or good effects which you may see in the gardens of others.

11. Buy your seeds of the best seedsmen, regardless of price. Buy your plants from the best nurseries, even though they may be listed a little cheaper elsewhere.

12. Do not be content merely to copy the "arrangements," "groupings" and such which you may see suggested in books or practised by your friends. Study books, study gardens, and study wild nature, but use your own brains.

13. Make, or remake, one border every year. You will thus always have sufficient surprise to afford spice or seasoning to the "settled" part of your garden.

14. It is interesting, in addition to cultivating a large variety of flowers, to grow one flower or one race of flowers as a specialty.

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