flowers, movable at will. That saxifrage, indeed,
is one of my happiest devices. Finding that grass
would not thrive upon the steep bank of my mounds,
I dotted them over with tufts of it, which have spread,
until at this time they are clothed in vivid green
the year round, and white as an untouched snowdrift
in spring. Thus also the foot-wide paths of my
rose-beds are edged; and a neater or a lovelier border
could not be imagined.
With such a tiny space of ground the choice of roses
is very important. Hybrids take up too much room
for general service. One must have a few for
colour; but the mass should be Teas, Noisettes, and,
above all, Bengals. This day, the second week
in October, I can pick fifty roses; and I expect to
do so every morning till the end of the month in a
sunny autumn. They will be mostly Bengals; but
there are two exquisite varieties sold by Messrs.
Paul—I forget which of them—nearly
as free flowering. These are Camoens and Mad.
J. Messimy. They have a tint unlike any other
rose; they grow strongly for their class, and the bloom
is singularly graceful.
The tiny but vexatious lawn was next attacked.
I stripped off the turf, planted drain-pipes along
the gravel walk, filled in with road-sweepings to
the level of their tops, and relaid the turf.
It is now a little picture of a lawn. Each drain-pipe
was planted with a cutting of ivy, which now form
a beautiful evergreen roll beside the path. Thus
as you walk in my garden, everywhere the ground is
more or less above its natural level; raised so high
here and there that you cannot look over the plants
which crown the summit. Any gardener at least
will understand how luxuriantly everything grows and
flowers under such conditions. Enthusiastic visitors
declare that I have “scenery,” and picturesque
effects, and delightful surprises, in my quarter-acre
of ground! Certainly I have flowers almost enough,
and fruit, and perfect seclusion also. Though
there are houses all round within a few yards, you
catch but a glimpse of them at certain points while
the trees are still clothed. Those mounds are
all the secret.
II.
I was my own gardener, and sixteen years ago I knew
nothing whatever of the business. The process
of education was almost as amusing as expensive; but
that fashion of humour is threadbare. In those
early days I would have none of your geraniums, hardy
perennials, and such common things. Diligently
studying the “growers’” catalogues,
I looked out, not novelties alone, but curious novelties.
Not one of them “did any good” to the
best of my recollection. Impatient and disgusted,
I formed several extraordinary projects to evade my
ignorance of horticulture. Among others which
I recollect was an idea of growing bulbs the year
round! No trouble with bulbs! you just plant them
and they do their duty. A patient friend at Kew
made me a list of genera and species which, if all
went well, should flower in succession. But there
was a woeful gap about midsummer—just the
time when gardens ought to be brightest. Still,
I resolved to carry out the scheme, so far as it went,
and forwarded my list to Covent Garden for an estimate
of the expense. It amounted to some hundreds
of pounds. So that notion fell through.
