172 MY FARM. 



entertained a kindly regard for that fruit. But my 

 efforts to grow it successfully have been sadly 

 baffled. The English climate alone, I think, will 

 bring it to perfection. I know not how many ven- 

 tures I have made with ' Roaring-Lion,' ' Brown 

 Bob,' ' Conquerors,' and other stupendous varie- 

 ties ; but without infinite care, after the first crop 

 the mildew will catch and taint them. Our native 

 varieties, such, for instance, as the Houghton-seed- 

 ling, make a better show, and with ordinary care, can 

 be fruited well for a succession of seasons. But it is 

 not, after all, the stanch old English berry, which 

 pants for the fat English gardens, for the scent of 

 hawthorn, and for the lowering fog-banks of Lan- 

 cashire. 



Garden associations (with those who entertain 

 them) inevitably have English coloring. Is it 

 strange when so many old gardens are blooming 

 through so many old books we know ? 



No fruit is so thoroughly English in its associa- 

 tions ; and I never see a plump Roaring-Lion, but 

 I think of a burly John Bull, with waistcoat strained 

 over him like the bursting skin of his gooseberry, 

 and muttering defiance to all the world. There is, 

 too, another point of resemblance ; the fruit is liable 

 to take the mildew when removed from British soil, 

 just as John gets the blues, and wraps himself in a 



