to the garden, are usually away in London at the supreme An Aber- 
moment of garden ultramarine. I remember a fine castle deenshire 
garden, which once I revisited after an absence, and missed the Garden 
long, rich lines of Gentian that had bordered every walk. The 
lady of the castle told me “they all were done away with, as 
she never saw them in flower. She never came North until quite 
the latter end of July, so where was the use of keeping them?” 
There is a beautiful old garden in Aberdeenshire, not 
known to fame, where long ago I used to delight in a quaint 
pattern of garden beds set out with narrow walks. Each bed 
was sumk in the same way as in the ancient gardens of the 
Alcazar in Seville, and each enclosed in a box hedge about two 
feet high. One of these queer beds was filled with tiny white 
Campanula, another with low Scotch Roses, and so on with 
the rest. Each had a different plant inside, and all of old- 
fashioned kinds. It was rather hard to see the flowers so deep 
down within their little box hedges. One had to go up quite 
close to see them at all. It is all charming in its way, but 
one would hardly advise the setting out nowadays of so queer a 
parterre. 
In that garden was a great mound, if it might be so 
described, of white Wood-Honeysuckle. Who could forget the 
summer bloom of that mass of perfumed loveliness? How the 
bees worshipped it! Then the flower-borders were full of 
interest, filled with strange, alien plants—rare plants gathered 
from out-of-the-way gardens far and near, or from the unwont 
collections of an army of garden friends. There in autumn 
hung the great fruit—the size of a hen’s egg—of Podophilum, 
glowing scarlet underneath its dark green foliage, and tall 
purple Verbascum, and a series of rare species of Solomon’s Seal 
F 4I 
