A Lowland overlooks the whole, the eye is carried instinctively down long 
Garden broad masses of choicest garden flowers, with their backing 
of tall Yew hedges, across miles of field, and scattered woodland, 
rising in gentle, unsuspected degrees till hill and sky intermingle 
and fade away in the far distance. Every walk in the garden 
has its own characteristic setting. One is a continuous pergola 
of trained Apple trees, as beautiful in autumn with russet-skinned 
fruits, as in May, when wreathed in tender pink. Another calls 
to remembrance “the pleached bower where Honeysuckles 
ripened by the sun forbid the sun to enter.’ One part opens 
on a quaint little garden of miniature beds, edged with Box, 
and filled with strong-scented Rue, Southernwood, the fearsome 
Mandrage with its egg-shaped apples, gray Lavender, Camomile, 
and other fragrant herbs and quaint old plants familiar since the 
Stuart kings united the countries lying north and south of the 
Tweed. Close by there is another walk of different aspect, broad, 
turf-covered, and partly overshadowed by fruit trees gnarled 
with years. Under these are large groups of Phloxes in many 
colours, and nearer to the front Scotch Candy, French and 
African Marigolds, Yellow Nasturtiums, Snapdragons, Galtonia, 
and Fennel. Other walks are bordered with immense hedges 
of Sweet Peas, with Michaelmas Daisies, Christmas Roses and 
Peonies, Lilies of the Valley and Sweet William, Pinks and 
Columbines, and flaunting Tulips which hang the head as if 
half ashamed of their bravery. Here too are grown Roses of 
every kind loved long ago—Scotch, Tuscany, Moss, and Prince 
Charlie Roses. Nor may we overlook the terrace walls—white, 
when Apricots and Plums are in bloom—or the corners and 
gateways, enlivened with white Jasmine, Banksian Roses, and 
rambling Clematis—Paniculata for autumn and Montana for 
46 
