42 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
assemblies of the delicate carmine-freaked snow of the 
Silver Standard has all the elegance—and thrice the 
freshness—of an old brocade. For a fine, if solemn, 
amaranthine red there is no tulip of my acquaintance 
that I would set before the grandiose Cardinal’s Hat; 
but that is not for plucking; once set in water it will 
disclose a sallow centre that dispels its dignity. Not so 
is it with my faithful Van der Neer, which will fill 
impartially with bounteous grace either the great 
Georgian copper urn, the shining Sheffield vessel, or 
the plumply-fashioned vase of blue and white Delft. 
Without doors, as it grows in the garden-beds, its 
frank and full-blown purples might be thought to verge 
very perilously near upon magenta, were it not for the 
sympathetic tones of mauve and lilac that inform the 
colour of naked earth. So that, here, the delectable 
practice of underplantation would fail of its purpose and 
prove nothing better than a marplot. I have yet to 
discover a really harmonious neighbour for the Van der 
Neer; it is in passages of gorgeous discord, when you 
are composing a plot that shall resemble one of Aladdin’s 
palace windows, that he is invaluable. Another mag¬ 
nificent irreconcilable is the Greigii, whose flamboyant 
beauty, like the poet’s rose, angry and brave, might well 
bid the rash gazer wipe his eye. This also is of lusty 
proportions, and should you, as I did, happen upon it 
suddenly amid a circle of frail rose-pink Van Gooyen, 
you too might have shared the pangs of George Herbert’s 
rash gazer. However, that arrangement found place in 
Araminta’s garden, not in mine ; and if one is not timid 
of strong colour, there should be tremendous potentials 
