Febraary 5, 1601. ] 
JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AND COTTAGE GARDENER. 
91 ) 
T he idea of gardening presents at least two prominent and 
distinctive aspects—the msthetic and the economic. These 
iiwo divisions may, of course, run into many sub-divisions ; but if 
rgardening is—as Bacon said it is, and as those who are true 
^^rdeners have found it to be —“ the purest of human pleasures,” 
then it must present itself thus. 
The garden may serve to typify that higher cultivation of that 
•sacred enclosure, the hedge of which is the heart of man—nay, it 
■seemeth rather that, viewed in its higher aspect, it speaketh first 
•this parable of culture, written on the palimpsest of Nature. We 
Tvill bear this in our mind. The proper balancing, then, of these 
phases or conditions will be found needful in giving life its 
-blessedness. The interblending of the artistic and the useful 
">vill help in no small measure to give the varying, the ever-varied, 
touches of individuality, which in the concrete we call character. 
Oradgrind has no perception of the beautiful ; he lacks the art 
faculty, he has no conception of the real worlds of joy and beauty 
■which lie beyond the shadows of the money bags and pork boxes. 
IVIaudle, on the other hand, is perhaps as ignorant of the elements 
•which go to build up true manhood as it is brought into contact 
with the practical problems of an everyday life, beyond the 
-atmosphere of the drawing-room, outside the range of velvet 
<50uche3 and the plush of flunkeydom. But we are not now 
flsoncerned with Glradgrind or Maudle ; we simply ignore them. 
They shall not come with us through the gate. They have no interest 
4n this kingdom of Flora, whither we are now to wend our way. 
But it is well, at any rate, to note that the tincture of trade is 
■being poured into the essence of everything. The coronet now 
^nay be imprinted upon the millinery box, and the motto of an 
ancient earldom might find place on the bill-heads used for due 
■notification of the sales of the produce, on market principles, of 
the castle gardens. Does this betoken the touch of Midas, which 
would unchecked bring everything to the dead level of dulled 
?gold ? Do not let us too readily get into the shade of pessimism, 
but there does seem to be some danger that the utilitarian spirit 
«nay permeate everything, and “a joy for ever” will only 
-eventually be gauged and valued by its price in the market. 
In the midst of these misgivings it seems well to sing the praises 
of the old love. Let us keep her graces well in the mind’s eye. 
Let us see her prettily dressed, in dainty attitude, not always as a 
•drudge plus cash book and ledger. Let us, in short, leave the 
atmosphere of the Exchange and of the work-room, and get away 
into the fresh air and the open. Let us anticipate the spring. 
But why attempt to write upon garden glory just on the first 
step of the new year ? The earth is bare and cold. The ground 
is hard, and the frost has continued night after night. The wind 
is keen as it tumbles in from the east, or boisterous as it blows hard 
from the north. The garden tools have got coated with rust, and 
much blue-faced humanity comes and goes, seemingly driven as 
■closely as the birds, to come and show themselves for fragments 
that may be spared to keep the flickering flame of life burning. 
Why write upon garden glory now ? 
Yes. You see in imagination the dead Daisies, the drooping 
Mayflowers, the blackened Lily, the Rose naked but for its thorns, 
the creepers up the wall a tangled mass of shrivelled fibres, and 
y^ou dream on gloomily through the winter day. Shall I write 
No. 554.—VoL. XXII., Third Series. 
“ Ichabod ” over the gate ? Surely the glory has departed. Stay ; 
almost whilst you are yet speaking a slanting sunbeam steals 
through the chink of an opened door in the western sky, and look¬ 
ing back to the bare brown bit of border, you see a Christmas 
Rose and the peep of a slender stalked Snowdrop, and in these tiny 
messengers you seem to be able to read the parable of Nature again, 
and you start off lighter hearted on a new road, of new thought 
and new hope, as you pass under review the pageant of the seasons. 
Soon the silver Snowdrops ■will modestly hang out their 
bells and lead the way, and as though this were not wealth enough 
the Winter Aconite will put its dots and lines of gold upon the 
brown coverlet of earth, with dainty decorative effect. Start once 
made, how quickly the array of beauty is marshalled into order and 
brought into view in succession. These tiny things, taking first 
timid peep, just pushed above the earth level, how prettily they 
seem to kiss the sun and wave open hands to the sky. “ These 
tiny things,” I have just said, for you will have observed how the 
early spring flowers hasten to get petals open. They come with 
spasmodic start and eagerness, all flower many of them as though 
they cannot wait for the leaves. This is not garden precocity only. 
The Coltsfoot in the field, shooting up its golden-starred crown, 
cannot wait for foliage. The Crocus cups stand in a gay line, 
leaves must come later. 
Then these are followed in quick march by Daffodils, seeming 
to say for Nature, “ Nay, but we will not allow such hard and fast 
rules to govern the order of the springtide. Leaves last ? Not 
always. Watch us. See, we will stud the field thickly with 
green blades, broad and full, yet quickly shall follow the flower.” 
And what a flower ! What a splendid page has opened to us! 
What a book of fairy tales ! What a picture of gay glory ! The 
Field of the Cloth of Gold ! Other sturdy leaved plants follow with 
a rush. Paeonies, big with bud of hot crimson and cool pale 
pink, with creamy white, and all the shades the most fastidious 
could wish. The great family of the Iris tribes, with leaves like 
swords in an armourj', and flower heads as pretty as Orchids ; and 
now the hot sun has brought so many fair faces from behind the 
veil that one cannot attempt portraiture in so small a gallery—the 
Editor has other demands for his wall space. 
But we are led to the Roses—the June Roses. Oh ye Queens* 
one echoes the sentiment which lingers in the mind once stirred 
with the eloquence of one who can write about gardens ! Oh ye 
Queens! 
“ What garden grace can be compared to thine? 
So sweet, so silent, and with face so fine; 
So fair a preecnce. Lips that ope with racrn 
Proclaim thee Queen. Thy beauty hides the thorn. 
We may perhaps not agree—all of us—to go quite the length of 
the old Rose lover who thus saw such charms in his favourite as to 
eclipse the perchance simpler beauties of other Court attendants to 
whom we pay equal respect with “the queen of flowers.” But there 
is no time for jealousy, and no desire for it in this domain. I love 
the Daisy because it is a Daisy ; the Rose because it isn’t. What 
philosopher was it who said “ Art is Art because it is not Nature ? 
We will not cavil if you please ; the walk is wide enough for two. 
There is room for both, and all, and everybody. 
Then wo are led on to the rich full autumn-tide. The spring 
balm and the warm sunshine have been pouring growth and life 
into the big stemmed plants—Hollyhocks and Dahlias, the 
Gladiolus and the Sunflower, and the long list of plants which 
come in to fill the idea of wealth which seems to be associated with 
the harvest time. But not alone in the glory of petal and perianth 
do we find the resources of autumn. The very leaves carry the 
suggestion of iridescence, the secret of suppressed fire which will 
burst out in dashes and streaks and in flame tongues of scarlet and 
purple and gold. That which came a shy tender green when the 
May was on the hedges is now like a torch in the October sun, and 
the Thorn tree, which was a bush of snow-blcssom in summer, has 
No. 2210.—VoL. LXXXIV., Old Series. 
