23G 
JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AND COTTAGE GARDENER. 
[ September 14, 1893. 
AN EiNTIIUSTASTIC VETERAN. 
All who know him, whether personally or only by report and 
through his writings, must admit that he answers to the descrip¬ 
tion of my title, not as a mere fanciful dreamer seeing all things 
through rose-coloured glasses, but as a downright hard worker 
whose achievements justify his aims, and whose life work has been 
productive of results by which the community at large has been 
greatly benefited. 
As a teacher of horticulture, Robert Fenn was one of that staff 
of grand old gardeners who in the Cottage Gardener did such a 
noble pioneer work for its advancement. It was over the charac¬ 
teristic signature of “Upwards and Onwards” that most of his 
striking and original contributions appeared, and though since he 
retired from actual practice he has not written so frequently, he 
13 as active as ever, and his occasional notes, too, are as welcome as 
ever to readers of the Journal of Horticulture. They may be brief, 
but they are very much to the purpose ; so effective was that 
last one on “Anti-blight Powder” that it brought to a climax 
the long pending intention of a pilgrimage to Sulhampstead (as our 
leader has it) by two other gardeners whose claims to be regarded 
as veterans also are fairly admissible. 
The morning after the publication of that article we were on 
our way to Cottage Farm ; a hearty greeting had we from the 
writer of it on our arrival at Theale Station. We were soon at 
the cosy home of our host, giving due admiration on our way to 
the transparent waters of unpolluted Thames in such striking 
contrast to the pea-soup-like appearance of it that morning in 
cockneydom ; then we enjoyed the pleasant country lane, with its 
overhanging trees, and the fresh green herbage of the rich pastures 
on each side of it. Soon were we among the cider casks and 
seedling Potatoes discussing a point of practice at almost every 
step, listening to anecdotes of bygone days, telling us of persistent 
effort and of many a triumph over difficulties. The raising of 
seedling Potatoes by the veteran appears now to be confined to the 
crossing of^ species, a by no means unimportant matter in view of 
the possibility of an infusion of greater power of disease resistance. 
In the past it must have been a heavy matter, involving much 
labour and almost incessant attention. That it was done, and 
done well, we know ; precisely how has yet to be told. One thing 
that is clear is that Mrs. Fenn has been no mere silent worshipper 
of her clever husband ; she has worked with him, doing her part 
and something more, for not only has she tested almost innumer¬ 
able seedlings, cooking, as she told us, as many as 300 of the sorts 
on trial in a season, but she has evidently entered with her whole 
heart into the work, watching the progress of each batch of 
seedlings, and cheering her husband with the loving sympathy of a 
true wife. As she came down the garden to us, while we were 
among the Potatoes, we were listening to the story of how in 
digging up a certain batch of seedlings one was found apparently 
with nothing but stem and roots. The roots had been followed to 
the depth of the digging-fork, “handle and all,” quite in the 
contrary direction to the aspirations of “ Upwards and Onwards,” 
who was about to give it up as a bad job, when, as he told us, with 
the cheering cry of “ Dig away. Bob ! ” from his better half came 
the incentive to go a bit deeper, with the result of the unearthing 
of a cluster of Yam-like tubers almost a foot in length. 
In the garden we saw among many kinds, all free from 
disease, such splendid varieties as Eliza Fenn, Lady Truscott, 
Reading Russet, Reading Ruby, and others. There was no 
blight and no supertuberation, the foliage supported by short 
Pea boughs, aud dressed with the blight-preventing powders, was 
perfectly healthy. Xot a disease spore had laid hold of it, and the 
tubers were clear-skinned and ripe for lifting. For four con¬ 
secutive years has Mr. Fenn kept disease off the Potatoes by the 
persistent use of the powder, puffing it over the growth from the 
earliest stages of growth onwards till the tubers are sufficiently 
mature for lifting. He evidently wants no dates for his dressings ; 
he lives among his crops, and anticipates their wants. Hitherto he 
has used the bellows for this work ; but telling us to wait a bit, he 
ran off down the garden—yes, positively ran—quickly returning 
with some powder in a fine sieve to illustrate his remarks about 
the ease of application of the powder to the surface of the leaves, 
which he is positive is the only part in danger. Certainly there 
were his Potatoes without a blemish in tuber, stem, or leaf. Has 
he not sufficient reason to be positive ? More than this, he holds 
that by the maintenance of the foliage in perfect health there is a 
more full development of tubers and greater bulk of crop, and he 
is right. 
Surely it will be admitted that Mr. Fenn has devoted his life 
to a work of national importance by the improvement he has 
wrought in a staple article of food ? He has given us Potatoes 
which are the perfection of size, form, and quality, which are 
literally flourballs from the present time till the new Potatoes 
come in again. He has improved the old hollow-eyed type out of 
cultivation, and now, as a fitting crown and finish of his work, he 
is showing in an easy, simple, and certain manner how to prevent 
disease from attacking the foliage. He has kept his Tomatoes 
equally healthy, the foliage being a bright green, the _ growth 
vigorous, and the crop excellent. To ordinary attention is added 
an occasional puffing of powder over the whole of the growth, as 
being all that is necessary to keep off disease. 
Evidently both Robert Fenn and his “Missus” are nothing if 
not original—that was apparent everywhere, even at table where we 
were regaled with most excellent fare consisting of home-cured 
bacon, home-made bread and cider, his seedling Cabbage, First- 
and-follow-on, of singularly delicate flavour, and above all some 
superb Eliza Fenn Potatoes. After seeing the ample store of jams, 
and the barrels of various home-made liquors, we saw the fruit 
trees mostly laden with a heavy crop of fruit. Both young and 
old trees of “Pay the Rent” had plenty of fiuit upon them, as 
have several other kinds. The trees are everywhere—in the orchard, 
plantation, garden, and along the margin of the grass land. Some 
had been headed down and regrafted, no worthless sort being kept, 
every tree being known and cared for as an individual. Just so is 
it with the numerous ornamental trees given to Mr. Fenn by his 
numerous friends ; a watchful eye is kept upon every one of them, 
and needful attention paid to their requirements. 
Of the grass and arable land mention will be made in another 
article. Of fruit and vegetables much more might be said, for 
Mr. Fenn has a marvellous fund of anecdote and reminiscence in 
connection with his life’s work most pleasant to hear, and much of 
which is worth recording. Quite delightful was it to listen to him, 
as he unconsciously showed how he is and has been held in honour 
by good men and true. Perhaps one of the greatest compliments 
ever paid him was when Mr. Paterson, feeling that his end was draw¬ 
ing nigh, sent him all his untried seedlings. They were carefully 
tested, and the produce of one of them was sent, after Paterson’s 
death, to his son, with a note to the effect that it was valuable, and 
should be taken care of. That Potato was the famous Paterson’s 
Victoria. Quaint old Chaucer taught that truth and honour were 
the essential characteristics of a gentleman. In our friend these 
high and noble qualities are eminently conspicuous, combined with 
kindly feeling, earnestness of purpose, energetic action, and—well, 
just a tinge of enthusiasm ; they have made Robert Fenn to be 
held in general esteem, and a man whom the three pilgrims, in 
common with many others, are proud to term their friend.— 
Edward Luckhurst. 
There were three of us. One a gardener developed into a 
farmer of a somewhat advanced type, also steward, surveyor, 
farm and garden instructor, and I know not what besides; one a 
philosopher who would not wear a collar to save his head, and 
whose cook I would not be for £500 a year ; and one a scribe 
who was made to feel rather small early in the day. He is 
getting on in years, and his beard is white, but his head scarcely 
“turned a hair.” The philosopher is just the reverse—beard 
brown, head white. On his being asked for an explanation of 
the phenomena he came down a crusher, in the words of an old 
Scottish divine—“ Men with white beards and dark hair work 
most with their jaws, while men with white heads and dark beards 
work most with their brains.” It was useless for the victim to 
plead his still tongue as against the philosopher’s great conversa¬ 
tional power; the farmer shook his sides like a John Bull in 
ecstacies, and the poor scribe appeared to settle into a brown 
study, not moving his beard till—well, till dinner time. The 
philosopher was there too, very much there, and made one wonder 
why his beard had not turned white years ago. Was it dyed? 
Now the scribe has had his little revenge he will proceed with his 
narrative lightsomely and according to the weather. 
“ Why, the man’s writing nonsense! ” someone says. Yes, he is ; 
and the man who says so is reading it, though he has plenty of 
substantial fare all around him. “ Oh ! I am so sorry you were in 
the village public house the other night,” remarked a good lady to 
her butler. To which he replied, “ Yes, my lady. I was, the first 
time for twelve months ; but cohere do you think the gossip was 
when she saw me there?” If I am told of the shoals of faults in 
this free and easy communication I shall know somebody has “been 
there,” as the cockney gossips say “ a reading of it,” for which 
purpose it was written. 
We met at Westbourne Park—not a lordly demesne, but simply 
the well-known ticket station of the Great Western Railway. It 
was a hot day, and the philosopher was found wrapped in wool— 
all wool—for he abhors cotton, and thinks it kills people. On his 
white head he had a thick heavy dark cloth cap—to draw the heat, 
most people would have thought. Oh, no ! “ Woollen cloth keeps 
out the heat and cold alike, and the body exactly at the right 
temperature to the fraction of a degree.” Happy man! But the 
