September 14 , 1893. ] 
JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AND COTTAGE GARDENER. 
237 
burly farmer takes his eye—and fills it ; the first meeting after 
more than twenty years. “ Why it can’t be the same young man 
of the old days ! yet it muit be. But how you’ve grown ! ” and 
then it was a comfort for a quiet man to ensconce himself behind a 
newspaper in the most far away corner possible to escape the battle 
of the tongues as they fought out the claims of Potatoes and Tulips, 
for one of the combatants is great on one, while the other seemed 
“gone ” on the other. This Tulip and ’taty war was continued till 
the end of the journey, and only ceased when the scribe shouted— 
“ There he is ! don’t you see him on the platform, in the cream- 
coloured hat ? that’s Fenn ! ” He had come to meet the pilgrims. 
What a change from the man in wool ! Here was our host in his 
white blouse—indeed white, almost from head to foot, looking as 
cool as a Cucumber, while he gave to his friends the warmest of 
welcomes, as is his wont. “ And now we have to get home,” quoth 
he. “ Here is the cart for three, and the waggonette is coming.” 
The cart seemed to tempt the farmer. It was a genuine country 
article that had, no doubt, carried many a load of Potatoes, and 
had a seat across it for three. Away jogged Fenn and the farmer, 
as happy a pair as the man in charge had ever seen safely set down 
at Cottage Farm. 
There are two ways to Sulhampstead from the station. One 
over the bridge to the left, eventually skirting the park—“ Fenn’s 
coach road the other to the right through the village of Theale 
along the Bath Road to the “ Three Kings and Jack’s Booth”—a 
wayside house that marks the turning to our rendezvous. And 
here was made a discovery. When the farmer left London he had 
as much thought of seeing the Queen as his sister, but here he 
discovered her as the happy landlady of “ Jack’s Booth.” No, you 
have not caught us, Mr. Watchful Reader, as the butler was 
caught—in the public house. We did not go in with the farmer, 
but on the return journey waited outside for him like strict TT.’s. 
Cottage Farm is a truly rural home two miles from the station. 
As auctioneers would say, “It stands in its own grounds of 
15 acres,” a picturesque and fertile little property, which has been 
greatly improved by Mr. Fenn since he purchased it some fifteen 
years ago. We enter the orchard gate, and find thrifty well fed 
trees laden with excellent fruit. By a well contrived system farm¬ 
yard drainage and sewage are conveyed to the trees by channels 
cut in the grass, the land gently sloping, and the trees in turns 
are given a treat. Of one tree of Cox’s Orange Pippin its owner 
is particularly proud. He brought it with him from Woodstock, 
but before then exhibited fruit from it at one of the Royal Horti¬ 
cultural Society’s Shows. Mr. Ingram of Frogmore invariably 
won with “ Cox’s,” but that year Mr. Fenn was told, prior to the 
judging, he was going to beat the Queen. “ No,” he replied, 
“that will never do ; tell the Judges from me that Mr. Ingram 
must have the first prize.” It was so decided, but the money for 
an extra first was sent to the parson’s gardener who refused to 
be placed before the gardener to Her Majesty ; “ and here,” he 
says, holding up his hand, “is the result of it”—a massive gold 
ring that his then employer, Mr. St. John, obtained for him. Then 
the wearer of it goes on to tell that the raiser of the Apple was his 
friend residing near Slough, and he pressed Mr. Cox to place it 
in the hands of Mr. Charles Turner for distribution—a scrap of 
history relating to the best dessert Apple grown in this country. 
The barn is a feature at Cottage Farm—a great gaunt old time 
wooden structure with a thatched roof. It is a museum of 
curiosities—a conglomeration of bags, boxes, and tubs with cider 
and wine-making appliances all round. Apples, Pears, Plums, 
Brambles, and even the purple-fruited Berberries are all turned to 
account; fermentation is active in tubs and barrels, and the brewer 
bustles about to show us his work and ways. As blithsome as a 
boy and happy as a prince is Robert Fenn in his rare old barn. 
But I must cease. The gardener-farmer said he should write 
something, and we must not both tell the same story, or if we do 
not tell it in the same way, on the latter point of which there is 
little to fear. He will no doubt tell about the Potatoes and 
general crops, and perhaps of the home-grown dinner which the 
philosopher appeared to enjoy as well as his mundane friends. 
There is perhaps one thing he (the Gr. F.) will not think about— 
the early history of our host himself. It was a happy thought 
that led someone to ask, after a taste of Berberry port, “ Where did 
you spring from, old fellow, and where were you trained ? ” 
“Spring from, why I sprang from Bury St. Edmunds, and I should 
have bought the jail there awhile ago if there had been a bit more 
land with it. As for training, I was sent to a jeweller’s shop in 
Kensington, and have snatched fruit from a nursery where the 
museums now stand. But the jewellery trade didn’t suit me, and 
I didn’t mean to have it, so commenced saving my sixpences to 
run away, and run away I did. I spent a fortnight in the London 
Docks looking for a berth on board ship, but in a weak moment 
lent all my money, and have not seen the borrower from that day 
to this. I was sought after, caught, and carried home ; then 
packed off to Oxfordshire to look after chickens, pheasants, and 
other pets belonging to a young gentleman. That was Mr. St. 
John, who became Rector of Woodstock, and I remained with 
him more than fifty years, rising from boy to man, becoming 
gardener, steward, and general factotum, doing everything for him 
within the rubric.” 
It seems our old friend made himself as useful as he possibly 
could in every way until he became indispensable. That is the 
way to get on in the world. It is said he became more like 
master than man, engaging schoolmasters and curates. We did 
not ascertain if this were true; but we did ask if he preached. 
“No, that would have been out of order: but I read the lessons, 
and I read them nov) in church on Sundays.” He is, to speak 
colloquially, “one of the old sort”—a monarchy-man, church- 
and state-man, and in all his acts a gentleman ; given to hospi¬ 
tality, ready to help rich and poor alike. He has tried to do 
good, and has done good in his day and generation. Such is 
Robert Fenn, the pioneer in the improvement of the Potato, a 
worthy member of the community, and one of the happiest men 
alive. He makes his friends happy too, and his “missus” helps 
him. There was just one bright link missing from the cottage ; 
rosy-cheeked Alice was not at home. She had crowded the place 
with jams and jellies, then gone to London for a change.— The 
Scribe. 
Cattleya aurea. 
This magnificent Cattleya is unusually fine this season, the 
continual sunshine suiting it admirably. There can be no doubt a 
strong moist heat and plenty of light and sun are required to grow 
this species properly, and it well repays the trouble taken in its 
culture by the gorgeous flowers so freely produced under these 
circumstances. 
Cattleya Gaskelliana. 
This favourite species also is now in full beauty, and it is very 
valuable on account of its flowering after C. Mossim is over. There 
are some splendid types now in cultivation, many of them coming 
near to C. gigas in size, and very richly coloured. If the 
plants are removed to a cooler and drier atmosphere while in bloom 
it will serve the double purpose of ripening the bulbs and con¬ 
serving the flowers over a longer period than would be the case if 
they remained in the house where grown. 
Oncidium incurvum. 
This very distinct and pretty Oncidium is now flowering freely. 
It is one of the best of the small-flowered species, not unlike 
O. ornithorynchum in habit, but the blossoms are larger and the 
growth is rather more robust. The spikes on well-grown plants 
attain a height of fully 30 inches, and are much branched and very 
elegantly arched. The flowers are white, freely spotted and barred 
with purply rose, and remain a long time in good condition. It is 
very easily grown in an ordinary compost, and a temperature 
slightly higher than that usually given to cool house Orchids.— 
H. R. R. 
Orchids at Highbury. 
According to a daily contemporary, Mr. J. Chamberlain, M.P., 
unlike many amateurs of floriculture, has ample means at his 
disposal for the gratification of his hobby. It is stated that Mr. 
Chamberlain now has about 5000 plants of all kinds, and from all 
parts of the Orchid-producing world, and, of course, the number is 
being continually added to. They fill thirteen of the eighteen glass 
houses ranged along the side of the handsome yet unpretentious 
residence. When Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain are in London a 
box of beautiful blooms is sent every week for the decoration 
of their house in Prince’s Gate. In addition, two flowers of the 
kinds best adapted to the buttonhole are sent every day, and it is 
with one of these that the famous politician generally makes bis 
appearance in the House of Commons. 
Disa lacera. 
This has repeatedly been described as the “blue Disa,” and 
generally excites some interest. The flowers are small, of a bluish 
purple hue, and are produced on a slender scape without leaves. 
Alone it is not a very conspicuous plant, but associated with others 
the flowers have a good appearance, owing to their distinct colour, 
though this is by no means the brilliant blue some might be led to 
