January 6,1887. ] 
JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AND COTTAGE GARDENER. 
15 
you think all the wealth of Covent Garden could equal the joy of 
bringing on to the breakfast table some morning as a surprise 
for Harriet a plate of those Plums P If you have never picked 
such you cannot judge. There are no Strawberries like our 
Strawberries. With what pride the good wife hides the keys of 
the garden and assumes them temporarily lost just as the first 
berries ripen. This is a garden secret, and I am supposed not to 
know. The children—bless them—Strawberry pickers every one 
of them—are of course taken into mother’s confidence. [N.B. 
en passant. If you ever want to make an innocent plot “ go ” 
successfully, make the children interested parties.] At the week 
end of course the keys are found—and the Strawberries. A plate 
brim full of luscious melting fruit is handed in with that 
triumphal air of success and delight which marks a due sense of 
consciousness of the importance of the event, and seems to 
suggest quite plainly—“ Ah, you didn’t know this, you can’t buy 
Strawberries like these.” Then the children laugh and compli¬ 
ment each other upon the succ ss of the scheme, and tell of the 
hairbreadth escapes during the period of suspense and silence ; 
how Rose very nearly said this, and Lily (we have flower names 
for the children, you know) nearly said “ Strawberries right out 
one night; don’t you remember ?” All this must appear trivial 
and foreign perhaps to some of you, but it is a very real ex¬ 
perience nevertheless, and one whichjstands out very distinctly as 
a real garden pleasure. 
But the Peas, and the Potatoes, and the Cauliflowers. 
Vegetables never did attain such perfection as in this patch, 
wherever it is, if it is “our garden.” The Apples are the 
juiciest, the Pears the sweetest, the Plums the prettiest, and the 
Cherries the plumpest. The Lettuces are crisp and solid, the 
Celery trench is a marvel of excavation and earthwork, a centre 
of activity and anxiety for ever so long ; and the herb garden is 
filled with just such things as give aroma and flavour in all the 
subtle essences which are locked up in the Basil, Tarragon, and 
Thyme. 
Bat paterfamilias wants something more tangible than senti¬ 
ment and surprises. Yes, we understand. I can promise him 
profit with his pleasure. In Goldsmith’s charming masterpiece, 
“ The Vicar of Wakefield,’’ you remember how he describes the 
modest mansion of the village pastor, who was “ passing rich on 
forty pounds a year.” I have always firmly believed that the 
worthy man could not have laid full claim to the possession of 
such easy affluence on such a slender stipend, unless he had been 
blessed with the treasure of a good garden in addition to his 
modest mansion. It is really surprising what an almost inex¬ 
haustible store may be found in a well kept, well managed 
garden. If health and happiness are to be found lurking under 
the clods and beneath the leaves concealed everywhere, and only 
manifesting themselves as you hunt for them. Thrift might not 
inappropriately be written over the gate. 
it has been said by someone, who was doubtless a philosopher, 
that if a man goes into his garden to seek cobwebs or insects, 
grubs and creeping things, scavengers, and devourers, if he looks 
for decay, destruction, and death, he may find them, but if he 
goes to admire his flowers, he will probably return with one in 
his buttonhole. That is only another way of saying you may 
find very much in the garden what you go to seek. The pessi¬ 
mist may have his lines of gaslime and his tracks of paraffin, and 
curiously wrought designs in salt and soot, but the caterpillar 
nevertheless is fat and flourishing, and the caukerworm is busy 
and big. The optimist—and nearly every gardener is an opti¬ 
mist, or ought to be —cannot see blight for blossom. He loves 
his plants more than he hates his enemies, and works “ for love, ’ 
as the children say when they do not play for gains. 
I had a great deal to say upon many other questions, but a 
Christmas number is like a Christmas pudding. It would not 
do to be entirely composed of currants and peel. The cook 
could scarcely tell you how many things have been put into it, 
but it somehow seems to be an opportunity for popping in all 
kinds of unexpected sweetmeats and good things, and when they 
are served together you only catch the flavour of the whole— 
that is, the memory of the Christmas pudding. 
Some other time I must tell you of the pleasures to be derived 
from observation, and noting your observations, keeping them in 
a book of records to be read at odd times and consulted upon 
points which perplexed you or pleased you at the time. Art in 
the garden, science in the garden, and ever so much more. This 
must come again; but just one maxim before we part for the 
present. If you cannot remember anything else I have said, 
remember this, “ Get into the habit of dropping the cares of the 
outer world as you put finger on the latch of the garden gate.” 
Someone hasn't remembered his bill (receivable in your bill 
book) ; someone has remembered his (payable this so far as it 
affects yourself); and the two facts rub together uncomfortably 
and cause friction. You walk on meditatively and do not to-day 
see the children who are standing at the entry ends or lane 
corners for a word in passing just as they did yesterday. You 
walk on. Click goes the latch of the garden gate as you lay your 
finger upon it half unconsciously—click. Drop your burden. 
Leave it outside. There is a sparrow chirruping upon the roof 
with all the family cares at this moment inconveniently placed 
in the gutter. They do not bother about vague possibilities. 
I should think not. They do not reap and gather into barns, and: 
yet—Yes, leave your cares outside the garden gate 
One more remark and I have done. Let your love of the 
garden tend to induce that love of simplicity of life, which, after 
all, is the charm of life. Nothing can give a nation peace, 
prosperity, and contentment if her people have lost love of 
simplicity. 
Her sons must be employed in the field and the garden. 
Her children must be fed largely, I would say mainly, witk 
the fruits of the earth. 
“When spades grow bright, and idle swords grow dull, 
Then jails are empty and our barns are full.” 
What a happy land is that where its people are filled with the 
spirit which finds pleasure in the garden.— John Edmunds. 
MUSCAT GRAPES SHRIVELLING. 
As this is a most important subject I shall offer no apologies for my 
rather late interposition in the discussion so well initiated on page 379 by 
“ Experientia docet.” Our late Muscats commenced shrivelling much as 
described by that writer, and for a time I was very vexed about it, espe¬ 
cially seeing that there was then no apparent reason for such an un¬ 
fortunate result. Having a fairly wide circle of friends and a good scope 
for observation, I soon discovered that the complaint was very general, 
and a round later on amoDg the Chrysanthemum and fruit shows afforded 
proof that we in the West of England have, after all, something to learn. 
Luckily the mystery is elucidated. 
I have not the slightest doubt that the cause of so many Grapes 
shrivelling prematurely was, as our friend points out, a much too dry 
atmosphere during September and the first week in October, and for the- 
future this unforeseen contingency will, or ought to be, guarded against by 
all who wish to keep their Grapes plump. This shrivelling, although 
quite distinct from shanking, not only disfigures the bunches either for 
table or exhibition, but seriously lowers their market value, as plenty of 
growers have found out recently. At the present time there is a good 
demand for Muscat and other Grapes hereabouts, Bristol, and I may say 
the West of England generally, this proving that many have either sold 
out soon after shrivelling commenced, or else that Grapes are keeping 
badly. The long spell of wet and dull weather has not much affected the 
shrivelled Muscats. They keep because they are more nearly approaching 
the raisin state, whereas the more watery and plump Alicantes, Lady 
Downe’s and Gros Colman, are, unless very freely thinned at the outset, 
keeping very badly indeed. Personally I have not much to complain of 
as regards the keeping qualities of the above-named black Grapes, as well 
as Gros Guillaume and Mrs. Pince, only the most solid bunches being 
any trouble to us, and from this it would appear that what suits them is 
not altogether beneficial to the white Muscats. I believe in plenty of 
fire heat and a good circulation of air during the time late black Grapes 
are ripening, this conducing to the formation of the saccharine matter, 
without which Grape3 are neither of good quality nor good keepers. 
In addition to the sorts above named, we have also Madresfield Court 
in the middle row of supernumerary Vines, and this happened to be at 
the end where the Muscats, Mrs. Pearson, and Golden Queen are located. 
In order to prevent the former from cracking we admitted front air 
freely, too freely as it turned out, nor did we damp down so frequently 
as we might have done had Madresfield Court, with its handsome bunches, 
been out of the way. Some seasons less harm would have been done, but 
this time we injured both the Muscats and Golden Queen, both shrivelling 
somewhat, whereas the more watery Mrs. Pearson did not shrivel, but 
shanked instead. The most shrivelled berries were towards the end of 
the Vines, those at the front or the lowest bunches being the least affected, 
this also tending to prove that heat and dryness of atmosphere were prin¬ 
cipally responsible for the mishap. 
I have said that shrivelling was very general, but, as usual, there are 
noteworthy exceptions to the rule. The finest lot of Muscats I have ever 
seen were perfected at Longleat this season, and I believe I may safely 
assert the equal of this grand house of Grapes could not be found any¬ 
where. In spite of the heavy crop of large bunches, no fault could be 
found with them, but all were well set, the berries were extra large, and 
coloured beautifully. No sign of shrivelling to be seen, and those who 
know some of my weaknesses will readily imagine that 1 soon began to 
make inquiries as to the why and wherefore. All the while the dry 
weather lasted the vineries were damped down freely twice a day, and 
only in dull weather was this discontinued. This, coupled with good 
attention at the roots and judicious ventilation, prevented shrivelling and 
assisted the Vines in the work of finishing the crop. Mr. Pratt is to be 
congratulated upon the results of this suc:essful treatment of the grand 
Vines under his charge. Mr. J. Gibson, another friend of mine, well 
known in the neighbourhood of Bristol as a good Grape-grower, and now 
in charge of the gardens at Draycot House, near Chippenham, Wilts, has 
