578 
JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AND COTTAGE GARDENER. 
December 27,1894. 
examples of English growth. Still, on this side an expert’s 
opinion of our recent Dublin Show has drawn a curtain of comfort 
around Irish growers. Totting up his remarks, and taking off 
some diicount for courtesy, it sums up. We are pretty well up to 
date. 
Gladiolus gandavensis hybrids struggled on in blooming till the 
last day of November, when we lifted them. The miserable corm 
crop is now endeavouring to ripen in a warm shed. G. Colvilei 
and alba have prominent new growth above the soil, whilst the 
old stems are yet green. These are but a few results of the passing 
year ; but to foreshorten what is unavoidably resolving itself into 
a tale of woe, I append a rain table for the eleven months ending 
November 30th. For this I am indebted to Mr. Bedford of 
Straffan Gardens, Kildare. From his record I find that rain fell 
on 173 days out of the 334. Each month totalled as follows :— 
January, 3 29 inches ; February, 2 64 ; March, 2 08 ; April, 3 38 ; 
May, 3"79 ; June, 2‘02 ; July, 4 16 ; August, 3‘78 ; September, 0 44 : 
October, 3 88 ; November, 2 01. 
I must confess that there has been but little pleasure in review¬ 
ing the passing year. So get thee gone, 1894 ! May thy successor 
be “ A guid New Year to ane an’ a’.” — E. K , Dublin. 
WINTER IN A SCOTTISH MANSE GARDEN. 
This is the season of thoughtful retrospection. That of fruition 
for the horticulturist has pas8.;d away ; from the heights of what¬ 
ever experience he has gained, he can look back upon his successes 
or failures in the past. It is not a period of outward beauty ; 
the glory of their lustrous leaves has fallen from the trees ; our 
gardens wear a forsaken and desolate aspect ; the last Rose of 
autumn, which outlived the Viola and rivalled the Chrysanthemum, 
is “ faded and gone.” 
Yet Nature is not so lifeless in reality as in aspect she appears. 
Her fairest children are only dormant ; they are not dead—with 
them this is the period of repose ; they are repairing their vitality 
and renewing their strength ; they are resting from their manifold 
beneficent activities, till they experience once more the inspiration 
of the spring. It is for similar reasons and for equally wise and 
providential purposes, supreme among which is self-preservation, 
that those sweet comrades of the flowers—the birds of the wood¬ 
lands—are silent in the winter ; their gift of melody is latent in 
their hearts. Throughout the vast domains of gracious Nature 
capability of growth and development is sleeping—it is not dead. 
“Do not the seeds of spring’s glad sweetness grow 
Beneath the darkness of the winter earth. 
That yet, when the inspiring breezes blow. 
Shall rise like Hope, to tell of Beauty’s birth?” 
And thus this pensive season, however saddening to the superficial 
vision that cannot see beneath the surface of outward appearances, 
is by no means to the spirit of the earnest horticulturist destitute 
of hope. Nor is it altogether lacking in manifestations of activity 
to him who finds some attractiveness in his garden at all periods 
of the year. He sees that the beautiful Madonna Lily has during 
the earlier months of winter been steadfastly growing, fearless of all 
danger, and spreading out with calm confidence on the herbaceous 
borders its green and luminous leaves, exhibiting a vitality which 
survives, through its strength, the sternest grasp of frost. The 
Wallflower, which loves to adorn ancient ruins, is as verdant as 
the Hollies that gleam through the naked environing woods. He 
watches daily with the pride of a parent the gradual growth of 
the pendulous Snowdrop, the first fair floral daughter of Nature 
that rises from the grave of her former beauty, to hail with its 
purity and unobtrusive loveliness the new-born year. He bends 
reverentially, remembering its exquisite sacred associations, over 
the snowy splendours of the Christmas Rose. And thus to him 
winter is not desolation ; he knows from experience that to Nature 
it is not death. Unlike others he rejoices in her white shroud of 
glistening enow, for he feels that beneath this mystic covering, as 
if enfolded in ermine, the heart of Nature is beating still; that 
this is her own instinctive preservation against the imperious 
dominion of that element which is the greatest destroyer of vege¬ 
tative life, and it is a matter of ordinary observation that when 
the covering snow has gradually faded into and fertilised the earth 
a delightful transformation, vernal in its freshness and beauty, is 
disclosed. 
And thus through the death-like reign of winter those energies 
which shall create the all-awakening spring are sleeping under¬ 
ground. Even this season of seeming inaction yet earnest 
preparation is gladdened by the calmly heroic aspect, amid all 
tribulation, of its own peculiar flowers, supreme among which are 
the Naked-flowering Jasmine, Forsythia suspensa, the fragrant 
Chimonanthus, and the gracious Christmas Rose. 
One of the most gifted of our essayists has said, “ With my 
garden I am in the present ; with my books I am in the past.” 
My own experience is somewhat different, for the literary creations 
by which I am surrounded as I sit in my study are, with the 
exception of a few of the immortals, for the most part the achieve¬ 
ments of great modern writers, whose thoughts depict the intensity, 
the fierce, incessant struggle, the earnest concentration of modern 
life ; whereas in my peaceful, sequestered garden, guarded on every 
side by venerable trees, planted for the most part by my pre¬ 
decessors, and haunted through all its winding, shadowy walks by 
reminiscences of my father, whose greatest earthly happiness was 
his love of horticulture, I am much less frequently in the present 
than in the past. It is chiefly in such scenes of the purest activity 
—those modern Edens in which man finds, even as of old, his 
deepest and most abiding blessedness—that we acquire a deep 
reverence which is more than all knowledge—a wisdom born of 
Nature, which is a more consoling and permanent possession than 
the breath of human fame, for the love of a garden through all 
our vicissitudes is steadfast and remains ; it is a possession which 
the frivolous world has not given, and cannot take away.— 
David R. Williamson. 
INTERVIEWING A NOTED GRAPE GROWER. 
To rise from a third to a second, and this year to a first prize¬ 
winner for six bunches ; to win with Madresfield Court three years 
in succession ; first for four whites, and first any other white 
Grapes at Shrewsbury ; first three years in succession for four 
bunches, one first and two seconds for Black Hamburghs, two 
firsts and two seconds for Madresfield Court, with sundry prizes at 
Liverpool, Manchester, Cheadle, and other places denotes progress 
of no mean order, for all the above are shows where only Grapes 
of the highest quality can ever hope to be admitted to the coveted 
honours. But such is the record scored by the painstaking and yet 
young gardener, Mr. J. J. Craven, gardener to J. Grant Morris, 
Esq., Allerton Priory, Liverpool. 
Owing to such good work I thought him deserving of a some¬ 
what extended notice in the Journal of Horticulture, so paid him a 
visit, with a view of eliciting from him some account of the rapid 
way in which he had come to the front with the cultivation of the 
Grape. A look round the vineries was sufficient to tell me that, 
with all his difficulties when commencing, that they were almost 
overcome, or such splendid quality bunches could not be produced. 
Then commenced the more solid part of the work, Mr. Craven 
giving his impressions in a clear and lucid manner, showing him 
thoroughly conversant with his subject, a close observer, and one 
who would be essentially a fighting man, if told to stick to any 
orthodox method. 
To what do you consider your success ? His answer being, 
that it “ depended chiefly upon close attention to details and hard 
work ; no amount of instruction will avail if a man does not apply 
himself diligently to the task. Upon taking charge of these gardens 
I found the Vines very unsatisfactory, the Grapes shanking con¬ 
siderably, although growing vigorously. It was altogether a puzzle. 
I tried various remedies without much improvement. Lifting was 
resorted to, roots found to be in bad condition, borders much 
impoverished, apparently composed of too rich material. At last 
I forwarded samples, with a statement of the case, to the Journal of 
Horticulture. The advice given was the key to the situation, and 
set me studying more of agricultural chemistry, and I may here 
remark that I think highly of the sound information conveyed 
in that paper upon all matters. The Muscat border was entirely 
renewed and young Vines planted, but I think in this part of the 
country that lean-to houses would be most suitable.” 
What do you consider the best houses ? “ Those not con¬ 
structed at too sharp an angle, as they are too fluctuating, and terribly 
punishing on hot days, transpiration going on so rapidly that the 
roots cannot possibly keep pace with it. I think many a house 
of Hamburghs has been prevented finishing in the best manner 
at a critical period in the colouring process, especially if the borders 
are inside and have become rather dry. Glass structures should be 
designed, as far as practicable, so as to maintain a steady tempera¬ 
ture. Light is the great consolidating agent we know, but there 
is such a thing as gaining it too costly.’’—R. P. R. 
(To be continued.) 
BORDER CARNATIONS. 
With so open and moist a winter there is a good deal of reason 
to fear that Carnations, whether outdoors or in frames, may be 
much affected by the Dianthus fungus. This pest revels in a mild 
