330 
THE FLORIST. 
THE CHRONICLES OF A SMALL GARDEN.—No. IV. 
It is a busy scene here, when some of our boats are returning from a 
long voyage to the westward ; we have no harbour, and a very steep 
shelving beach, and as the boats must be hauled up high and dry out 
of the reach of the water, some considerable labour is required to do 
this—to facilitate which there are capstans placed at the top of the 
beach, somewhat like a windlass, and poles being placed in the holes, 
and a rope attached to the boat, it is regularly wound up to its berth ; 
probably a dozen or fourteen men are engaged in the operation. Now 
and then you may see a little urchin putting his hand to it: he may get 
near some gruff crusty old waterman, who gives him a cuff, and tells 
him to go about his business; but he may also get alongside a more 
genial and kindly one, who pats the little fellow on the head, and tells 
him to work on. I have very little fear of meeting with the former ; I 
hope and believe there are no gruff ones, who will tell me to go about 
my business,—no, not even when I venture to do as I now propose, 
to speak about the Roses of a small garden; and if I must get under 
anyone’s lee, I am quite sure your friend Mr. Rivers, the patriarch of 
Rose growers, the paterfamilias of a very numerous progeny, will throw 
over me his protecting segis; and as he adjusts his spectacles, and 
wonders perhaps at the length to which assurance will go, when a man 
with a few square feet of ground ventures to talk of growing Roses, I 
feel sure, in very kindness, he will pardon the presumption, and, 
though like the little boy, I may not add much, or anything to lighten 
the labour of those who are large growers, ^yet I may be of some 
assistance to those who, like myself, are limited in room, and yet wish 
to have a few of the “ Queen of Flowers.” 
I. I must speak of the Method of Growing them .—When I say this 
I do not for a moment mean to say it is the method, but mine ; nor do 
I mean to say either that it is the one I should adopt were I differently 
situated, but the truth is, this is a most unfavourable position for Roses. 
We are exposed here to many things adverse to their growth; our 
ground, in the first place, is, I think, very unfavourable, for though 
the surface is light and rich, yet the chalk or gravel is so near the 
surface that drainage is very rapid, and the roots consequently lack 
that coolness which is, I think, essential to their well being ; then we 
are exposed in.early spring to a most fearful east and north-east wind, 
which sweeps through us, burning and scorching whatever it comes 
across, in fact, what a writer in the Gardeners Chronicle not inaptly 
designated a sirocco. It is just at this time that the buds are 
expanding: the east wind takes them, curls them up, and in many 
instances entirely destroys the plants. Then at the same time the 
maggot, a wretched race, foul as Virgil’s harpies (and as greedy, too), 
attack them. 
“ Tristius baud illis monstrum nec seevior ulla. 
“ Pestis. # 
fcBdissim^ ventris 
“ Proluvies, uncaque manus, et pallida semper 
“ Ora fame.” 
The shoots have not vigour enough to push their way out of 
