JANUARY. 
5 
to Lambeth, the Borough, Bermondsey, and Rotherhithe—wherever I go, 
amid outward appearances of wretchedness and squalor, there is yet seen, here 
and there, an attempt made to preserve and prolong the life of some plant, 
cherished and sustained with lavish affection, as if it was the only object on 
which it centred. Surely these are signs and evidences that “ one touch of 
nature” prevails here that no depth of adversity can altogether eradicate. 
I am one of those worshippers of nature with such uncongenial surroundings. 
I have my home altar ; there I set up my shrine, and round it are ranged my 
objects of (horticultural) worship. Were these altogether absent there would 
be a blank in the lottery of my daily life; one of its valued prizes is to com¬ 
mune with my floricultural pets “ at mom and dewy eve,” watching their silent 
progress of gradual development. 
But to my “ chronicles,” and first a few words as to 
Past Operations. 
Last summer I was very successful in flowering a Fuchsia, an “ accomplished 
fact” I have never before succeeded in realising with anything like satisfaction. 
I have brought in a young plant from Covent Garden Market or the country, 
in vigorous health, and profusely laden with blossoms, but how soon they would 
prematurely fall, long before age had grasped them with its withering hand! 
and the “ thing of beauty” was by no means “ a joy for ever,” the poet’s creed 
notwithstanding. But I was on the track of success. One of the largest of my 
plants I preserved outside my window until the “ bright twinkling stars” pro¬ 
claimed the advent of weather hostile to the life of tender vegetation; then I 
stowed it away in the warm corner of a cellar, through an opening in the door 
of which a small quantity of light stole in upon it. A few drops of water at long 
intervals was all the attention it received till March, when, finding it to be break¬ 
ing into growth, I cut it back, and shifted it into a six-inch pot—I mean a pot 
6 inches in diameter—allowed it to remain in the cellar for a couple of weeks, and 
then placed it inside my window. As soon as I could do so with impunity, 1 trans¬ 
ferred it to the window-ledge outside, where it got the morning sun for a few 
hours. Morning and night I gave it a shower-bath through the rose of a small 
watering-pot, and, as it thrived and put forth its branches, I gave it daily root- 
waterings. With this treatment, it grew from a skeleton of some 12 inches 
high to be a stately plant-3^ feet in height and 2 feet in width, and covered 
with blossoms that not only developed themselves, but remained pendant to the 
plant till loosened by age. My plant was the admiration of all who saw it, and 
they were indeed surprised when they learned it was the product of town 
cultivation. I attribute my success primarily to the fact that it was a plant of 
the second year, placed in good soil (this is a vital principle in the system of 
homely town-gardening), and carefully tended while growing into size. 
I tried to flower a few Gladiolus in pots and baskets, but they became victims 
to the rot about which I heard so much. I got a miserable-looking spike or 
two from two or three long and lanky stalks, but I have bid farewell to the 
cultivation of these in my present locality. It was nearly all blanks that turned 
up in this trial of chance. 
I got some plants of a deep bright scarlet Tropaeolum, called Brilliant, an 
admirable variety for window-work. These I planted in a box outside my 
parlour-window as soon as I had removed some Tournesol Tulips that had 
tenanted it. I must say, parenthetically, that they were very gay, and remained 
in bloom a considerable time. I refilled the box with some fresh soil—I always 
give the new occupants of any of my receptacles the benefit of a change of this 
nature. They grew strongly, and ran up some vertical iron rods, and then 
across some wires, running in a transverse direction. They threw out a succes- 
