NOVEMBER. 
331 
But you may perhaps say to me, that it is not everybody that can 
have a piece of ground, not every one who can cultivate his taste thus 
practically. Now, let me say, there’s a very old proverb which runs, 
“ Where there’s a will there’s a way.” The weavers of Manchester and 
its neighbourhood have long been famous for their growth of a flower 
which has puzzled the owner of many a large garden. I mean the 
Auricula; and these in their little back gardens, some of them so small 
that, to use a sailor’s expression, “ there is’nt room to swing a cat 
round.” They have their frames of plants for some of which they will 
refuse sturdily your tempting half-sovereign, clinging to them somewhat, 
as the tales tell us, the Arab does to his favourite mare. I remember, 
too, that some of the best collections of florists’ flowers which I have 
seen have been in back streets and byeways, where one would have 
supposed the confined atmosphere and smoky neighbourhood would have 
effectually prevented anything like a successful cultivation of any plant. 
I have seen, also, in the most confined parts of London, attempts at 
window gardening which clearly showed the desire of the owners not to 
give up their taste, and to pursue it in spite of difficulties. The Wardian 
cases were the result of a gentleman’s taste in this way, who, finding 
that he could get nothing to survive the smut and blacks of London 
fires, contrived these hermetically sealed cases, which have obtained so 
wide a notoriety, and been found so useful for transmitting plants, &c., 
to foreign lands. Nor do I think that any here can plead this excuse; 
here the obtaining of a small piece of ground is not very difficult, and 
most of the houses in Deal have small yards or gardens attached to 
them. Now I would undertake, in any of these places, to grow what¬ 
ever I desired, but then I would take care not to try impossibilities ; I 
would not attempt Roses, or any plant that would be injured by close 
confinement, but such as I felt would be suited to the place; it is far 
better to have even a common flower doing well than a more refined 
and delicate one in a truly delicate state, with shrivelled foliage and 
stunted flowers. Upon this point—the pursuit of a taste for gardening 
under difficult circumstances—I can speak from experience, and trust 
I shall not be accused of egotism if I detail a little of that experience 
to you ; it may, perhaps, encourage some to attempt what I believe to 
be an advantageous recreation, and cheer others who are doubting if 
they can really carry out their intention. When I went to my first 
curacy—the only one I ever had in Ireland—the cottage that I 
inhabited was situated on the top of a cliff overhanging the sea, and so 
thoroughly exposed that an excavation was made on the cliff of several 
feet, on the floor of which the house was built, so that the chimneys 
hardly appeared above the embankment. Now this did not seem a 
very likely situation to grow flowers upon. The coast-guard men, who 
inhabited the martello tower, told me that their Cabbages were 
frequently blown out of the ground, and considered me, I believe, a 
little gone in the upper story, when I talked to them of growing flowers 
there. I had just left a fine collection, with every means and appliance, 
at my father’s house, and was not quite willing to give up altogether— 
so I set to work. It was useless to attempt anything without shelter, 
and as useless to attempt any growing shelter, so I had some stakes 
