^aUtiary  14,  189?. 
JOURNAL  OP  BORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
25 
A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  GARDENS. 
Only  a  dream,  courtebus  reader,  a  reminiscence.  This  is  no 
day  for  gardening  ;  the  wind  is  in  the  south-east,  and  half  a  gale 
is  blowing.  It  is  nearly  a  mile,  as  the  crow  flies,  to  the  sea,  and 
yet  one  may  hear  the  turmoil — the  wild  music  of  the  storm.  One 
may  only  hear  that  trio  by  the  sea — the  deep  thunder  of  the  waves 
as  they  break  into  clouds  of  white  foam,  the  sonorous  tenor  of  the 
wind  as  it  rushes  through  the  bare  branches  of  the  Elms,  and  now 
and  again  the  shrill  piccolo  of  the  Bay  tree  leaves  by  my  window 
as  it  chafes  on  the  pane.  “  It  is  an  ill  wind,”  as  the  old  saying  is, 
“  that  blows  no  one  any  good,”  and  therefore  one  must  not 
complain.  The  last  gale  scattered  along  the  shore  here  at  least 
200  tons  of  seaweed — one  of  the  richest  of  natural  manures,  and  it 
was  eagerly  gathered  by  farmers  and  market  gardeners.  And  so, 
safely  sheltered  from  the  driving  storms  without,  I  wheel  round 
my  armchair,  toss  on  the  dog  irons  another  billet  of  beech  or 
fragrant  pinewood,  and  conjure  up  some  visions  of  the  many 
gardens  which,  by  the  courtesy  of  their  owners,  I  have  seen  in  the 
time  of  Roses,  blossoming  Beanfields,  and  new  hay. 
To  many  of  us  there  are  few,  if  any,  pictures  more  delightful 
than  those  of  a  garden,  and,  singularly  enough,  so  few  artists 
attempt  to  paint  such.  Perhaps  not  one  in  a  hundred  of  the 
pictures  hung  in  the  Royal  Academy  treat  of  the  garden,  and  the 
few  there  are  exhibited  are  not  the  work  of  men.  But  the  pictures 
I  think  of  are  not  of  canvas,  colour,  and  brush  ;  they  are  fair 
Flora’s  own.  To  those  who  look  in  earnest  it  is  only  to  close  the 
camera  of  memory  for  a  brief  spell  and  the  scene  reappears,  the 
narrow  environment  of  the  dwelling  melts  away,  and  summer 
again  steeps  the  garden  in  golden  sunshine  and  the  broad  landscape 
in  a  shimmering  mirage. 
The  firit  garden  of  my  dreamland  is  part  of  a  large  estate  lying 
within  a  score  miles  of  Charing  Cross.  The  monogram  of  the 
noble  owner  ii  SX.  We  enter  the  kitchen  garden  from  the  high 
road,  and  pass  beneath  a  leaf-fringed  archway  in  a  high,  lichened- 
stained  wall.  On  the  right  of  the  broad,  smooth  path  is  an  oblong 
bed,  perhaps  100  yards  long  by  6  yards  wide.  A  neat  Box  edging 
surrounds  it,  and  next  to  this  is  a  yard-wide  belt  of  white  Pinks. 
Down  the  centre,  at  intervals  wide  apart,  stand  old  dome-shaped 
Filberts,  and  beneath  and  as  far  as  the  belt  of  Pinks  there  is 
nothing  but  Lily  of  the  Valley,  Pinks  and  Lilies — that’s  all, 
besides  the  drooping  Filberts.  The  reader  may  imagine  the  quiet 
elegance  of  such  a  bed,  and  its  fragrance  as  early  summer  showers 
patter  and  sparkle  among  the  Lilies. 
A  score  yards  distant  is  another  broad,  smooth  path  o’erarched 
by  blossoming  fruit  trees.  Less  than  a  month  before  when  I  saw 
them  they  were  in  the  pride  of  their  springtide  beauty.  There 
had  been  a  shower,  and  as  the  petals,  pink  and  silver,  fluttered 
down  the  sunshine  smote  them.  Beneath,  on  each  side,  was  a 
border  of  old  English  flowers — York  and  Lancaster  Roses,  great 
crimson  Paeonies,  and  Solomon’s  Seal.  A  garden  seat  beneath  was 
a  favourite  resting  place  of  the  venerable  Earl.  Here  he  would 
Bit,  with  nothing  to  disturb  his  reveries  but  the  silvery  ring  of  the 
busy  wing,  the  songs  of  the  merle  and  mavis  and  charming  linnet ; 
while  all  day  long  and  night  could  be  heard  the  “  amorous 
dt  scants  ”  of  the  nightingale. 
Opening  an  opposite  door  one  emerges  suddenly  upon  the  plea¬ 
sure  grounds  in  front  of  the  Hall.  Wide,  smooth  lawns  of  a 
texture  velvety  and  delightful  stretch  away  on  one  side  towards  a 
fine  old  castellated  residence.  Magnificent  Cedars  two  centuries 
old  spread  great,  dark  flakes  of  foliage,  inviting  the  visitor  to  a 
seat  in  the  grateful  shade  beneath.  On  all  sides  are  rare  Coni¬ 
ferous  and  other  trees.  Over  the  Lilied  pool  there  droops  a 
Willow  from  sad  St.  Helena,  there  a  Bay  Tree  from  Virgil’s  tomb, 
and  there  is  the  olitory  in  which  my  lady  culled  her  simples ;  there 
a  quaint  little  garden  of  sweets,  over  whose  protecting  fences 
ramble  Jasmine,  Roses,  and  Honeysuckle.  In  the  back  of  the 
fence  are  three  circular  apertures  a  yard  in  diameter,  each  affording 
a  delightful  picture  of  the  woodland  drives  beyond. 
This  old  garden  was  a  favourite  resort  of  John  Evelyn  ;  and 
that  old  and  learned  Stephen  Switzer  used  to  say  of  it,  that  “  at 
Cashiobury  the  polite  spirit  of  gardening  shone  brightest,”  and  that 
he  “  never  saw  that  truly  delightful  place  without  being  more  than 
ever  ravished  by  its  natural  beauties.”  By  the  way,  our  magnificent 
garden  at  Kew  owes  not  a  f§w  of  its  fine  specimens  to  the  tree- 
monger,  erst  of  Cashiobury. 
The  next  garden  of  my  dreamland  lies,  perhaps,  six  miles 
distant  by  the  main  road,  and  not  far  from  a  breezy,  picturesque 
common.  It  is  entirely  hidden  from  view  by  belts  of  woodland — 
a  delightfully  secluded  spot  away  from  the  beaten  track,  and  so 
screened  by  trees  that  not  a  particle  of  highway  dust,  nor  a  whisper 
of  the  turmoil  of  great  London  can  be  beard.  Green  meadows 
slope  to  a  lake  in  which  flocks  of  wild  fowl  disport,  while  beyond 
rise  the  grey  towers  of  old  St.  Alban’s  Abbey.  We  entered  by  the 
lodge  through  a  charming  old  garden,  with  beds  of  curious  and 
beautiful  herbaceous  plants  on  each  side.  This  mingling  of 
flowers,  fruit,  and  vegetables,  though  not  fashionable,  makes  the 
so-called  kitchen  garden  more  interesting  and  attractive. 
The  chief  feature  of  interest,  however,  is  the  delightful  garden 
on  the  south.  All  the  year  round  there  is  something  to  admire 
here,  but  more  especially  in  spring  and  autumn.  In  the  latter 
season,  however,  there  are  magnificent  masses  of  foliage  of  the 
richest  hues — Scarlet  Oak,  Liquidamber,  Copper  Beech,  and  varieties 
of  the  sportive  Acer  family.  Near  the  centre  of  the  lawn  stands 
one  of  the  finest  Tulip  Trees  in  the  country.  There  is  little  trace 
of  winter  in  such  a  garden,  with  its  abundance  of  evergreen 
shrubs,  Laurel,  Bay,  and  Holly,  and  a  magnificent  grove  of  Scotch 
Fir — perhaps  the  most  picturesque  of  British  trees.  Then  in  Bpring 
there  is  the  wealth  of  lighter  colours  peculiar  to  the  season  :  the 
Thorns — crimson,  pink,  and  white  ;  the  great  milk-white  bosses  of 
the  Guelder  Rose,  the  golden  rain  of  the  Laburnum,  the  orange 
scarlet  of  the  Kalmias,  the  snow  white  clusters  of  Clematis  montana, 
the  elegant  blue  racemes  of  Wistaria. 
But  away  to  the  far  west.  One  might  linger  for  hours  in  Mr. 
Bolitho’s  beautiful  garden  at  Trewidden,  and  make  fresh  dis¬ 
coveries  at  almost  every  step,  a  garden  fanned  by  moist  Atlantic 
breezes,  and  nourished  by  a  purer  light ;  might  see  how  the  hand 
of  the  landscape  gardener — probably  the  proprietor  himself— had 
transformed  the  quarry  into  fairy  glens  in  which  the  Tree  Fern  and 
Palms  luxuriate,  and  things  of  humbler  growth  rejoice  in  the  soft 
moist  air  and  chastened  light.  But  no !  there  is  another  more 
famous  garden  that  I  fain  would  see  again.  So  taking  again  the 
wings  of  dreamland  we  flit  thirty  miles  due  west  to  that  paradise 
of  flowers — Tresco,  in  the  Scilly  Isles — the  land  of  Lyonesse. 
Standing  on  the  Old  Quay  of  St.  Mary’s,  we  see  across  the 
narrow  channel  a  wooded  islet,  from  the  summit  of  which  a 
stately  house  looks  down.  The  climate  of  the  Scillies  is  delicious, 
and  as  one  might  expect,  where  skill  too  is  requisitioned,  there  is  a 
wealth  of  foliage  and  flowers.  In  some  of  the  cottage  gardens, 
and  by  the  wayside  tall  stems  of  the  stately  Aloes  rise  like  huge 
candelabra.  And  then  as  one  winds  one’s  way  through  the  road  to 
the  Abbey,  Palm-like  Dracaenas  and  New  Zealand  Phlox, 
together  with  huge  Hydrangeas,  and  Fuchsias  a  dozen  feet  high 
stand  on  each  side  of  the  drive  ;  while  the  walls  of  Cupressus  give 
place  to  bays  in  which  flourish  the  rarer  Rhododendrons  and 
Tree  Ferns. 
As  we  enter  the  gardens  by  a  cool,  shady,  Fern-draped  walk 
we  are  invited  by  a  courteous  inscription  to  enter  the  enchanted 
grounds,  so  please  you,  and  welcome.  Immediately  in  front  of 
us  is  the  rock  garden,  in  which  the  hollows  and  interstices  in  the 
granite  pile  are  filled  with  flowers.  That  blaze  of  rainbow  hues 
that  flashes  on  the  astonished  visitor  is  not  soon  forgotten.  For 
the  most  part  it  consists  of  Mesembryanthemums,  from  pure  white, 
primrose,  and  orange  through  the  gamut  of  rosy  tones  to  crimson 
and  deep  purple.  Myriads  of  blooms  crowd  together,  eager  to  be 
kissed  by  the  golden  sunlight.  It  were  worth  while  almost  to 
watch  for  a  passing  cloud  to  see  the  rayed  blossoms  close  and  open 
again — but  one  may  watch  long  for  a  summer  cloud  here.  Tresco  is 
the  home  of  the  Mesembryanthemum,  as  it  is  of  the  Daffodil. 
One  may  see  patches  of  it  growing  on  the  wayside  walls,  and  by 
the  coastguardsmen’s  station  a  large  succulent  species  clothes  the 
banka  by  the  beach  with  dense  foliage  and  primrose-coloured 
flowers.  In  picturesque  God’s  acre  great  masses  of  magenta 
blooms  spread  a  glorious  mantle  over  the  graves  of  mariners  saved 
from  the  sea. 
The  gardens  at  Tresco  form  a  series  of  terraces  on  each  side  of 
a  central  walk,  shaded  by  Palms,  Tree  Ferns,  and  Aloes.  These 
plots  on  one  side  are  for  the  most  part  assigned  to  some  favourite 
of  Flora’s  Court — Roses,  Carnations,  Lilies,  Stocks,  and  so  on.  In 
such  soil  and  climate  herbaceous  flowers  run  rampant,  and  soon 
revert,  like  the  tricolor  Pelargoniums,  to  the  normal  type.  We 
pause  for  a  moment  to  glance  into  a  pretty  conservatory  where 
there  is  ripening,  without  fire  heat,  a  fine  crop  of  Grapes.  Here 
grows  that  most  elegant  Glory  Lily  of  Japan,  which  does  not  seem 
yet  to  have  got  into  commerce.  Another  tree  of  rare  elegance  is 
the  Fourcroya,  a  Mexican  ;  it  is  from  15  to  20  feet  high,  with  a 
glossy  tapering  stem.  From  the  summit,  dome  shaped,  there  droop 
loDg  pendulous  racemes  of  yellow  flowers,  while  long  flag-like 
leaves  clothe  the  base  of  the  stems  ;  but  it  is  for  the  Daffodil 
perhaps  that  Tresco  and  St.  Mary’s  are  most  noted.  Wordsworth 
speaks  of  them  : — 
“  Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance.” 
One  might  see  there  ten  millions,  from  the  Giant  Emperor,  Empress, 
Sir  Watkin,  ani  Horsefieldi,  to  the  tiny  nanus  and  Angel’s  Tears. 
In  February  and  ^arly  March,  when  all  here  is  sombre  and  frost- 
nipped,  wide  stretches  of  the  landscape  at  Tresco  are  far  more  brilliant 
