292 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
September  26,  1895. 
bring  two  more  bottle?,  and  then  we  must  get  to  business  !  ”  It 
was  then  found  that  “  business  ”  is  a  term  with  two  meanings. 
The  sampler’s  idea  of  business  was  —  well  the  matter  explains 
itself,  but  the  veteran’s  hands  were  itching  for  the  Potato  fork, 
and  at  last  he  was  afforded  the  happy  opportunity.  It  was  a  treat 
to  see  him  run  for  that  fork,  and  give  it  a  scientific  whirl 
preparatory  to  business.  But  talking  about  work  and  doing  it  are 
two  things,  and  Robert  Fenn  can  talk  as  well  as  dig,  so  we  had 
first  to  listen  to  a  lecture,  the  professor  using  the  fork  as  a 
pointer. 
“Now  gents,  I  think  I  know  a  little  about  Potatoes — at  least,  I 
ought.  I  was  the  first  to  start  crossing  and  raising  new  varieties. 
I  took  them  up  to  London,  and,  of  course,  got  laughed  at  ;  but  I 
thought  to  myself,  I  will  make  the  wise  men  look  at  them  seriously, 
so  crossed  for  colour,  and  sent  tubers  up  spotted,  and  marbled,  and 
streaked.  It  is  easy  to  get  them  like  zebras,  you  know  ;  and  then 
they  gave  me  a  medal,  or  something  of  that  kind.  But  my 
beautiful  high-bred  high-quality  seedlings  they  didn’t  understand  ; 
but  I  did,  and  I  have  them  yet — the  very  cream  of  the  Potato 
world  for  quality,  and  not  a  drop  of  American  blood  in  them  ;  it’s 
all  English,  with  the  good  old  fiavour,  nearly  lost  now.  You  will 
find  all  about  them  in  the  ‘old  Cottage  Gardener;’  and  just 
because  the  varieties  were  so  good — so  full  of  starch  and  flavour — 
they  were  disease  favourites  ;  and  what  a  fight  I  had  to  save 
them.  For  forty  years  I  fought  in  all  the  ways  that  I  and  others 
could  think  of  to  master  the  enemy,  but  it  mastered  me  ;  and  all  I 
could  do  was  to  just  save  a  few  of  the  sorts  to  keep  the  stock. 
Yes,  it  was  a  forty  years’  fight ;  but  I  wouldn’t  give  up,  and  I  have 
mastered  it  at  last.  Mr.  Barr  found  the  powder  and  I  found  the 
shot,  and  now  for  four  years  right  off  I  have  kept  the  pest  at  bay. 
What  more  do  you  want  ?  A  demonstration  !  It’s  fashionable,  I 
suppose,  to  finish  with  a  ‘demonstration’  nowadays;  very  well, 
come  along,  and  you  shall  have  one.” 
Another  start  was  made,  but  a  greenhouse  was  in  the  way, 
leaning  against  the  end  of  the  house,  and  in  the  greenhouse  a 
rambling  Vine  and  Fig  tree  at  the  back,  with  Tomatoes  growing 
in  a  trough  along  in  the  front.  Another  lecture.  “  This  you 
must  understand  was  a  pest  house,  a  museum  of  mildews,  black 
and  white,  that  ate  Vines,  Figs,  and  Tomatoes — everything.  My 
‘familiar’  here  has  seen  it,  and  all  unbeknown  partaken  of 
thousands  of  spores  in  breathing.  Now  look,  search,  scan  every 
leaf  and  find  me  one  speck  of  fungus  if  you  can.  You  cannot.  I 
tell  you  if  you  use  powder  enough  fungus  cannot  live.  It  is  as  easy 
to  puff  with  a  bellows  as  to  ply  the  syringe,  and  far  better  for 
Tomatoes  and  everything  else  in  this  house.  Did  you  ever  see  finer, 
cleaner,  darker  leaves  than  these  ?”  “No,”  said  the  familiar  when 
he  could  get  a  word  in,  “  but  there  are  too  many  shading  the  fruit. 
Why  don’t  you  take  some  oft?”  It  is  true  the  original  leaves 
on  the  main  stems  remained  down  to  the  ground,  the  colour  of 
Portugal  Laurels,  but  as  to  taking  one  off,  no,  the  powder  puffer 
was  too  proud  of  them.  “  Take  off  the  fruit  if  you  like,”  he  said, 
“  but  let  the  leaves  alone  ;  they  show  I  am  master  of  the  fungus.  It 
can’t  grow  on  anything.  Tomatoes,  Potatoes,  Roses,  Chrysanthe¬ 
mums,  where  the  powder  is  ;  only  give  it  soon  enough,  and  often 
enough,  and  mildew  will  never  be  seen “  But  let  us  go  to  the  root  of 
these  Tomatoes,  Mr.  Fenn.  Do  you  change  the  soil  every  year  ?  ” 
“  Change  it  ?  No!  This  is  the  third  lot  in  the  same  soil.  The 
lime  and  copper  filters  down,  I  suppose,  and  purifies  it  ;  at  any 
rate  they  seem  to  like  it,  so  do  the  katies  outside.  Let  us  go  and 
see.” 
At  last !  Here  across  a  piece  of  dark  free  garden  land  were 
long  rows  of  his  precious  productions,  from  Cricket  Ball,  the  first 
Potato  ever  raised  by  cross  fertilisation,  to  Rector  of  Woodstock, 
Woodstock  Kidney,  and  all  the  rest  downwards — “all  the  best  for 
eating,  and  the  first:  to  be  eaten  by  disease.  Look  at  them  ;  the 
tops  dying  yellow,  as  tops  used  to  do  before  the  foreign  scourge 
came  in  ’45  and  turned  them  black.  Now  for  the  bottoms.  I  will 
dig  just  where  you  like,  only  say,  any  root  you  like  ;  we  have  to  try 
them  all,  I  dig,  you  watch,  and  find  a  tainted  tuber  if  you  can.” 
In  dashed  the  fork,  and  out  they  rolled,  a  fine  crop  of  clean-skinned 
Potatoes.  We  tried  right  across  the  piece,  the  seventy-eighter 
skipping  along  and  throwing  them  out  here  and  there  as  though  he 
would  never  tire.  “  Now,  then,”  when  the  opposite  side  was 
reached,  “have  you  found  any  bad  ones — any  diseased  ?  ”  “No, 
notone.”  “  Very  well,  are  you  satisfied  ?  ”  “Yes,  quite.”  “So 
am  I ;  never  thought  I  should  live  to  conquer  the  enemy  of  my 
life.  I  am  happy  now.  Let’s  go  and  see  the  fruit” — and  we  went. 
There  is  an  ancient  orchard  and  modern  fruit  garden,  the  latter 
cultivated,  and  trees  mulched  with  burnt  refuse  ;  the  former  on 
grass,  and  the  trees  treated  to  the  wine  they  like — sewage  and 
crew  yard  drainage.  Here  stands  the  old  favourite,  the  unfailing 
Pay-the-Rent  Apple,  towering  aloft,  every  branch  wreathed  with 
good  sized  russety  fruit.  “  Not,”  it  was  explained,  “  an  Apple  for 
show,  but  for  use — ready  with  the  first,  and  keeping  till  the  last.” 
Its  fruit  always  wanted,  and  hence  the  increase  of  healthy,  hand¬ 
somely  shaped  and  heavily  bearing  trees.  Several  of  present-day 
favourites  are  grown,  and  grown  well — Lane’s  Prince  Albert, 
Wellingtons,  and  others  ;  but  Pay-the-Rent  is  after  all  the  sheet 
anchor  at  Cottage  Farm,  Sulhampstead.  Then  the  “farmer” 
shakes  another  old  tree  ;  “  Not  much  to  look  at,  but  try  them,”  he 
remarked,  as  he  picked  up  the  fruit.  They  were  delicious,  tender, 
with  an  aroma  rarely  met  with.  It  was  the  Apple  of  the  moment 
without  any  doubt.  There  was  nothing  to  compare  with  it — an 
old  world  sort  worth  perpetuating.  Let  it  be  increased  and  called 
Fenn’i  Fancy.  Whether  it  is  increased  or  not,  whoever  planted 
the  old  orchard  a  century  or  two  ago  knew  good  Apples.  Mr. 
Fenn  has  seedling  Plums,  too,  which  he  prizes,  one  the  result  of  a 
cross  between  Victoria  and  Coe’s  Golden  Drop,  partaking  of  the 
nature  of  both — a  productive  red  Plum  of  excellent  quality. 
A  glance  across  the  undulating  and  charmingly  situated  farm — 
everything  orderly  and  prosperous  looking  ;  a  peep  into  the  barn 
and  at  the  pressing  of  the  Apples  ;  tubs  and  barrels  full  of  “drink  ” 
— the  juices  of  all  kinds  of  fruit  obtainable,  even  Brambles,  for 
nothing  is  wasted  in  this  happy  home  of  industry  ;  and  then  to 
dinner.  All  home-raised  and  home-grown.  Rabbits  and  bacon, 
First-and-Follow-on  Cabbage,  Robert  Fenn  Peas,  and  Eliza  Fenn 
Potatoes — all  fit  for  greater  men  than  Smiler  drew  from  the 
Station  ;  with  home-made  wine  in  abundance,  and  foreign  port  for 
the  connoisseur,  “  Yes,  we  grow  all  we  want,  and  get  five  times 
more  produce  than  when  the  little  farm  was  bought,”  remarked  its 
cheery  owner. 
Here,  then,  is  a  lesson.  A  fivefold  increase  in  a  period  when 
decrease  and  depression  seem  to  have  been  going  hand  in  hand. 
Why  the  increase  in  this  case  ?  It  is  the  result  of  knowledge, 
sound  judgment,  thorough  cultivation,  making  the  most  and  the 
best  of  small  things  and  all  things  within  the  capacity  of  the  home¬ 
stead  to  produce.  And  if  here,  why  not  elsewhere  ?  Not  in  all, 
but  in  too  many  instances,  because  the  same  intelligent  action  is 
wanting,  the  same  thrift  and  aptitude,  indoors  and  out,  lacking  ;  but 
if  even  half  the  land  could  be  made  to  yield  anything  like  what 
has  been  wrested  from  this  area  of  less  than  20  acres,  we  should 
soon  have  a  more  prosperous  country.  A  hundred  thousand 
Fenns  would  do  literally  yeoman’s  work  for  rural  England. 
Mr,  Webb’s  commencement  in  fruit  growing — trial  plantations 
in  various  fields — is  all  that  “A,  D.”  described  on  the  page  quoted. 
Mr.  Webb  is  neither  going  to  stop  nor  fail  in  the  enterprise.  Among 
the  discoveries  there  was  the  beautiful  German  Apple,  Borsdorffer, 
of  which  the  Editor  is  requested  to  say  something  about.  It 
pleased  Mr.  Fenn,  his  “familiar,”  Mr.  Webb,  and — Inspector. 
SUMMER  MEMORIES  AND  AUTUMN  GLORIES. 
The  clock  of  Time  never  stands  still,  and  as  we  grow  older  the 
hands  seem  to  move  with  greater  rapidity.  Years  ago  summer 
days  seemed  endless.  Now  how  brief,  how  fleeting  with  all  the 
lovely  show  of  bud  and  blossom  !  Unlike  many  parts  of  England, 
we  have  this  summer  of  1895  suffered  no  extremes  of  weather — no 
parching  suns,  no  drowning  floods,  sunshine  and  shower  alternating. 
Once  or  twice,  indeed,  we  had  begun  to  tremble,  but  the  welcome 
rain  came  just  in  time,  and  stopped  in  time,  too,  which  is  perhaps 
more  to  the  point.  It  is  such  a  well-known  fact  that  after  a  spell 
of  dry  weather  a  “break”  seems  never  to  be  able  to  “mend”  up 
again.  Fruit  and  flowers  have  been  abundant  and  good  ;  Plums 
enough,  were  they  carefully  distributed,  to  give  a  whole  county 
cholera,  and  Apple  trees  fairly  weighed  down  with  sound,  well- 
developed  fruit.  Pears  are  not  a  feature  of  this  part  generally, 
but  this  year  at  least  we  shall  know  the  flavour  of  several  sorts. 
As  for  Strawberries — well,  I  wish  my  enemy  no  worse  task  than 
the  packing  of  our  crop — berries  to  eat,  to  preserve,  to  give  away — 
and  now  I  see  actually  there  is  a  second  crop  coming  on — some 
berries  as  large  as  horse  beans — President  and  Garibaldi.  Goose¬ 
berries  and  Currants  in  great  profusion,  and  the  only  falling  off 
was  in  the  last  bed.  Is  it  possible  that  the  canes  after  the  good 
pruning  of  last  “back  end”  could  not  stand  the  second  pruning 
Jack  Frost  gave  them?  Someone  made  a  note  of  “Tender  and 
True”  Beans.  Two  rows  here  could  be  shown  against  any  other 
two  rows,  taking  the  whole  of  England,  and  be  a  credit  to  the 
producer  and  grower  alike.  No  grub  in  Onions  this  year,  save  in  a 
small  bed  of  Paris  Silverskins. 
Thanks  to  the  severity  of  the  winter,  the  Roses  have  been 
magnificent.  There  are  two  reasons  for  this — i.e.,  the  survival  of 
the  fittest,  and  the  tremendous  cutting  down  they  got.  For 
this  I  ever  hold  is  the  great  weak  point  of  most  amateurs — they 
won’t  use  enough  Sheffield  steel,  and  that  is  the  grandest  incentive 
to  fine  blooms  I  know.  Egypt’s  Queen,  Cleopatra,  would  have 
dazzled  the  eye  of  the  most  sober-minded,  and  the  names  of  the 
