January  6,  1898. 
7 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
I  should  like  to  see  them  now  they  have  read  so  far  of  their 
discovery,  and  watch  them  change  from  hot  to  cold,  and  show  it, 
wondering  what  is  coming  next.  That  postal  stamp  was  fatal,  and 
they  will  learn  now  of  the  stranger’s  call  to  “  see  the  gardens  ”  in  the 
charge  of  one,  and  to  gather  “  advice  on  Roses  ”  from  the  other,  for 
in  this  case  was  discovered  a  rosarian  who  swept  the  boards  at  local 
shows. 
W  hen  fairly  on  the  track  of  Ess,  I  naturally  wondered  what 
manner  of  man  1  should  meet.  Sprightly,  lively,  talkative,  and 
briskly  intellectual,  I  naturally  pictured  a  personage  who  thought  the 
“tJ.  o/  jET.  a  little  dull.”  I  found  him  the  reverse — quiet,  modest,  a 
genuine  gardener,  and,  without  doubt,  a  plodding  and  evidently  intel- 
1  gent  worker ;  but  as  to  humour,  not  a  trace  was  discoverable,  and 
only  the  merest  apology  for  a  smile  could  be  extracted  from  his  placid 
countenance. 
The  fine  old  garden,  intersected  by  broad  walks,  edged  with 
Sempervivum,  flanked  by  herbaceous  borders,  backed  with  espalier 
fruit  trees,  with  vegetable  quarter.^  beyond,  the  whole  enclosed  in  lofty 
walls  covered  with  trees  old  and  young ;  a  long  range  of  glass  across 
the  northern  boundary,  vineries,  peacheries,  plant  houses ;  all  and 
everything  in  order  outside  and  in — such  order  that  could  only  be 
maintained  by  an  earnest  man  with  the  limited  means  at  his  disposal. 
All  this  was  apparent ;  but  it  was  not  apparent  why  this  comparatively 
silent  man — a  thinker  evidently,  a  listener  rather  than  a  talker,  and 
intensely  practical— should  think  any  garden  literature  dull ;  he  rather 
suggest^  a  shudder  at  a  joke,  and  a  squirm  at  light  reading,  as 
frivolous. 
It  was  a  puzzle.  I  had  found  my  man  right  enough,  but  not 
solved  the  problem.  On  passing  through  the  potting  shed  on  the 
way  to  the  fruit  room  the  “Journal”  came  in  view.  “Hope  at 
last,”  was  my  silent  motto.  I  must  fish  warily.  “  Oh,  I  see  you  are 
a  reader  of  this.  How  do  you  like  it,  and  what  do  you  think  of  it? 
It  is  practical,  I  fancy,  but  perhaps  a  trifle  heavy  at  times.”  The  last 
was  rather  a  leading  question,  but  as  Mr.  Ess  did  not  write  the  card  in 
my  possession,  and  probably  did  not  know  of  its  existence,  it  was  felt 
to  be  sate.  “  Yes,”  was  his  reply,  “  I  have  read  it  for  many  years, 
and  have  always  liked  it.  As  to  what  I  think  of  it,  I  have  often 
fancied  it  runs  with  the  weather — sometimes  bright,  sometimes  dull, 
and  now  and  then  gives  us  an  article  almost  freezy ;  but  I  am  not  one 
who  finds  much  fault  with  the  weather,  which  I  try  to  make  the  best 
of,  and  just  now  I  want  frost  for  filling  the  ice  house.” 
A  rather  adroit  “  turn,”  I  thought,  for  he  did  not  say  he  had  no 
fault  to  find  with  the  Journal.  I  must  try  again ;  and  thus  proceeded, 
“  That  is  very  much  my  opinion,  and  I  believe  the  weather  affects 
writers  ;  they  seem  to  get  dull  as  the  leaves  fall,  and  brighten  up  in 
spring  and  summer.  I  sometimes  wish  it  was  the  other  way  about ; 
and  what  we  should  do  without  the  jolly  Japs  and  the  rest  of  them 
I  really  don’t  know.”  A  hit,  sir,  a  “  palpable  hit,”  for  he  brightened 
actually  into  a  smile  as  he  rejoined  with  promptitude,  “  That’s  exactly 
it ;  we  do  want  something  to  ’liven  us  up.  My  Japs  have  not  been 
bad,  but  we  want  something  more.  It  is  all  very  well  for  one  writer 
to  tell  us  in  all  seriousness  how  to  dig,  trench,  and  prune;  another  to 
forage  among  the  funguses  for  all  sorts  of  queer  things  with  foreign 
names,  and  grope  among  worms,  mites,  and  maggots  as  if  he  loved 
them.  Then  how  one’s  jaded  intellect  is  revived  on  being  told  that 
‘  Brown  was  first  with  a  fairly  good  stand,  Jones  second  with  one  not 
quite  so  good,  and  Robinson  third  with  another  which  might  have 
been  better  ’  (?)  Somebody  likes  all  that  sort  of  reading,  no  doubt, 
but  I  like  something  these  long  dull  nights  in  this  little  dull  place  a 
bit  more  lively,”  and  so  on.  I,  however,  interposed  by  asking  what 
kind  of  matter  he  liked  best.  “  Oh,”  he  replied,  “  I  am  not  particular 
so  long  as  it  is  gardeny,  and  such  as  one  can’t  help  reading;  but  a 
good  deal  is  so  prosy  that  I  am  obliged  to  turn  to  the  fiddle  for  relief.” 
How  easy  it  is  to  be  deceived  in  a  man  !  This  at  first  almost 
silent  listener  found  his  tongue  when  the  right  chord  was  struck  ;  he 
also  revealed  his  musical  instincts  ;  and  he  evidently  appreciates  the 
“  music  of  words  ”  or  the  sparkling  of  fancy — “  gardeny  ”  notes,  set 
not  in  a  minor  key.  Work  not  described,  as  if  it  made  his  back  ache 
in  reading  it ;  nor  science,  dealt  out  in  strings  of  dry  didactics,  to 
puzzle  his  brain  (for  he  has  one),  and  drive  him  to  the  dictionary  or 
— the  “fiddle.” 
Whether  the  wants  of  such  men  can  ever  be  met  is  somewhat 
of  a  problem.  It  is  something,  however,  to  have  discovered  this 
particular  man,  and  subjected  him  to  a  process  of  extraction  ;  but  the 
time  for  departure  has  come,  his  leader  has  to  be  found — the  author 
of  the  card,  the  mysterious  Mr.  “  I.”  He  could  not  be  very  far  away 
in  such  a  small  colony  of  rural  settlers.  To  the  casual  remark,  “  Not 
many  gardens  worth  seeing  in  a  place  like  this  I  suppose ;  ”  the  reply 
came,  “  No,  there’s  only  the  Rectory,  which  is  fair;  the  Grange,  that 
is  middling ;  and  a  smallish  spot  called  the  Fishponds,  but  I  don’t 
know  why,  for  the  only  pond  I  have  seen  is  a  duck  pond.”  Next 
thought,  Do  you  know  if  any  of  them  read  the  Journal?  “No,  I 
don’t  think  the  ‘  places’  do”  (oh  !),  “but  I  think  it  is  read  by  the 
gardeners,  and  I  know  Mr.  Walton  takes  it  regularly,  though  he  is  a 
master.”  But  who  is  Mr.  Walton,  I  wonder  ?  “  Why,  haven’t  you 
heard  of  Mr.  Isaac  Walton  ?  ”  The  subject  was  getting  interesting. 
I  had,  of  course,  heard  of  “  old  Izaac,”  the  angler.  “  Well,”  was  the 
response,  “  I  suppose  our  Isaac  must  be  a  descendant  of  his,  but  he  is 
a  better  hand  with  the  gun  than  the  fishing  rod,  and  he  is  strong 
on  Roses.”  The  very  man.  I  want  to  know  something  about  the 
new  ones.  “  Then  by  all  means  go  (tell  him  you  have  been  here), 
and  you  will  find  a  hearty  welcome.” 
A  ten-minutes  walk  brings  into  view  a  glimmering  of  water,  and 
next  a  perfect  snuggery  of  a  garden  is  entered ;  that  is,  a  garden 
completely  sequestered,  with  apparently  something  of  many  things  in 
it,  but  most  of  all  Roses,  and  evidently  cherished.  “Mr.  Walton, 
I  presume,”  and  a  slim  dark  gentleman,  with  Gladstonian  eyes,  raised 
his  hat  and  smiled.  “  I  am  in  search  of  information  about  Roses,  and 
Mr.  Ess  advised  me  to  call.”  That  was  enough.  Words  of  welcome, 
mixed  with  Roses,  came  in  a  stream.  The  old  man  eloquent  might 
speak  longer,  but  not  more  quickly  between  the  pauses.  “  I  suppose 
you  grow  a  good  many  Roses,  Mr.  Walton,  and  know  most  of  the 
best  ?  ”  “  Oh,  no,  not  very  many,  only  a  few  hundreds  in  different 
places  ;  it’s  a  good  plan  not  to  have  them  altogether  if  you  can  help 
it ;  and  I  get  them  from  different  places — different  soils.  For  this 
particular  soil — rather  1  ght — it  doesn’t  do  to  get  them  from  heavy 
soils,  with  a  few  strong  roots  and  shoots  like  Willows;  I  draw  them 
from  poorer  land,  with  smaller  tops,  but  bushy  bottoms.  Always 
look  at  the  roots.  Get  plenty  of  these,  and  tops  will  follow.  'No, 
don’t  take  down  names  here,  we  will  go  in  and  do  that;  just  time 
to  see  another  garden  before  dark.”  Twilight  came,  but  the  sermon 
went  on  until  we  entered  the  stately  old  house,  and  there  found 
another  rosarian  —  the  light  Rose  of  the  home,  who  in  her  quiet, 
happy  way  puts  you  at  ease  at  once,  and  you  feel  like  one  of  the 
family — a  gift  which  not  all  possess. 
The  repast  over  and  to  the  library  for  the  names  of  the  Roses. 
“  Ah  !  do  you  know  this  paper  ?  ”  as  the  host  laid  his  hand  on  a  pile 
of  Journals.  “  Oh,  yes,  very  well,  but  think  it’s  been  just  a  little  bit 
dull  of  late,  and  the  heavy  men  seem  to  have  been  having  their 
innings.”  Quick  as  thought  came  the  response — “  That’s  just  what  we 
say,  Wt  it  is  a  bit  better  this  week  ;  they  always  get  bowled  out  in 
time.  We  like  good  practice,  but  good  reading  as  well,  you  know, 
and  do  not  mind  a  little  smart  fencing,  if  it  is  smart.”  Feeling  we 
were  coming  to  close  quarters  the  time  seemed  opportune  for  a  direct 
question — “Might  I  ask,  Mr.  Walton,  which  of  the  writers  you  like 
best?”  The  reply  was  a  staggerer.  “  Well,  to  be  frank,  I  think  I 
like  the  Farmer  as  well  as  any.  I  feel  compelled  to  read  him  because 
it  seems  to  come  so  easy,  and  I  dabble  just  a  little  in  his  line  in 
growing  butter  and  eggs — real,  I  mean ;  and  my  wife  likes  the 
Daffodil  of  that  name.”  “  What,  the  Farmer  !  I  should  have  thought 
you  would  have  been  all  for  Roses.”  “  Yes,  but  the  Rose  men  are 
either  written  out  or  lazy,  but  I  can  manage  my  own,  and  sometimes 
win — look  at  this  cup  !  I  am  rather  proud  of  it.  Happy  thought, 
shall  we  try  it  ?  It’s  nearly  Christmas,  you  know.”  We  tried  it. 
“  By  the  way,  Mr.  Walton,  do  you  ever  write  to  the  Journal ;  and 
if  not,  why  not  ?  ”  “  Very  little  ;  editors,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  appear 
to  be  rather  a  funny  lot.  I  once  sent  ten  sheets  of  foolscap  reckoning 
a  few  people  up — ^judges,  I  mean — and  about  a  quarter  of  it  appeared. 
I  asked  for  tue  rest  back,  and  in  about  a  month  it  came,  ‘  with  com¬ 
pliments.*  Well,  I  will  be  level  with  them,  I  thought,  so  sent  it  to 
another  paper ;  and  that  is  the  last  I  saw  or  heard  of  it.  Not  very 
encouraging,  was  it  ?  But,  by  the  way,  do  you  ever  write  ?  ”  Those 
dark  piercing  eyes  fixed  me,  and  I  had  to  confess  that  a  while  ago  I 
did  venture  into  the  arena,  but  brought  such  a  hurricane  on  my  head, 
that  I  felt  it  prudent  to  retire.  “  Subject  ?  ”  Oh  !  I  just  thought 
that  some  of  our  friends  were  getting  a  little  too  clever,  and  I  happened 
to  say  so,  and  remind  them  of  the  triumphs  of  the  men  of  the  past : 
that  is  all. 
What !  the  ‘  Decadence  of  Gardening  ?  ’  ”  A  nod  :  and  then  a 
shout. — “  Nelly,  come  !  here’s  the  ‘  Emperor  !  ’ — don’t  you  remember 
that  is  what  we  called  the  man  who  a  while  ago  threw  a  bomb  into 
the  camp  and  awakened  the  sleeping  army,  who  rose  against  him  in 
their  wrath  ;  but  he  is  still  alive.  I  am  proud  to  meet  your  active 
Imperial  Highness,  and  sorry  you  can’t  stay  longer :  the  last  train 
is  7.2:  come  again  when  you  can.”  I  shall,  undoubtedly;  and  in 
the  meantime  “  Ess  and  I  ”  will  discover  they  are  found  out,  while  I 
have  tried  to  “  make  the  best  of  them.” — A  Traveli.er. 
