386 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
Miiy  5,  lays. 
means  of  your  thinking  the  matter  out  for  yourselves,  and  testing  by 
practice  the  soundness  of — I  was  going  to  say  my  theory —  but  it  is 
not  theory  but  sound  practice  I  am  to  advocate. 
The  system  that  has  been  handed  down  to  us  from  our  forefathers 
of  admitting  fresh  air  to  the  occupants  of  a  hothouse,  by  opening  both 
top  and  front  ventilators,  is,  in  my  opinion,  to  use  an  old  Scotch 
saying,  “  wrang,  far  wrang,  and  a’  th’  gither  wrang.”  Not  only  is 
front  ventilation  not  necessary  for  Vines,  but  it  is  positively  injurious. 
Nay,  I  will  go  further,  and  say  that  for  almost  every  plant  that  is 
usually  grown  under  glass,  front  or  side  ventilation  is  unnecessary, 
and  in  many  cases  injurious.  If  a  strong  healthy  man  were  obliged  to 
sit  f<^r  so  many  hours  each  day  between  two  open  doors,  what  would 
be  the  result  ?  If  a  weakly  man,  who  had  been  coddled  in  heat  all 
his  days  did  the  same,  would  the  result  not  be  more  disastrous  ?  So 
with  a  house  of  Vines,  which  are  often  too  much  coddled  and  stewed. 
Are  they  not  sitting  or  growing  in  the  draught  of  two  open  venti¬ 
lators  ?  How  can  you  expect  weakly  thin  foliage  to  withstand  the 
attack  of  insect  pests  when  the  strong  under  similar  circumstances 
suffer  ?  I  believe  that  in  ninety -nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred  you  could 
trace  every  attack  of  red  spider  on  Vines  to  faulty  ventilation.  If  you 
take  the  trouble  to  watch  you  will  see  it  begin  close  to  a  ventilator, 
or  where  a  direct  draught  is  blowing.  I  assume,  of  course,  that  no 
plants  affected  with  spider  are  in  the  house.  Take  the  case  of  the 
foliage  of  the  Glros  Colman  Vine.  This  variety,  though  a  robust 
grower  with  a  good  constitution,  has  peculiarly  tender  leaves,  which 
are  oftener  seen  during  the  growing  season  cupped  up  at  the  edges 
and  quite  brown.  The  popular  belief  is  that  this  is  caused  by  the 
strength  of  the  sun’s  heat,  and  obscuring  the  glass  is  recommended  as 
a  remedy.  Well,  I  have  painted  the  glass  more  than  once  over  the 
leaves,  but  never  could  say  that  it  did  any  good  ;  but  I  have  seen 
Vines  of  this  variety  entirely  cured  by  the  discontinuance  of  front 
ventilation,  and  keep  their  leaves  as  hat  and  green  to  the  end  of  the 
season  as  any  other  variety. 
Great  care  and  judgment  are  required  in  giving  air,  and  though  I 
advocate  abundance  of  fresh  air,  especially  for  black  Grapes,  it  should 
only  be  admitted  from  the  top. 
You  need  not  be  afraid  of  scorching.  Vines  will  stand  a  high 
temperature  without  injury.  I  once  saw  a  house  of  early  Hamburghs, 
a  lean-to  facing  south,  grown  without  once  opening  a  ventilator  until 
the  Grapes  were  colouring  in  May,  and  not  a  scorched  leaf.  I  have 
also  seen  every  kind  of  fruit,  from  a  Pine  Apple  to  a  Strawberry,  and 
every  kind  of  plant  usually  grown  under  glass,  stove,  and  greenhouse, 
howering  and  foliage.  Ferns  and  Orchids,  grown,  and  grown  suc¬ 
cessfully,  without  the  use  of  front  ventilation.  It  is  not  necessary. 
We  never  use  it  in  any  house,  and  we  have  40,000  square  feet  of 
glass. — D.  Buchanan. 
(To  be  continued.) 
A  BRITON  IN  BELGIUM, 
One  of  the  many  things  which  strike  even  a  casual  student  of 
human  nature  is  that  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  most  people  express  an 
unbounded  contempt  for  every  country  except  the  one  which  has  had 
the  privilege  of  producing  them,  they  nevertheless  assume  new  airs  of 
importance  when  they  return  from  abroad.  01  course  this  is  not  so 
marked  in  the  case  of  gardeners  as  in  that  of  common  humanity. 
Gardeners  are  above  ordinary  weaknesses  of  the  flesh,  and  are  a  select 
and  superior  race.  But  being  in  the  main  observant  men,  not  without 
an  eye  to  the  humorous  foibles  of  their  fellow  countrymen,  they  must 
have  remarked  the  inconsistency  which  I  have  pointed  out. 
It  is  a  long  time  since  the  flrst  Briton  went  abroad  and  returned’ 
bursting  with  fresh  importance.  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  the  last 
one  does.  When  the  New  Zealander  stands  on  London  Bridge 
surveying  the  remnants  of  a  fallen  empire,  he  will  be  accosted  by  an 
odd  member  of  the  vanished  race,  just  in  by  the  Harwich  boat  and 
garrulous  about  the  Ghent  Azaleas.  Should  the  disgusted  New 
Zealander  disclaim  any  interest  in  the  Ghent  Azaleas”  then  the 
returned  native  will  describe  the  newest  Aroid,  or  his  last  plate  of 
Witloef.  Subsequent  events  are  a  matter  of  conjecture.  With  all 
respect  to  Macaulay,  I  am  of  opinion  that  the  Antipodean  will  retire 
vanquished  from  the  field,  leaving  the  horticultural  Saxon  in 
tlie  full  flow  of  an  haraniiue  on  the  subject  of  plant  grouping,  or  the 
superior  flavour  of  Antwerp  Kadishes  over  the  produce  o”  Little 
IMudbury. 
It  is  not  certain  that  this  peculiarity  of  tlie  travelled  Briton  is  an 
unmixed  evil.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  quite  likely  to  exercise  a 
beneficial  effect.  From  the  biggest  bore  often  falls  the  most  valuable 
hint.  By  a  comparison  of  methods  the  way  to  improvement  is  often 
found.  There'ore,  although  \ou  or  I,  or  the  other  man,  may  be 
regarded  as  a  bit  of  a  nuisance  in  airing  views  that  are  perhaps  ^tale, 
a  chance  observation  of  practical  value  serves  to  redeem  a  reputation. 
Would  British  gardening  be  what  it  is  if  our  incessant  palavers  and 
scribblings  had  never  been?  It  is  more  than  doubtful.  Perish  the 
thought,  therefore,  that  any  apology  is  needed  for  a  few  random 
jottings,  whatever  the  terrible  cynic  may  say  who  argues  that  discussions 
and  papers  and  articles — everything,  in  fact,  except  plain  shovelling — 
are  waste  of  breath,  paper,  and  time.  I  know  he  has  condemned  me 
beforehand,  but  I  must  try  and  eke  out  a  miserable  existence 
notwithstanding.  _  ^ 
Liverpool  Street,  London,  at  8.30  p.m.  ;  Harvvich  at  10;  Antwerp 
at  9  the  next  morning — an  easy  programme  of  swift  train,  comfortable 
steamer,  and  light  charges.  There  is  not  a  great  deal  of  horti¬ 
cultural  interest  along  the  lower  reaches  of  the  Scheldt,  but  the  man 
who  varies  his  gardening  reading  with  history  finds  other  things  to 
attract  his  attention  as  the  steamer  pursues  its  winding  way.  There 
is  the  spot,  for  instance,  where  a  band  of  Alva’s  soldiery — magnificently 
brave  if  magnificently  cruel — forced  their  way  through  ten  miles  of 
mud  and  water  in  gloom  and  fog ;  rarely  in  less  than  3  feet  of  water, 
often  with  its  chilly  fingers  creeping  round  their  infaipous  throats,  to 
emerge  triumphantly  from  their  terrible  ordeal  and  surprise  a  Flemish 
garrison.  Motley  tells  this  story,  with  many  another  of  thrilling  interest, 
in  his  monumental  work,  “  The  Bise  of  the  Dutch  Eepublic.”  It  is  not 
peaceful  horticulture — very  much  the  contrary,  but  it  is  vivid  and 
absorbing  enough  to  keep  the  most  ardent  gardener  from  his  favourite 
journal  far  on  into  the  midnight  hours.  And  the  end  of  it  will  be  a 
deeper  thankfulness  for  the  blessings  of  peace  and  freedom — a  mingling 
of  horror  and  relief ;  of  terror  and  admiration ;  of  breathless,  awe¬ 
stricken  loathing  for  the  black  records  of  the  past,  and  of  joy  for  the 
calm  prosperity  of  the  present. 
If  the  horticultural  visitor,  once  off  the  beaten  track  of  his  own 
particular  pursuit,  cares  to  linger  for  an  hour  or  two  amongst  the 
antiquities  of  Antweip  he  may  be  sure  of  a  rich  reward.  The  Plantin 
Museum  alone  will  beguile  ample  leisure.  Never  say  that  it  has  no 
interest  for  the  gardener ;  it  is  full  to  overflowing.  For  three 
centuries  Plantin’s  was  one  of  the  most  famous  printing  houses  of  the 
world.  It  produced  books  of  all  kinds,  from  illuminated  volumes  the 
cost  of  which  ran  to  hundreds  of  pounds  each  to  (no  doubt)  handbills 
extolling  the  merits  of  the  sausages  sold  by  the  dealer  round  the 
corner.  It  printed  books  of  botany  amongst  others,  and  in  its  cases 
are  the  old  woodcuts  prepared  by  engravers  long  since  passed  to  their 
rest.  So  admirable  was  the  work  that  the  plants  are  recognisable  at 
a  glance,  and^to  all  appearances  the  blocks  would  print  perfectly  well 
to-day.  A  guide  who,  after  several  unavailing  attempts,  had  fastened 
on  to  me,  gave  mo  amazing  descriptions  of  these  engravings.  As, 
however,  I  perceived  that  he  had  mixed  up  a  botanical  with  an  astro¬ 
nomical  work  I  excused  his  confusion  of  Lilium  candidum  with  the 
Milky  Way.  _ 
There  is  a  wonderful  old  Vine  on  the  wall  of  the  picturesque 
quadrangle  said  to  have  been  put  in  by  the  first  printer,  Christopher 
Plantin,  more  than  300  years  ago.  Perhaps  it  was,  and  if  the  report 
is  true  it  is  certainly  one  of  the  world’s  famous  Vines.  True,  the 
reproach  may  be  levelled  at  it  that  it  has  not  been  grown  on  the 
express  system ;  but  gardeners  of  the  old  school  wdll  make  all  allow¬ 
ances  for  that.  Doubtless  if  Plantin  had  been  as  well  instructed  in 
horticulture  as  he  clearly  had  been  in  printing  be  would  have  brought 
such  astonishing  skill  to  bear  upon  it  that  it  would  have  been  dead 
generations  ago.  My  guide,  who  was  about  thirty  years  of  age, 
endeavoured  to  foist  a  story  upon  me  that  he  had  been  familiar  with  the 
Vine  since  its  tenderest  years.  1  thereupon  took  up  with  an  official 
one,  who  produced  a  poem,  sold  it  to  me  for  a  franc  and  a  half,  and  then 
abandoned  me.  ’I’he  poem,  like/  the  Vine,  was  by  Plantin.  It  set 
forth  the  old  printer’s  idea  of  happiness  in  this  world,  and  as  amongst 
the  items  enumerated  were  a  sweet  garden,  a  limited  supply  of  children, 
and  a  quiet  wife,  Christopher  must  be  held  in  respect  as  a  man  of 
wisdom,  judgment,  and  discrimination.  He  left  a  family,  though. 
The  more  the  visitor  sees  of  this  wonderful  museum,  the  more 
pleased  he  is  that  he  did  not  pass  it  by  because  it  did  not  happen  to 
be  a  plant  nursery.  It  is  a  nursery  in  a  way — a  nursery  of  fruitful 
thought.  The  passer-by  finds  himself  back  in  an  old  "world,  the 
gardens  of  which  were  filled  with  aromatic  plants  and  herbs  of 
marvellous  properties.  He  thinks,  as  his  eye  wanders  over  flower 
paintings,  flower  designs  for  priceless  illuminated  volumes,  and  flower 
engravings  for  scientific  works,  of  the  sedate  gardeners  of  the  past 
centuries.  They  did  not  grow  Azaleas  as  he  is  presently  to  see  them 
at  Ghent ;  they  did  not  cultivate  Odontoglossums  as  he  has  already 
seen  them  at  the  Temple.  Their  spring-sown  Onions  were  not  of  the 
size  of  Alva’s  cannon  balls,  nor  were  their  Grapes  what  are  shown  at 
Shrewsbury;  but — and  a  big,  eloquent,  noble  but  it  is — they  laid  the 
,  foundation  by  their  unwearied  patience,  careful  observation,  and  ever- 
