42 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
July  21,  1898. 
ocean  was  doimmint,  and  m  m  ue  tran«|ud  part'  great  sedimentary 
deposits  were  formed  ;  in  others,  accumulations  of  clay  took  place, 
largely  derived  from  the  deposits  of  the  ancient  liassic  sea,  or  other 
clay  formations,  hut  containing  rounded  masses  of  rock,  fossils  from 
various  sources,  and  now  styled  from  its  water- worn  stones,  boulder 
clay  and  till,  sufficiently  evince  the  duration  of  this  period  in  the 
history  of  our  land. 
The  irregular  distribution  of  soil,  clay,  or  sand  over  a  very  extensive 
land  surface  to  those  entirely  unacquainted  with  the  changes  and 
revelations  which  the  science  of  geology  has  unfolded,  are  perplexing 
and  inexphcable.  Some  clue  to  their  origin  cannot  but  be  useful  to 
those  who  have  to  deal  with  the  practical  work  of  cultivating  land. 
These  boulder  clays,  for  example,  are  difficult  to  drain  ;  they  have  not 
the  stratified  or  laminated  structure  of  the  lias.  The  matrix  of  the 
boulder  stones  imbedded  in  clay  retains  water,  and  over  a  wide  district 
the  humidity  and  tenacity  of  this  clay  make  cultivation  difficult,  and 
produce  brooding  mists  and  local  cold. 
The  immense  masses  of  earthy  matter,  of  which  the  above  is  an 
instance,  broken  up  and  commingled  and  deposited  without  reference 
to  gravity  or  other  law  of  arrangement  over  the  face  of  the  country, 
renders  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  classify  the  various  matters 
with  any  degree  of  precision.  It  may  be  remarked  that  they  generally 
partake  stronglv  of  the  mineral  character  of  the  formations  of  their 
respective  districts,  and  t tie  knowledge  of  this  fact  is  important  in 
horticultural  practice,  as  drifts  or  deposits  of  sandy  loam,  for  example, 
derived  from  limestone  hills,  very  naturally  partake  strongly  of  the 
calcareous  character  of  that  stone  ;  and  as  lime,  though  an  admirable 
base,  or  even  fertiliser,  of  some  crops,  is  obnoxious,  and  even  fatal,  to 
Lricaceous  plants,  it  follows  that  losses  and  disappointment  follow 
from  its  employment  as  a  soil  for  this  class  of  plants.  Loamy  deposits 
should  thus  be  investigated,  and  the  source  whence  they  were  derived 
ascertained. — P.  T.  Ingram. 
(To  be  continued  ) 
MR.  D’OMBRAIN’S  GARDEN. 
“It  is  far  easier,”  remarked  the  editor  of  a  great  paper  to  me  once, 
“  to  write  an  article  than  to  find  a  good  heading  for  it.”  Ever  since 
that  time  I  have  made  the  first  duty,  in  connection  with  a  contribution, 
the  careful  choice  of  a  title,  and  over  and  over  again  I  have  proved  the 
truth  of  the  great  autocrat’s  words.  But  ever  and  anon  the  onerous  task 
simplifies  itself.  The  subject  is  its  own  heading.  To  indicate  it  supplies 
it  with  its  one  attraction  for  the  reading  public.  And  so — for  the  present 
is  a  case  in  point — I  simply  tell  you  that  I  want  to  chat  about  Mr. 
D’Ombrain’s  garden,  and  the  position  and  popularity  of  the  famous 
amateur  ;  give  me  your  car. 
It  is  the  middle  of  an  early  July  morning,  with  a  shimmer  of  sunshine 
on  the  sprawling  hop  bine.  The  haze  has  left  the  hills,  and  at  the  foot  of 
them  nestles  the  village.  Westwell  is  a  secluded  spot  in  a  lovely  corner 
of  beautiful  Kent,  enshrined  in  green  meadows,  shadowed  by  woods, 
overhung  by  the  leaning  heights  of  adjacent  hills.  It  is  rich  in  pure 
pastoral  charm.  The  fragrance  of  the  lanes  makes  the  way  thither  from 
Ashford  all  too  short.  There  is  a  station  a  mile  or  two  nearer — Hothfield, 
on  the  London,  Chatham,  and  Dover  line — a  station,  too,  with  its  walls 
and  fences  clad  with  gay  creepers  and  splendid  fan-trained  trees,  but  no 
visitor  would  grudge  an  inch  of  the  distance  from  the  railway  town  to 
the  vicarage  gate,  so  full  of  pleasant  features  is  the  country-side. 
Though  still  so  early,  the  octogenarian  florist  was  out.  “In  the 
garden  of  course,”  was  my  swift  conclusion,  “  where  else  ?  ”  But  I  was 
momentarily  forgetting  that  there  are  other  things  besides  his  flowers 
very  near  the  veteran’s  heart.  He  was  not  in  the  garden  ;  he  was  away 
paying  an  early  visit  to  a  parishioner,  whence,  an  hour  afterwards,  he 
returned,  carrying  his  burden  of  more  than  eighty  years  along  the 
flower-bordered  garden  path,  feeling  his  way  along  the  familiar  road 
with  outstretched  stick  to  aid  the  sight  which  age  has  made  very  dim, 
but  breaking  into  a  genial  smile,  into  a  cheery  welcome,  when  told  that  a 
visitor  was  there.  I  recall,  and  shall  do  when  years  have  quenched  my 
own  vigour,  the  sight  of  the  white-headed  figure  amongst  the  flowers, 
bent  and  peering,  but  spontaneously  gay  and  vivacious  at  the  nearness  of 
another,  though  more  obscure,  horticultural  spirit. 
And  the  garden  !  Why,  sirs  and  ladies,  it  is  a  medley.  Flowers 
hardy  and  flowers  tender,  fruit  trees  big  and  little,  vegetables— Ah !  no 
big  and  little  here,  all  are  big  and  bold  —  shoulder  each  other  close  to  the 
vicarage  windows.  Here  is  a  bed  of  Tea  Roses,  there  one  of  Strawberries, 
and  sandwiched  in  between  are  rows  of  Celery  and  Potatoes.  Mr 
D’Ombrain  laughingly  declares  that  his  small  enclosure  of  horticultural 
hotch-potch  is  not  a  garden  at  all, and  merits  no  such  dignified  name;  but 
while  the  venerable  vicar  was  still  away  on  his  ei  rand  of  comfort  or  mercy, 
I  had  gone  the  round  with  stalwart  Edward  <  lements,  whose  f  me  as  a 
vegetable  grower  has  spread  far  beyond  his  own  district,  and  who 
declares,  with  an  pmphafis  no  one  would  dispute,  that  he  has  one  of  the 
best  masters  in  the  world.  And  on  this  round  I  had  seen  more  flowers, 
more  fruit,  more  vegetables,  aye,  and  immeasurably  more  cultural  skill, 
aptitude,  and  attention,  than  in  the  average  garden  of  three  times  the 
size. 
Let  us  item  out  the  things  with  which  Mr.  D’Ombrain’s  name  is  more 
particularly  associated.  The  Roses  alone  make  a  garden.  I  have  seen 
larger  beds,  but  never  more  beautiful  ones.  There  are  probably  few 
collections  fuller  of  interest,  I  mean  as  regards  vigour,  excellence  of 
culture,  and  choice  of  variety.  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  start  lists  of 
names,  for  perhaps  readers  of  show  reports  have  had  enough  just  lately — 
besides,  there  are  far  too  many  to  be  enumerated.  It  will  be  enough  if  I 
convey  the  fact  that  the  collection  is  representative,  that  it  is  being  kept 
up-to-date  with  meritorious  new  varieties,  and  that  in  respect  to  quality 
of  bloom  it  suffers  nothing  in  comparison  with  many  others  that  send  out 
prize  stands.  The  Teas  are  a  particularly  beautiful  feature.  With  a 
winter  mulching  they  contend  successfully  with  the  brisk  hill  breezes,  and 
one  fairly  largo  bed  of  them  is  a  picture  of  chaste  and  delicate  beauty. 
A  hint  as  to  labels.  Much  the  most  appropriate  to  the  mood  of  the 
“stout  party’’  who  does  not  like  stooping  is  Pinches’  Acme.  Mr. 
D’Ombrain  uses  many  sorts,  but  no  better  a  one  than  this. 
We  wander,  I  think,  into  his  daughter’s  domain,  where  we  go  amongst 
the  rock  beds  and  hardy  plant  borders.  I  am  told  the  sight  of  them  in 
spring  is  something  to  remember,  from  the  wealth  of  bulbs  which  adorn 
them.  There  is  a  vestige  of  this  brilliant  host  in  a  few  odd  Calochorti, 
which  have  lingered  on  into  Ro°e  time  without  suffering  too  sharply  for 
their  temerity,  but  the  bulk,  of  course,  are  gone.  As  successors  to  them 
are  to  be  seen  a  glad  array  of  fine  perennials,  some  all  too  little  grown. 
I  was  much  struck  by  the  fine  Campanula  celtidifolia,  a  boid  and  shapely 
plant,  with  handsome  Hyacinth  like  clusters  of  rich  blue  flowers.  It  was 
a  conspicuous  object  from  every  part  of  the  garden.  The  yellow  Centaurea 
glastifolia,  4  feet  high,  was  another  effective  plant.  Scabiosa  ochroleuca 
reared  its  yellow  tuits  to  a  similar  altitude  and  was  not  less  telling. 
Breadths  of  beautiful  Columbines  brighten  the  borders,  and  alternating 
with  such  determined  and  vigorous  growers  were  more  fastidious  plants, 
like  the  Edelweiss  and  Ramondia  pyrenaica,  the  former  of  which 
luxuriated  in  abed  of  ashes,  the  latter  snugged  itself  under  a  miniature 
cave  of  stones.  Broad  are  these  borders — broad  and  full.  A  hedge  of 
pungent  Sweet  Briar  intersects  them,  a  column  of  Crimson  Rambler  Roses 
rises  at  one  end. 
Anon  the  visitor  pauses,  for  he  has  come  upon  another  specialitj  — 
the  Gladiolus.  There  is  a  colony  of  them  in  a  certain  part  of  the  garden, 
a  sturdy  colony,  a  happy  colony.  They  are  believers  in  imperial 
federation,  if  they  have  no  leanings  towards  imperial  penny  postage.  They 
appear  to  have  a  “reservation”  of  their  own,  being  served  as  Uncle  Sam 
serves  his  redskins.  But  this  makes  us  think  of  the  Wild  West  and  not 
of  Westwell.  Another  ramble  and  another  pause.  It  is  Auriculas  this 
time.  No  federation  here,  but  iscla’ion.  They  are  enclosed  within 
wooden  walls — walls  that  have  done  their  duty  for  many  a  year,  that  are 
war-worn,  battle  stained.  We  have  read  about  these  Auriculas,  they  are 
old,  old  friends.  I  gaze  upon  them,  therefore,  with  a  friendly  and 
sympathetic  eye.  Yes,  there  are  the  glazed  pots,  too,  shining  superior  to 
their  unglazed  brethren.  _ 
The  greenhouse  is  the  one  bit  of  glass  rising  above  the  dignity  of  a 
frame  on  the  place.  It  is  an  ancient  span-roofed  structure  heated  by  a 
flue.  Perhaps  a  shade  crosses  the  contented  face  of  the  stalwart  Clements 
as  he  reflects  on  the  vagaries  of  that  flue.  It  is  a  cross-grained  and 
erratic  flue.  Occasionally  it  goes  on  strike,  and  rejects  arbitration  ;  then, 
of  course,  the  unhappy  Clements  has  to  establish  a  night  relay  of  pickets, 
each  relay  consisting  of  himself.  He  is  a  “  blackleg,”  too,  by  the  time 
he  has  done  with  it.  But  the  shade  disappears  quickly,  for  winter  is  far 
behind  ;  there  is  mellow  summer  heat,  and  the  house  is  gay  with  flowers. 
“  Always  full  of  bloom,  winter  and  summer,”  says  the  stalwart  one.  It 
is  very  full  now.  There  is  a  splendid  collection  of  Pelargoniums,  and 
amongst  the  many  fine  Zonals  the  salmon  rose  Mrs.  D’Ombrain,  one  of 
the  best  of  Messrs.  Pearson’s  excellent  strain,  is  conspicuous.  Modernity 
shows  itself  in  the  Streptocarpus  ;  but  beautiful  though  they  are,  they 
are  not  more  attractive  than  the  many  plants  of  Zephyranthes,  which 
bloom  for  six  months  and  never  ask  for  a  shift. 
You  see,  then,  how  the  case  lies.  All  the  canons  of  horticultural 
description  are  upset  by  a  garden  like  this.  The  writer  cannot  parcel 
his  subject  out  in  the  time-honoured  way.  “We  now  enter  the  flower 
garden,”  and  “  this  brings  us  to  the  gate  of  the  kitchen  garden,”  and  so 
on.  He  is  in  the  rosery,  flower  garden,  rockery,  kitchen  garden,  fruit 
department,  all  at  once.  He  just  rambles,  and  Ins  jottings  must  do  the 
same.  In  three  breaths,  Clements  calls  attention  to  a  beautiful  bush  of 
Madame  Chedane  Guinoisseau  Rose,  a  row  of  Suttons’  Early  Giant  Pea, 
with  eleven  great  fat  peas  of  marrow  flavour  in  the  pod,  although  a  first 
early,  and  a  line  of  horizontal  cordon  Apples  full  of  grand  fruit,  particu¬ 
larly  Lane’s  Prince  Albert,  Tower  of  Glamis,  Mere  de  Manage,  Warner’s 
King  and  Alfriston.  _ 
Yes  1  Mr.  D  Ombrain’s  garden  is  full  of  interest,  full  of  beauty,  full  of 
lessons.  It  is  a  garden  of  which  the  memory  is  to  be  placed  amongst 
beautiful,  sweet  and  cherished  possessions,  not  alone  from  its  own  charm 
and  fragrance,  but  from  the  impulse  and  inspiration  it  has  given  to  the 
venerable  figure  which  has  played  so  large  a  part  in  developing  British 
horticulture. — W.  P.  Wright. 
