164 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER , 
September  1,  1898. 
A  WET  DAY. 
There  are  various  ways  of  filling  up  a  wet  day.  One  is  to  hold 
morbid  commune  with  your  liver,  a  second  to  annoy  people  about  to 
start  for  their  holidays  with  the  doleful  prophecy  that  the  weather  has 
broken  up  for  the  season,  a  third  to  write  to  the  papers  criticising  the 
dog-muzzling  order.  But  a  horticulturist  whose  heart  is  in  the  right 
place  is  above  the  weaknesses  of  common  flesh.  He  beams  on  the  world 
in  general  as  he  observes  his  crops  freshening  and  revivifying,  and  in  the 
fulness  of  his  satisfaction  tramps  about  and  gets  wet  through.  Perhaps 
an  impulse  takes  him  to  go  and  look  at  other  people’s  crops,  more 
especially  if  he  has  been  saving  up  an  invitation.  With  impulse  and 
invitation  both  centring  on  the  same  spot — Eynsford — I  chose  a  wet 
July  day  to  go.  Eynsford  is  the  home  of  the  Cannells  and  the  Tills. 
Mr.  H.  Cannell  is  known  locally  as  the  “Swanley  Wonder  Mr.  E.  D. 
Tili  I  have  heard  referred  to  as  the  uncrowned  king  of  Eynsford.  Men 
of  consuming  energy  are  they,  and  of  a  tenacious  grip.  Fall  into  the 
hands  of  either,  and  you  are  booked  till  the  shades  of  night  are  falling. 
Pate  flung  me  into  the  clutches  of  the  uncrowned  monarch,  but  the 
captivity  was  a  happy  one. 
A  New  Remedy  for  the  Potato  Disease, 
And  a  good  one,  too.  Not  vastly  more  effectual  than  the  Bordeaux, 
not  vastly  cheaper,  but  better  to  apply.  Here  it  is 
20  lbs.  sulphate  of  copper. 
30  lbs.  common  soda. 
100  gallons  of  water. 
This  is  Bordeaux  minus  lime,  plus  soda  as  the  reader  will  see  at  a 
glance.  . 
Two  minutes  after  quitting  Eynsford  Station  an  alert,  keen,  shrewd- 
looking  man  chased  me  down  the  road  on  a  bicycle  and  spun  off  the 
above  formula.  A  thoroughly  wide-awake,  up-to-date  farmer  is  Mr. 
Rogers,  ever  ready  to  pick  up  a  hint,  and  equally  ready  to  give  one.  He 
is  not,  as  so  many  large  growers  are,  above  going  to  hear  scientists 
discourse.  He  is  practical  enough  to  know  what  is  useful  to  him  in  their 
remarks  and  what  is  not.  He  makes  common-sense  use  of  the  former 
without  losing  his  head  over  the  latter. 
Mr.  Rogers  quitted  me,  to  spin  along  on  bis  active  and  busy  course, 
and  a  certain  somebody  of  a  different  school,  whose  name  I  will  in  charity 
suppress,  soon  joined  me.  “  Have  you  heard  about  Mr.  Till’s  Potatoes  ?  ” 
he  asked,  “they’re  spoiled.  He’s  killed  them  with  some  new  wash. 
We’ve  too  much  squirting  about  nowadays.  I  always  said  so."  The 
certain  somebody  departed,  not  ill-pleased.  Here  was  a  strange  contrast 
of  statements.  Was  it  possible  that  the  wash  was  the  same  ?  Had  the 
sharp  farmer  made  a  mistake,  and  were  his  friends  suffering  for  it  ?  I 
entered  the  garden  of  the  supposed  sufferer  and  found  him  smiling. 
Yes  ;  he  had  been  trying  the  soda  wash,  and  liked  it.  As  to  the  supposed 
destruction  of  the  Potatoes— rubbish  !  The  early  sorts  were  dying  down, 
and  a  stupid  rumour  had  got  afloat  on  the  strength  of  nothing  but  natural 
decay.  So  much  for  the  complacent  croaker,  bowled  over  once  more,  but 
certain  to  crop  up  again  ere  long  with  another  dismal  story. 
Brobdinonagian  Bouquets. 
Mr.  Till  suggested  (1)  a  dinner  ;  (2)  a  ramble  through  garden  and 
larm.  The  happy  combination  was  accepted.  Who  knew  but  what 
another  Rogers  might  be  encountered,  with  another  useful  “wrinkle”  to 
impart,  especially  as  the  first  call  was  to  be  at  Lullingstone  Castle,  Sir 
Wm.  Hart-Dyke’s  residence  ?  The  gardens  there  are  presided  over  by  a 
Scotsman,  Mr.  G.  Hutt.  Nine  visitors  out  of  ten  who  had  been  over  the 
place  would  certainly  make  the  same  response  if  asked  what  they  con¬ 
sidered  the  best  thing  in  the  gardens,  by  saying— “  the  Peaches.’'  The 
culture  of  this  fruit  at  Lullingstone  is  much  out  of  the  common  ;  and  in 
view  of  this  a  curious  coincidence  expresses  itself  in  the  fact  that  the 
brass  and  monument  in  the  old  family  church  on  the  lawn  are  ornamented 
with  the  symbol  of  a  Peach.  Four  hundred  years  ago  Lullingstone  was 
in  the  possession  of  Sir  John  Peche,  whose  descendants  intermarried  with 
the  Harts  and  the  latter  with  the  Dykes. 
The  house  and  gardens  lie  in  a  valley  about  half  a  mile  from  Eynsford 
station.  The  little  river  Darenth  Rows  through  the  grounds,  and  a  broad 
piece  of  lawn  stretching  from  the  banks  of  the  stream  to  the  walls  of  the 
mansion  is  a  beautiful  feature  of  the  place.  Apart  from  a  series  of  beds 
there  are  several  huge  mounds  upon  it,  many  feet  high,  many  feet 
through,  planted  with  a  variety  of  brilliant  flowers.  The  form  of  the 
mounds,  and  the  full  yet  free  and  well-relieved  system  of  planting, 
affords  a  suggestion  of  huge  bouquets.  I  do  not  know  if  they  are  relics 
of  the  olden  days,  or  if  they  are  of  recent  construction.  But  in  either 
case  the  result  is  the  same  ;  they  relieve  flatness  and  break  up  uniformity. 
Probably  the  average  planter  would  rather  have  a  piece  of  level  surface 
to  work  upon,  but  any  pangs  he  may  have  suffered  when  clinging  on 
like  a  fly  on  a  ceiling  must  be  assuaged  by  the  effect  he  has  produced. 
Peaches  in  Perfection. 
One  Peach  tree  being  very  much  like  another  in  the  average  garden, 
it  is  not  altogether  easy  to  make  the  difference  between  one  man’s  culture 
and  another’s  clear  on  paper.  I  think  this  sometimes  as  I  read  ;  I  think 
it  now  as  I  write.  But  there  are  degrees  of  excellence — good,  better,  and 
best — which  are  apparent  to  the  judgment,  if  not  to  be  dribbled  rapidly 
off  the  pen.  Mr.  Hutt  has  got  past  both  the  positive  and  comparative 
stage,  and  reached  the  superlative.  A  very  brief  inspection  suffices  to 
show  that  he  is  a  master  of  those  mysterious  “finishing  touches’’  which 
impress  the  observer  and  yet  are  beyond  the  compass  of  many  experienced 
men.  His  trees  are  more  than  healthy  ;  they  glow  with  vitality.  His 
succession  is  admirable  ;  and  here  let  me  give  the  name  of  one  important 
part  of  it — Condor.  An  an  early,  this  variety  has  so  many  fine  qualities 
that  it  is  almost  certain  to  increase  in  popularity.  For  its  omission  from 
the  “  Fruit  Manual  ”  there  is  doubtless  some  sufficient  explanation.  Four 
years  ago  I  ventured,  in  defiance  of  a  certain  amount  of  head-shaking,  to 
plant  Waterloo  in  preference  to  Alexander,  and  Condor  in  preference 
to  A  Bee  or  Early  York  for  a  wealthy  amateur.  The  result  has  given 
the  utmost  satisfaction  to  all  concerned. 
"Vine  Renovation. 
Mr.  Hutt’s  vineries  tell  a  story  that  has  appeared  in  these  columns 
before,  though  never  with  a  better  basis — that  of  renovation  by  improved 
borders  and  new  rod^.  The  Lullingstone  Vines  are  old,  but  they  carry 
the  fine  clusters  usually  associated  with  youthful  vigour.  The  Muscats 
are  part'cularly  striking.  The  great  bunches  with  their  fine  berries 
laugh  at  any  suggestions  of  decrepitude,  venerable  as  are  the  canes.  I 
venture  to  think  that  such  a  state  of  affairs  as  this  reflects  at  least  as 
much  credit  on  the  grower  as  those  examples  of  “express  ”  culture  which 
consist  in  buying  fruiting  canes,  growing  them  a  season  and  then 
throwing  them  away.  The  wonderful  art  in  Vine  growing  represented 
by  the  latter  process  may  have  adherents,  but  so,  to  thoughtful  m-n, 
will  the  “old-fashioned’’  practice  of  re-making  borders  with  sound,  sweet 
stuff ;  taking  up  new  rods  and  allowing  reasonable  extension  where 
previously  there  was  the  narrowest  restriction. 
Not  a  thousand  miles  from  Lullingstone  is  a  vinery  where  for  years 
mealy  bug  has  been  a  terror.  It  is  so  still.  The  Vines  are  listless,  the 
bunches  poor.  At  times  there  is  a  flicker  of  hope,  for  the  pest  appears  to 
have  been  got  rid  of,  but  after  a  while  it  appears  again.  The  chief  told 
me  he  had  tried  everything  without  avail.  He  is  a  reader  of  this  and 
other  papers,  and  he  has  put  into  operation  every  suggestion  that  he  has 
seen  for  overcoming  the  foe,  and  still  it  haunts  his  slumbers.  He  was 
asked  if  a  saw  was  amongst  the  remedies,  and  answered  with  an  astonished 
“  No  !  ”  evidently  connecting  the  tool  with  a  surgical  operation  upon  the 
bug.  This  point  of  view  was  humorous,  but  lacked  practicability. 
Nevertheless,  the  saw  is  the  remedy.  These  bug-stricken  Vines  are 
planted  2  feet  apart,  and  the  laterals  are  only  kept  from  interlacing 
by  persistent  pinching  and  pruning.  The  restriction  is  merciless,  and 
the  crippled  Vines  have  not  vitality  enough  to  fight  against  their  enemies. 
The  grower  may  squirt  and  squirt  to  his  heart’s  content,  but  success  will 
not  reward  him  until  he  puts  the  saw  through  half  the  rods  and  gives  the 
rest  a  chance  of  battling  for  themselves.  I  am  not  sure  whether 
originality  can  be  claimed  for  this  point  of  view,  but  I  am  sure  truth  can. 
Profit  in  Pears. 
The  digression  has  taken  me  away  from  Lullingstone,  where  neither 
mealy  bug  nor  any  other  noxious  pest  has  a  chance,  and  perhaps  I  may 
not  get  back  again.  But  in  the  same  parish  there  is  another  remarkable 
example  of  successful  fruit  growing,  although  of  a  diffirent  kind,  which 
is  worth  a  reference.  Hulbury  Farm,  Crockenhill,  tenanted  by  Mr. 
Archibald  Lee  and  brother,  is  on  the  Lullingstone  estate,  and  is  a  credit 
to  if.  The  broad  crest  of  a  hill-top,  above  the  grounds  of  the  Castle,  has 
been  turned  into  a  fruit  farm  of  the  most  up-to-date  kind.  True  I  was 
brought  up  with  a  round  turn  at  the  very  start,  for  I  saw  half-standard 
Pears  round  the  edge  of  the  plantation,  and  was  assured  they  were 
planted  for  shelter.  This  was  a  new  idea,  and  with  all  deference  to  the 
judgment  of  men  who  know  their  business  well,  I  venture  to  think 
Damsons  would  be  not  only  more  effectual,  but  more  profitable.  How¬ 
ever,  it  behoves  a  critic  to  proceed  cautiously  hereabouts,  and  unsatis¬ 
factory  as  Pears  are  in  a  general  way  from  the  market  point  of  view,  it 
is  unquestionable  that  some  of  the  Crockenhill  growers  make  money  out 
of  them.  It  is  astonishing  to  see  the  magnificent  fruit  they  get,  of  such 
varieties  as  Beacon  and  Fertility.  They  know  their  Rivers,  do  these 
wideawake  growers,  and  not  a  few  of  them  have  “made  a  pile”  out  of 
the  early  Plum  that  bears  his  honoured  name. 
Half-standard  versus  Bush  Trees. 
The  class  of  orchard  tree  favoured  in  these  parts  is  the  half-standard. 
It  is  seen  in  Apples,  Pears,  and  Plums.  The  reason  why  it  is  liked  is  a 
twofold  one.  It  is  preferred  to  a  full  standard  because  it  is  more  accessible 
in  pruning  and  gathering,  which  is  a  perfectly  good  and  legitimate  reason  ; 
and  it  is  preferred  to  a  bush  because  it  can  be  cropped  close  to  the  stem, 
which  is  not  quite  so  satisfactory.  Very  close  cropping  is  of  doubtful 
advantage.  I  know  a  grower  who  was  troubled  with  canker  in  his 
Apples.  He  could  not  believe  me  at  first  when  I  told  him  it  was  all 
through  robbery  of  nutriment  by  his  Currants,  which  were  planted  very 
close  up  ;  but  he  pulled  a  few  of  the  bushes  out  to  test  the  point,  and  was 
very  soon  satisfied.  He  has  pulled  a  great  many  more  out  since.  On  the 
whole,  although  quite  agreeing  that  half-standards  on  free  stocks  are 
useful  and  good  when  intelligently  managed,  I  regard  their  superiority 
over  bushes  on  Paradise  stocks  as  “non-proven.”  At  the  very  least  it 
may  be  said  that  the  latter  are  a  valuable  type  of  tree.  The  Hulbury 
half-standards  are  intelligently  managed,  and  very  beautiful  many  of 
them  are,  none  looking  better  than  Lane’s  Prince  Albert  and  Golden 
Spire.  The  latter  makes  a  capital  tree,  fruits  heavily,  and  sells  well. 
Very  sensible  ideas  of  pruning  prevail  on  this  and  contiguous  farms. 
Not  a  great  deal  is  done,  but  what  is  done  is  performed  when  the  trees 
are  young.  If  a  tree  is  not  carefully  shaped  when  in  an  early  stage,  after 
pruning  will  cost  more  than  it  is  worth. 
A  Good  Black  Currant. 
A  passing  reference  has  been  made  to  Currants.  There  was  a 
magnificent  crop  of  Blacks  at  Hulbury,  the  bushes  being  laden  with 
large  clusters  of  plump  juicy  fruit.  I  never  saw  a  better  crop,  nor  a  cleaner. 
