January  30,  1896. 
, JOURNAL  OP  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER 
91 
being  sold.  I  found  that  the  produce  of  my  renovated  vinery  made 
each  year  the  handsome  sum  of  over  £10.  The  Grapes  were  sent 
to  a  large  fruiterer’s  in  Bradford,  and  well  do  I  remember  on  one 
occasion,  after  sending  my  last  lot  for  that  season,  receiving  a  notice 
from  my  consignee,  “Please  send  at  once  20  lbs.  of  Black  Ham- 
burghs,  nicely  coloured,  as  they  are  required  for  the  execution  of 
a  special  order  just  received.”  Of  course  I  had  to  reply,  “Very 
sorry,  I  sent  you  the  last  on  Tuesday.” 
The  year  before  I  left  we  got  to  their  roots  again,  cleared  off 
the  surface  soil  as  well  as  we  could  without  disturbing  many 
roots,  for  by  this  time  numbers  had  reached  the  top,  added  what 
fresh  soil  was  necessary,  with  a  good  sprinkling  of  bonemeal  and 
Thomson’s  Vine  manure.  I  have  much  faith  in  this  manure, 
believing  that  it  is  one  of  the  best  of  foods  for  old  and  exhausted 
Vines.  A  year  or  more  after  I  left  I  received  a  letter  from  my 
esteemed  mistress,  in  which  she  gave  a  brief  description  of  how  the 
garden  was  behaving  under  new  management,  and  concluded  by 
saying  “  The  Grapes  are  beautiful.” 
A  “  Young  Gardener  ”  might,  if  he  finds  his  employer  prejudiced 
against  the  removal  of  the  Vines  under  his  care,  resort  to  similar 
means  to  those  I  adopted.  But  the  best  course  to  pursue  is  to  plant 
young  ones  in  a  new  border  about  4  feet  wide,  adding  to  it  as  the 
roots  extend  and  require  more  room.  I  have  much  more  faith  in 
young  Vines  than  in  old  renovated  ones,  especially  if  the  house 
accommodation  is  such  that  it  admits  of  planting  temporary  Vine3 
in  a  narrow  inside  border  for  fruiting  till  the  permanent  Vines  get 
established. — W.  West  Chapman. 
[With  reference  to  this  first  attempt  at  writing  for  the  press  we 
say  “Better  late  than  never.”  The  narrative  of  experience, 
prompted  by  the  laudable  desire  to  help  a  younger  brother  in  the 
craft,  is  so  clear  that  the  routine  described  cannot  easily  be  mis¬ 
understood — no  small  merit.  We  like  the  plain,  smooth  Saxon,  and 
it  satisfies  us  that  a  good  man  was  behind  the  pen.  We  are  very 
much  obliged  to  him,  and  he  can  try  again.] 
PEAR  BEURRE  PERRON. 
The  new  Pears  that  have  been  worthy  of  more  than  a  passing  notice 
have  of  late  years  been  somewhat  limited  in  number,  so  that  one  of 
unusual  promise  merits  attention.  Amongst  the  latter  may  be  placed 
Beurr4  Perron,  of  which  the  woodcut  (fig.  14)  is  a  representation.  As 
may  be  seen  by  the  illustration,  this  Pear  has  a  general  resemblance  to 
the  well  known  Passe  Crasanne,  though  it  is  really  distinct  from  it  or 
any  other  variety.  It  is  handsome  in  irregular  form,  but  it  is  said  to 
be  very  freely  produced,  and  the  flavour  is  certainly  good.  The  colour 
is  bright  yellow  patched  with  russet,  and  with  a  faint  flush  of  red  on 
the  sun  side.  The  stalk  is  long  and  fleshy,  the  eye  being  partially 
open  and  set  in  a  shallow,  much-ribbed  basin.  It  was  placed  before 
the  Fruit  Committee  of  the  Royal  Horticultural  Society  at  the  last 
Drill  Hall  meeting  by  Mr.  W.  S.  Hurlstone,  gardener  to  C.W.  Lea,  Esq., 
Parkfield  Hallow,  Worcester,  when  it  was  deservedly  adjudged  an  award 
of  merit. 
GARDENERS  AND  POETRY. 
In  the  imagery  of  poetry  is  to  be  found  so  many  reflections 
from  our  own  particular  sphere — the  garden — that  I  am  induced 
to  think  its  relationship  to  us  gardeners  is  not  so  distant  a  one 
as  we  may,  superficially,  suppose  it  to  be.  Even  the  most  prosaic 
of  gardeners  has,  possibly,  felt  some  degree  of  pride  in  noting  that 
the  Laureate’s  wreath  has  fallen  on  one  whose  writings  have 
revealed  him  to  be  strong  in  the  faith — our  faith.  True,  workers 
may  not  be  ultra-enthusiastic  over  the  disposal  of  these,  or  similar 
honours  ;  but  I  think  in  this  case  a  measure  of  gratification  is 
afforded  by  the  choice  that  has  been  made,  by  the  compliment 
paid  to  gardening. 
Yet  it  is  rather  to  gardeners  than  their  sphere  of  work  I  will 
endeavour  to  show  the  link  with  poetry.  It  would  be  difficult, 
useless  may  be  said,  for  even  severely  practical  men  to  deny  poetry 
a  place  in  the  garden,  and  in  this  recognition  is  the  connection 
made  with  themselves.  That  we  may  not,  at  our  starting  point, 
leave  an  opening  for  misunderstanding  it  is  as  well  to  use  the  same 
key  of  interpretation.  This  point  of  view  embraces  only  the 
elements  of  poetry,  as  they  immediately  surround  us  with  their 
influence  on  our  lives. 
The  apotheosis  of  poetry  is  a  figure  too  vast  and  too  cosmo¬ 
politan  to  be  shown  here,  embracing,  as  it  does,  all  ages,  all  phases 
of  life,  and  the  highest  flights  of  thought.  It  is  not  necessary  that 
our  poetry  be  bound  up  in  volumes,  or  even  resolved  from  its 
elements  into  poems.  These  may  be  higher  pleasures  for  men  of 
gentler  mould,  but  we  do  want  to  extract  some  pleasure  from  the 
stores  we  have  as  well  as  the  all-absorbing  profit,  indeed 
“No  profit  grows  where  is  no  pleasure  taken.” 
Whether  we  admit  it  or  not  there  is,  I  think,  a  good  deal  of  poetry 
in  our  lives,  and  more,  perhaps,  than  we  are  aware  of.  A  man 
may  have  very  crude  ideas  on  the  matter  of  his  own  anatomy,  but 
he  is  no  more  deficient  in  his  organism  than  the  learned  surgeon 
to  whom  the  hidden  parts  are  very  clear. 
Should  I,  not  unreasonably,  be  asked  the  question  from  this 
point  of  view,  “  Are  we  then  all  poets  ?  ”  I  would  answer  “  Yes.” 
Each  according  to  the  degree  or  appreciative  extent  of  his  perceptive 
faculties.  All,  save  that  one  man  by  “  the  river’s  brim,”  and  that 
man  I  have  always  pitied,  though  he  could  not  have  been  a 
gardener.  It  does  not  disclose  the  absence  of  thoughts  because 
they  run  into  any  mould,  and  will  not  keep  shape,  for  only  to  the 
gifted  few  is  it  permitted  to  utter  them  in  appropriate  language. 
Do  we  want  this  poetry  in  our  lives  ?  Yes,  all  we  have  or  can 
have  ;  and  a  cultivation  of  the  faculty  of  seeing  it,  of  believing  in 
FIG.  14.— PEAK  BEURRE  PERRON. 
it,  and  of  developing  it,  though  the  power  of  expressing  it  is  not 
for  us,  must  act  as  a  lubricant  to  the  grinding  wheels  of  high 
pressure  ;  it  is  a  tonic  under  severe  toil,  and  a  counter-irritant  to 
small  worries  which  abound.  A  brother  gardener  was  on  one 
occasion  airing  a  little  grievance  on  the  question  of  pay — only  so 
much  per  annum.  The  writer  ventured  to  suggest  that  the  com¬ 
manding  situation  of  the  garden,  from  whence  a  noble  sweep  of 
sea  and  mountains  filled  the  eye,  was  worth  at  least  ten  pounds  a 
year  more.  He  smiled,  and  I  thought,  “Although  His  tongue  the 
charge  denied,  his  conscience  owned  it  true.”  Obviously,  neither 
of  us  was  quite  serious,  hardly  so  much  perhaps  as  subsequent 
reflections  would  have  warranted,  for  there  are  many  things  yet  in 
gardening  not  ruled  by  scales  of  payment  or  market  prices. 
A  most  practical  minded  man,  who  invariably  measured  his 
crops  by  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  sterling,  would  delight  in  long 
Sunday  rambles  o’er  moor  and  mountain,  and  it  was  particularly 
pleasing  to  me,  the  occasional  companion,  to  note  his  appreciation 
of  natural  beauty.  Pausing  now*  and  again,  he  would  exclaim, 
“  Eh,  mon,  but  it’s  bonny.”  Practical,  hard-headed  Northerner  as 
he  was,  that  poetry  had  any  place  in  his  life  he  would  never 
