92 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
January  30,  1896. 
acknowledge,  but  the  man  was  full  of  it,  and  running  over  with 
little  snatches  from  his  great  countryman’s  verse. 
I  do  not  expect  that  any  remarks  of  mine  can  do  but  little 
more  than  extract  a  tacit,  perhaps  reluctant,  acknowledgment  that 
there  is  poetry  in  our  lives.  From  now,  when  Nature  gently  stirs 
the  modest  things  in  her  bosom,  and  on  till  she  brings  forth  her 
abundant  riches,  again  sinking  to  rest  ’mid  all  the  pomp  and 
pageantry  of  autumn  tints,  we,  her  ministers,  could  not  but  catch 
some  of  the  low  music  from  pipes  of  Pan.  We,  who  live  and 
labour  and  move  amongst  so  much  still  life,  if  dumb,  cannot  be 
blind  to  the  pencilled  beauty  of  our  flowers,  nor  deaf  to  the  soft 
music  of  a  thousand  whisperings  which  rob  life  of  its  sternness. 
Such  are  the  pleasures  of  poetry  which,  with  us,  breaks  not  into 
song.  Is  there  to  be  found  any  real,  practical  profit  in  its 
contemplation  ?  I  think  so,  for  “  beauty  is  the  soul  of  inspiration.” 
Does  it  require  any  far  stretch  of  imagination  to  see  examples  of 
inspired  wo-rk  in  our  field  of  labour  ?  I  think  not.  In  the  highest 
exposition  of  natural  beauty  by  the  hand  of  man — such  things  as 
constitute  perfection — there  are  soft  tones  of  harmony  and  lines  of 
beauty  pervading  it,  which  is  the  prerogative  of  poets  to  interpret ; 
may  I  call  it  poetry  ?  The  subject  is,  to  some  extent,  a 
contentious  one.  It  should  not  be  so.  For  once  and  for  all  we 
will  call  a  spade  a  spade,  as  it  should  be  called  ;  but  what  shall  we 
call  the  work  of  an  inspired  hand  in  relation  to  gardening  ?  In  its 
bearing  on  ourselves  it  appears  to  me  as  the  stage  arrived  at  by  the 
poet  in  his  art  when  the  term  “  licensed  ”  is  used,  a  stage  where 
formality  and  fashion’s  fetters  are  thrown  off,  and  those  higher, 
even  daring,  flights  are  taken  which  stamp  genius  on  the  work. 
Poets  are  sometimes  said  to  live  in  a  little  world  of  their  own, 
which  is  somewhere,  I  suppose,  above  this  practical  world  of  ours. 
In  like  manner  it  may  be  thought  that  our  parallel  is  a  being 
who  has  little  in  common  with  his  fellow  men.  The  marks  of 
genius  may  be  admitted,  but  there  is  some  vague  suspicion  of  a 
bee  in  the  bonnet.  He  sees  things  in  a  different  light,  does  not 
grumble  like  other  men,  and  if  care  should  visit  him  it  sits  more 
lightly  on  his  than  other  brows.  There  are  a  hundred  little  things 
vexing  other  men  which  he  meets  with  a  smile,  or  passes  with 
contempt.  Life  is  one  long  poem,  in  which  even  the  elements 
when  at  discord  are  powerless  to  drown  the  harmony. 
In  the  most  practical  part  of  garden  work— the  labour  part, 
where  we  might  presume  the  spirit  of  our  subject  never  enters — 
have  I  noted  its  presence  and  its  helpfulness.  Old  Edmund  G- - 
did  not  dig  more  ground  in  one  day  than  his  mates  would  do  in 
three.  As  a  fact,  there  was  an  enforced  equal  division  of  labour 
as  they  came  down  the  plot  side  by  side,  but  there  all  comparison 
ended.  His  was  a  labour  of  love,  with  the  others  a  weary  task. 
His  spade  was  bright  as  silver  ;  his  work  could  be  picked  out  by 
its  superiority  when  the  day’s  work  was  done,  and  when  the  great 
bell  pealed  out  it  always  seemed  to  come  to  him  as  a  surprise, 
whereas  to  his  mates,  per  contra ,  it  was  the  long-looked-for  come  at 
last.  Somehow,  too,  at  the  week’s  end  his  white  jacket  was  still 
the  whitest  after  the  week’s  toil.  It  did  one’s  heart  good  to  look 
at  him,  and  I  feel  the  better  now  for  having  known  him,  with  his 
rosy  face  and  silvered  hair,  in  the  long — long  ago.  His  was  the 
poetry  of  a  labourer’s  life,  and  his  spade  work  the  poetry  of 
digging. 
I  can  only  speak  from  my  own  experience,  and,  of  course,  from 
my  own  views  of  life,  but  there  seems  to  flow  out  from  one’s 
pen,  as  there  does  from  all  pens,  something  of  one’s  own  life, 
too.  It  is  from  this  I  am  led  to  say  what  I  believe  to  have  in 
some  measure  proved,  that  these  things  are  not  altogether  a  question 
of  temperament  or  of  heredity.  If  they  come  in  this  way  well 
and  good,  it  is  a  very  good  way  to  be*  possessed  of  them,  but  to 
many  there  comes  a  stage  of  existence  when  the  wheels  of  life  jar 
painfully,  when  a  man  looks  back  over  a  long  stage  of  the  journey 
with  but  qualified  satisfaction,  and  is  chilled  in  looking  forward  into 
the  unknown.  Something  he  wants  to  cheer  him  at  the  present, 
something  to  brighten,  to  make  life  worth  living.  —  Old 
Traveller. 
HARDY  FLOWER  NOTES. 
Once  more  have  the  early  flowers  begun  to  leave  the  kindly 
shelter  of  Mother  Earth  for  the  uncertain  welcome  of  the  air.  They 
seem  to  have  no  fear  of  the  coming  of  frosts  which  would  shrivel 
their  tender  growths  or  blight  their  beautiful  blossoms.  It  is 
otherwise,  however,  with  those  of  us  who  love  their  beauty,  and, 
with  a  vivid  recollection  of  past  losses,  think  fearfully  of  what 
may  happen.  We  cannot  but  think  of  the  contrast  of  last  year 
and  this.  This  time  last  year  frost  reigned  supreme,  and  the 
garden  would  have  been  desolate  but  for  the  starving  wild  birds, 
which,  contrary  to  their  wont,  sought  their  food  denied  them  in 
their  natural  haunts  by  the  homes  of  man.  Wet  and  damp  will 
doubtless  leave  gaps  in  the  array  of  flowers,  bat  there  are  enough 
left,  and  from  the  earlier  blooms  we  must  seek  to  draw  something 
to  write  of  now. 
Sunshine  has  been  remarkably  rare  for  a  long  time,  and  this 
has,  perhaps  fortunately,  to  some  extent  checked  the  onward 
movement  of  the  flowers.  Quite  a  number  of  Crocuses  of  the 
various  winter-flowering  species  have  been  in  bud  for  some  time, 
but  few  have  opened,  and  consequently  some  have  either  withered 
away  or  have  been  broken  down  by  wind  or  rain.  Among  the 
unfortunates  has  been  C.  hyemalis  Foxi,  which  rarely  disappoints 
me,  but  has  this  year  had  its  white  flowers  soaked  and  destroyed 
while  still  closed.  Early  flowers  of  Crocus  Imperati  succeeded, 
however,  in  opening  for  the  first  time  this  year  on  the  11th  of 
January,  but  since  then  this  Crocus  had  few  favourable  days  for 
displaying  the  beautiful  lilac-purple  colour  of  the  inside  of  its 
flowers.  It  is  interesting  to  observe  how  some  of  these  Crocus 
species  vary  in  their  needs  of  sunshine.  C.  Imperati  and  C.  Fleis- 
cheri  appear  to  open  here  almost  simultaneously,  while  C.  ancyrensis, 
C.  aureus,  C.  biflorus,  and  several  others  require  a  stronger  sun  to 
enable  them  to  expand.  One  need  never  hesitate  to  recommend 
C.  Imperati  as  a  good  winter-flowering  species,  moderate  in  price, 
and  of  unquestionable  beauty  and  hardiness.  Imported  cormsseem 
rather  variable  in  size,  colour,  and  time  of  flowering,  and  a  variety 
which  is  considerably  later  in  flowering  is  occasionally  found  among 
them.  I  am  indebted  to  the  Rev.  C.  Wolley-Dod  for  bringing  this 
to  my  notice.  I  have  never  succeeded  in  establishing  the  white 
variety  of  C.  Imperati,  but  the  handsome  one  called  C.  Imperati 
longiflorus  is  easily  established,  and  is  very  beautiful. 
A  bright  yellow  species,  which  is  ready  to  open,  is  C.  gargaricus, 
a  pretty  little  gem,  not  very  often  seen.  The  few  corms  I  have 
were  received  from  Bitliynia,  having  been  collected  on  Mount 
Olympus,  where  a  higher  coloured  variety  is  found  than  usual. 
The  flowers  may  properly  be  called  orange,  but  vary  slightly  in 
depth  of  colouring.  In  cultivation  the  corms  seem  to  form  a 
number  of  small  ones,  too  smrll  to  flower,  so  that  I  had  no  flowers 
last  year.  The  corms  are  exceptionally  small  for  a  Crocus,  being 
only  from  one-third  of  an  inch  to  barely  half  inch  wide,  and  have 
a  tunic  of  closely  reticulated  fibre.  The  filament  is  orange,  and 
the  anthers  lemon-yellow.  It  is  early  in  flower  this  year,  and  has 
preceded  C.  asrius,  which  grows  intermingled  with  it  on  Mount 
Olympus.  Some  varieties  of  C.  biflorus  are  at  present  in  bud,  and 
may  be  in  flower  before  this  appears  ;  but  one  must  delay  further 
remarks  on  these  enticing  Crocuses. 
The  Snowdrop  is  still,  and  will  be  for  some  time  to  come,  the 
favourite  outdoor  flower  in  bloom.  The  theme  of  the  poets  in  the 
past,  and  the  many  improved  varieties  now  being  raised  will  make 
it  more  welcome  in  the  garden  than  before.  The  species  dissimilar 
to  the  ordinary  nivalis,  which  have  also  been  introduced,  will  not 
only  give  the  needed  variety  for  the  garden,  but  will  also  lend  their 
aid  to  those  who  are  seeking  to  improve  the  flower.  As  I  write,  in 
the  third  week  of  January,  there  are  so  many  in  flower  that  I  am 
at  a  loss  of  which  to  speak  now.  I  may,  however,  begin  by  making 
a  few  remarks  about  Galantbus  Ikariae.  This  species,  which  was 
introduced  by  Mr.  Edward  Wbittall  of  Smyrna  from  the  island 
of  Nikaria,  and  which  has  been  named  Ikariae  from  the  ancient 
name  of  the  island  Icaria,  has  now  been  long  enough  in  this  garden 
to  enable  me  to  confirm  the  opinion  formerly  expressed  in  the 
Journal,  It  is  quite  hardy,  and  very  pleasing  from  the  distinct 
character  of  its  leaves,  which  are  long,  bright  green,  and  arching 
in  their  habit.  The  first  bulbs,  which  I  received  in  1893,  present 
hardly  any  difference  in  growth  ;  but  among  a  few  received  the 
following  year  I  observe  one  with  remarkably  broad  leaves  of  a 
deeper  and  duller  green  than  any  of  the  others.  There  is  also  a 
smaller  plant  of  somewhat  similar  appearance,  which  looks  as  if  it 
would  be  worth  attention.  It  may  perhaps  be  worth  while 
remarking  that  the  flowers  of  G.  Ikariae  are  like  those  of  G.  Elwesi. 
Among  the  Snowdrops  which  came  from  our  generous  Smyrna 
friend  in  1895  were  some  from  Parla  Yalassi  (wherever  that  may 
be)  which  are  greatly  attracting  my  attention.  They  will  not 
flower  this  year,  so  that  it  is  the  leaves  which  induces  one  to  look 
on  them  with  some  cariosity.  These  are  narrow,  thin,  and  green  in 
colour.  Judging  from  these  the  flower  should  be  small  and  the 
leaves  bear  a  great  resemblance  to  those  of  a  Snowdrop  from 
Phsenika,  Samos,  which  has  not  done  well  here,  but  which  was  a 
poor  variety  of  Elwesi.  The  latter  had  the  usual  coloured  foliage. 
Galanthus  caucasicus  has  been  unusually  early  this  year,  but  is  more 
prized  on  account  of  its  broad,  handsome  leaves  than  for  its  flowers, 
which  are  small  and  hardly  what  one  would  expect  from  a  plant 
with  such  fine  foliage. 
1  fear  I  must  ask  our  worthy  Editor  to  allow  me  to  devote  an 
article  wholly  to  the  tale  of  this  Snowdrop  season,  but  lest  the 
exigencies  of  space  should  prevent  this  I  must  say  a  word  or  two 
about  the  earliest  of  Mr.  Allen’s  fine  seedlings  to  flower  here  this 
year.  This  is  a  seedling  of  the  fine  variety  of  nivalis  known  as 
Melvillei,  in  honour  of  Mr.  Melville  of  Dunrobin  Castle  Gardens, 
