102 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
July  30,  1896. 
the  cottage  proprietors.  We  lingered  to  admire  the  elegant 
arrangements,  fully  satisfied  that  no  garden  lends  itself  more  readily 
to  the  beauty  of  floral  adornment  when  properly  and  carefully 
treated  than  that  of  the  simplest  cottager. 
Timber  is  one  of  Shirley’s  most  pleasing  features,  and  in  the 
hot  sunshine  we  felt  grateful  for  the  ahade  afforded  by  the  giant 
Oaks  that  skirt  the  wayside.  In  one  part  the  road  cuts  through  a  wood 
for  some  distance,  and  a  smart  lodge  marks  the  way  to  a  demesne 
that  could  not  be  seen  for  the  trees.  The  church  occupies  a  con¬ 
spicuous  position,  and  all  round  it  we  noticed  gravestones  of  the 
purest  whiteness,  some  of  them  masterpieces  of  sculptural  skill.  A 
peep  at  the  church  suggested  thoughts  of  the  vicarage,  and  the 
vicar,  the  Rev.  W.  Wilks,  well  known  in  the  horticultural  world  as 
the  efficient  Secretary  of  the  Royal  Horticultural  Society.  Then 
we  remembered  Shirley  Poppies,  and  wondered  whether  many  of 
the  gardeners  who  grow  them  throughout  the  country  had  ever 
taken  the  trouble  to  find  out  why  they  were  termed  “  Shirley,” 
and  knew  that  the  strain  sprang  into  existence  in  the  garden  of 
this  secluded  parsonage.  A  clergyman,  however,  who  is  a  gardener 
is  generally  an  enthusiast,  as  those  who  have  crossed  swords  with 
the  clerics  in  the  recent  Rose  fights  know — some  of  them  to  their 
cost. 
The  vicar  of  Shirley  is  an  enthusiast  in  the  truest  sense  of  the 
word,  for  what  ho  undertakes  to  do  he  does  thoroughly.  This  he 
has  proved  in  his  services  rendered  to  the  R.H.S.,  and  it  is  need¬ 
less  to  add  to  what  has  hitherto  been  said  in  the  Journal  of 
Horticulture  respecting  his  work  in  that  capacity.  It  is  as  a  busy 
Secretary  that  most  people  know  Mr.  Wilks,  and  though  at  West¬ 
minster  he  is  no  doubt  the  right  man  in  the  right  place,  it  is  in  his 
secluded  Shirley  garden  that  he  is  in  every  sense  of  the  word  “  at 
home,” 
There  we  found  him,  hose-pipe  in  hand,  engaged  in  watering  his 
hardy  Ferns,  of  which  he  has  a  choice  collection,  situated  in  a 
shady  corner.  Permission  to  look  round  the  interesting  garden 
was  granted  almost  before  it  was  asked.  ”  The  Poppies  are  al) 
over.”  said  the  genial  vicar  ;  “  but  there  are  some  nice  Phloxes 
out.”  He  was  right,  for  the  Shirley  collection  is  a  charming  one, 
and  though  not  possessing  many  varieties,  they  are  the  cream  of 
the  family.  “  That  is  the  best  I’ve  got,”  said  Mr.  Wilks,  pointing 
to  large  trusses  of  scarlet-carmine  flowers,  towering  up  amongst  the 
Asparagus,  for  flowers  are  blooming  everywhere,  and  the  difficulty 
is  to  know  where  the  flower  garden  ends  and  the  kitchen  garden 
begins.  Etna  is  the  name  of  this  exquisite  variety,  and  dotted 
about  here  and  there  its  blooms  were  very  conspicuous.  Others  of 
varying  tints  are  likewise  charming,  and  amongst  the  whites 
Avalanche  bears  the  palm.  As  already  stated.  Poppies  of  the 
famous  Shirley  hybrids  were  over  ;  thousands  of  seed-heads  had 
taken  the  place  of  myriads  of  colours,  and  we  learnt  that  the  strain 
had  this  year  been  finer  than  ever. 
Clumps  of  Pseonies  and  Irises  marked  the  site  of  earlier  beauty, 
and  Mr.  Wilks  informed  us  that  their  reign  had  been  short  under 
the  power  of  the  roasting  sunshine,  though,  as  he  added,  “  We  do 
our  best  to  fight  the  drought.”  Flowers  of  all  kinds  find  a  home 
at  Shirley  ;  here  were  a  few  rows  of  Sweet  Peas,  all  aglow  with 
bloom,  and  near  at  hand  was  another  row,  late  sown  for  autumn 
flowering.  “  This  is  the  prettiest  view  of  my  garden,”  remarked 
the  vicar,  pausing  under  an  archway  of  Roses.  There  was  no  need 
to  question  the  statement,  as  the  sight  was  charming.  The  quaint 
old-fashioned  looking  house,  surrounded  by -a  broad  verandah  and 
covered  with  Magnolia,  Wistaria,  and  Solanum  jasminoides  in 
flower,  suggested  something  tropical ;  the  broad  sweep  of  lawn  is 
dotted  with  ornamental  trees,  the  borders  all  round  were  ablaze 
with  hardy  flowers  too  numerous  to  mention,  and  the  evening  air 
was  laden  with  the  delicious  aroma  from  Nicotiana  affinis.  Giant 
Sunflowers,  Delphiniums,  Pentstemons,  Campanulas,  Hypericums, 
Spirseas,  Ivy-leaved  Pelargoniums,  Lobelias,  and  Tropaeolums  added 
their  share  in  making  a  unique  display  of  bloom. 
“  Here  is  a  flower  not  often  seen,”  said  Mr.  Wilks,  pointing  to 
tall  spikes  of  Campanula  lactiflora.  We  wondered  at  that,  as  it  is 
a  beautiful  flower,  but  learnt  that  it  is  difficult  to  propagate,  Mr. 
Wilks  having  made  several  unsuccessful  attempts  to  raise  it  from 
seeds.  In  one  corner  of  the  kitchen  garden  we  noticed  numerous 
clumps  of  Michaelmas  Daisies,  showing  that  they,  too,  are  in  favour, 
and  will  prolong  the  floral  beauty  of  the  garden.  Roses  were  still 
blooming,  and  we  stooped  to  smell  the  flowers  of  the  old  sweet 
scarlet  Clove  Carnations,  of  which  were  noticed  numerous  clumps. 
A  plot  of  land  has  recently  been  enclosed  from  the  surrounding 
pasture.  We  remarked  on  it,  and  learnt  that  it  was  planted  with 
Narcissi — proof  of  the  vicar’s  taste  in  that  direction.  Another 
sheltered  little  corner  is  also  devoted  to  them.  We  only  found  it 
by  accident,  and  though  foliage  was  minus  the  names  on  the  labels 
were  familiar. 
Floriculture  does  not  absorb  the  whole  of  Mr.  Wilks'  untiring 
enthusiasm,  and  those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  sitting  with  him 
round  the  teble  of  the  Fruit  Committee  of  the  R.H.S.  know  that  he 
is  also  a  pomologist  of  no  mean  repute.  In  his  garden  at  Shirley 
there  are  numerous  Apple  trees  dotted  about  in  any  convenient  place. 
One  old  specimen,  with  Mistletoe  growing  profusely  on  its  branches, 
is  laden  with  fruit ;  we  remarked  on  it,  and  learnt  that  it  always 
bears  well,  but  unfortunately  is  of  no  value,  being  a  local  seedling. 
The  vicar  has  threatened  several  times  to  remove  it,  but  the  old 
tree  still  remains — perhaps  for  acquaintance  sake.  “  People  say 
there  is  no  fruit  this  year,  but  that  tells  a  different  story,”  remarked 
Mr.  Wilks,  pointing  first  to  a  Pear  tree,  then  an  Apple,  and  thirdly 
a  Plum,  all  carrying  heavy  crops.  Whatever  may  be  the  general 
condition,  the  vicarage  trees  are  bringing  forth  their  increase. 
In  a  garden  so  full  of  variety,  so  wrought  with  interest,  what 
wonder  if  we  never  thought  of  greenhouses  ;  still  they  are  there, 
hidden  from  the  lawn  by  a  substantial  Holly  hedge.  One  was 
gay  with  various  flowering  plants,  and  another — the  orchard  house 
— contained  sturdy  specimens  of  Peaches  and  Nectarines  in  pots, 
carrying  heavy  crops  of  highly  coloured  fruit.  Along  the  garden 
walks  were  lines  of  Chrysanthemums — tall,  medium  and  dwarf, 
green  and  healthy,  giving  promise  of  abundance  of  bloom  in  their 
season. 
No  undue  formality  characterises  the  garden,  an  air  of  rest 
pervades  its  shady  nooks  and  curving  walks  ;  every  shrub  and 
flower  seems  at  home.  Peaceful,  sequestered,  and  homely  is  the 
vicarage  garden,  old  fashioned,  yet  containing  much  that  is  new  ; 
well  cared  for  and  attended  in  every  respect ;  and  why  ?  The 
reason  is  apparent — because  the  parson  loves  it.  Our  time,  how¬ 
ever,  was  limited,  and  eventide  was  approaching,  therefore  not 
without  some  feelings  of  reluctance  we  thanked  the  genial  vicar 
and  left  him,  with  his  garden  and  his  spaniel.  The  pleasant 
afternoon,  like  these  jottings  from  memory,  was  nearly  at  an 
end  ;  a  ramble  over  the  Shirley  Hills,  with  peeps  at  the  charm¬ 
ing  views,  occupied  the  time  while  daylight  lasted,  and  after 
dark  there  was  nothing  left  but  to  mark  the  contrast  between 
night  time  in  the  country  and  night  time  in  the  town,  and  this 
we  had  an  opportunity  of  doing  on  arrival  once  more  at  London 
Bridge. — G.  H.  H. 
A  RARE  THAMES  BLOSSOM, 
Now  that  the  Thames  for  many  miles  above  London  has  become 
a  great  national  playstow — I  use  advisedly  the  good  old  English 
word,  where  our  modern  “playground”  would  be  obviously  inap¬ 
plicable  —  a  straying  naturalist  may  perhaps  be  forgiven  for 
supposing  that  anything  which  concerns  the  river  and  its  beautiful 
living  creatures,  plant  or  animal,  is  a  common  matter  of  public 
interest.  Now,  in  many  retired  pools  and  backwaters  of  the  upper 
stream  at  the  present  moment,  a  curious  flower  may  be  seen 
growing,  which  the  careless  observer,  sighting  it  from  afar  in  his 
skiff  or  punt,  usually  takes  for  a  common  yellow  Water  Lily. 
And,  indeed,  it  has  floating  leaves  which  exactly  resemble  the 
Water  Lily’s,  while  its  golden  flowers,  though  held  on  stiffer  stalks 
an  inch  above  the  water’s  edge,  instead  of  lolling  lazily  on  the 
surface  like  that  Sultana  of  the  river,  may  readily  be  mistaken, 
even  by  skilled  observers  from  a  little  distance,  for  the  more 
familiar  blossom.  Row  up  to  it,  however,  where  it  grows  in  huge 
patches,  covering  many  square  yards  together  with  its  floating 
foliage  and  its  brilliant  bloom,  and  you  will  find  it  is  very  different 
indeed  from  its  rival  on  closer  view.  It  is  a  water-haunting 
Gentian,  the  Villarsia  or  Limnanthemum  ;  and  its  flower  still 
betrays  undoubted  marks  of  its  gentianesque  descent,  though  by 
adaptation  it  has  arrived  in  many  ways  at  much  the  same  results 
as  those  achieved  by  the  far  older  Water  Lilies. 
I  am  not  going  to  put  into  print  here  the  precise  spots  where 
this  rather  rare  and  very  pretty  plant  has  taken  up  its  abode,  for  I 
do  not  wish  to  aid  in  its  extermination — though,  indeed,  it  blossoms 
now  under  the  powerful  mgis  of  the  Thames  Conservancy,  who 
protect  by  fine  both  it  and  the  Water  Lilies,  a  fact  which  would 
seem  to  show  that  Providence  designs  for  some  good  end  even  the 
most  mysterious  and  seemingly  useless  of  its  creatures.  The  nooks 
which  Villarsia  mostly  affects,  however,  are  not  quite  the  same  as 
those  which  suit  its  great  riverside  rivals.  The  white  Water  Lily, 
the  acknowledged  queen  of  the  river,  loves  best  the  slowest  and 
most  retired  pools.  Who  does  not  know  George  Meredith’s 
exquisite  description,  “  Beautiful  she  seems  as  a  white  Water 
Lily,  bursting  out  of  bud  in  havens  of  the  stream  ^  ”  And  “  havens 
of  the  stream  ”  exactly  describes  the  sort  of  spot  where  the  queen 
of  the  river  loves  to  take  her  ease  in  Oriental  luxury.  The  yellow 
Water  Lily,  on  the  other  hand,  is  somewhat  more  tolerant  of 
stress  and  current ;  it  grows  in  many  spots  where  the  white  would 
hardly  dare  to  show  its  spotless  beauty.  But  Villarsia,  our  aquatic 
