December  3,  1896. 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
5?55 
Near  by  is  a  China  Rose,  the  old  blush  one,  which  does  so  well 
and  blooms  for  so  long  a  season.  We  look  upon  it  with  chastened 
delight.  It  is  wet  and  dripping,  but  it  is  a  Roie.  Why  say  more  ? 
A  look  at  it  with  its  delicate  beauty  is  like  touching  an  electric 
button,  throwing  open  the  doors  which  stand  between  us  and  the 
golden  summer  days.  We  are  once  more  in  the  land  peopled  with 
the  joys  of  the  past,  but  must  not  stay,  fain  though  we  would 
linger. 
There  is  rivalry  in  the  rock  garden.  It  is  not,  however,  a  war 
of  flowers,  but  of  plants  ;  no  longer  a  contention  as  to  which  shall 
show  the  brightest  blossoms.  To  make  use  of  the  imagery  of  the 
poet.  Nature  has  other  seasons  than  spring  in  which  she,  in  part  at 
least,  arrays  herself  in  “  her  green  mantle.”  She  may  not  be 
“  blithe  ”  now,  but  she  is,  if  not  fully  arrayed,  at  least  ornamented 
with  emerald  hues.  The  mosses  which  time  has  employed  to 
relieve  the  coldness  of  the  rock  garden  stones  are  clad  in  their 
brightest  tints  and  shades  of  green.  There  are  cushions  of  green 
velvet  of  the  softest  pile  and  masses  of  soft  growth  in  the  form  of 
miniature  Ferns.  The  colours  of  some  of  the  Lichens  rival  the 
mosses  in  tinting,  but  not  in  their  cushion-like  growth.  The 
Saxifrages,  however,  are  the  rivals  of  the  mosses  in  both  of  these. 
Less  soft,  perhaps,  but  no  less  varied  in  hue,  and  forming  cushions 
of  the  loveliest  verdure,  are  many  of  these  Rockfoils.  The  mossy 
section  are  at  present  charming  in  their  colouring,  and  as  they 
hang  over  the  stones  lead  one  to  think  how  appropriately  are  they 
named  Rockfoils,  if  we  accept  one  of  the  dictionary  definitions  of 
the  word  “foil.”  This  is,  “Anything  of  another  colour,  or  of 
different  qualities,  which  serves  to  set  off  another  thing  to 
advantage.”  These  Saxifrages  are  true  “  foils  ”  to  the  stones,  and 
the  latter  return  the  service  by,  in  their  turn,  showing  the  beauty 
of  the  plants. 
Very  pretty  still  are  the  blue  flowers  left  on  a  good  plant  of 
Lithospermum  prostratum,  which  for  some  years  has  adorned  the 
rockwork  edging  of  one  of  the  borders.  Of  a  deep  yet  brilliant 
blue,  they  are  rare  in  their  colouring  and  welcome  at  this  season. 
This  Prostrate  Gromwell  frequently  flowers  far  into  winter,  and  is 
one  of  the  flowers  which  are  lovingly  looked  at  now. 
The  “pale  Primrose  that  dies  unmarried”  is  well  named  “pale’’ 
now,  as  its  blossoms  appear  in  the  nooks  of  the  rock  garden.  It 
looks 'wan  and  sad  indeed,  haunter  chough  it  is  of  shady  spots. 
The  few  coloured  kindred  Polyanthuses  which  are  in  bloom  are 
brighter,  and  look  more  at  home  with  their  gayer  flowers  and  less 
pensive  aspect. 
The  Crocus  is  yet  with  us  in  the  shape  ot  some  clumps  of 
C.  longiflorus  and  a  few  blooms  of  C.  ochroleucus.  Beautiful  are 
they,  but  like  the  Primrose  sad  looking,  as  if  (as  in  truth  it  is) 
fate  were  dealing  unkindly  in  calling  them  to  bloom  now.  A  few 
days  ago  one  could  have  spoken  of  them  in  cheerier  tones,  for  they 
had  sunshine  then  and  opened  their  cups.  The  bees  were  quick  to 
discover  them,  and  clambered  about  the  flowers,  humming  cherrily 
the  while.  I  suppose  some  of  them  would  think  spring  had  come, 
but  that  they  had  been  cheated  out  of  the  Snowdrops.  Who 
knows  ?  the  bees  may  have  their  memories  of  the  past,  and  hopes 
of  the  future  too. 
There  are  a  few  Christmas  Roses  out  too.  They  have  come  out 
of  the  “  earth  so  chilly,”  and  are  like  the  winter  moon,  so  clear  and 
cold  do  they  seem.  As  Ben  Jonson  says  of  the  moon,  they  are 
“  chaste  and  fair,”  and  we  may  look  upon  them,  as  “  Rare  Ben  ”  said 
of  the  orb,  as  “  excellently  bright,”  cold  though  they  seem.  There 
are  various  waifs  and  strays,  too,  some  the  relics  of  brighter  days,  as 
an  Anthemis  or  two,  Michaelmas  Daisies,  Stocks,  a  few  annuals, 
and  other  things,  but  none  please  us  more  than  the  Snowdrops, 
the  scouts  of  the  army  of  fair  maids  which,  when  January  and 
February  come,  will  take  our  gardens  and  our  hearts  by  storm. 
The  first  drooped  its  head  some  time  in  the  middle  of  November, 
about  ten  days  sooner  than  last  year,  and  there  are  a  few  more  now 
in  bloom.  The  names  of  these  autumn  Snowdrops  are  of  little 
consequence,  so  like  are  they  to  each  other.  They  are  mostly  small 
in  size,  but  as  graceful  as  their  later  sisters.  To  some  they  are 
unwelcome  as  out  of  due  season ;  but  to  those  of  us  who  cannot 
follow  the  swallows  to  sunnier  lands,  they  are  acceptable,  and  speak 
of  the  coming  of  another  season.  There  are  a  few  flowers  open  too 
on  the  white  Winter-flowering  Heath — Erica  carnea  alba — and  these 
also  lead  us  to  think  of  spring  again.  Wax-like  are  these  Heath 
flowers,  and  delightful  in  their  setting  of  fresh  green. 
When  I  began,  I  intended  to  write  the  lament  of  the  flower- 
lover  over  hie  dead  flowers.  Yet  the  pen  seems  to  have  turned 
against  the  hand  that  held  it,  and  to  have  told  more  of  the  joy  of 
the  past  and  the  hope  of  the  future.  It  is  the  lesson  of  man’s  life 
repeated  in  the  flowers — amid  the  mourning  there  are  the  happy 
thoughts  of  the  past  days,  and  the  looking  forward  to  those  to  come. 
Have  we  looked  out  on  the  garden  in  vain,  even  when  “  there  is 
nothing  to  be  seen  ?  ” — S.  Arnott. 
Cypripedtum  Baron  Sohroder. 
Many  were  the  beautiful  Orchids  sent  by  Messrs  Jas.  Veitch 
and  Sons,  Royal  Exotic  Nursery,  Chelsea,  to  the  Drill  Hall,  on  the 
24th ult.,  and  amongst  them  all  Cypripedium  Baron  Schroderi(fig.  92) 
was  conspicuous,  as  it  should  be  with  such  a  name  and  from  such  a 
source.  It  is  a  hybrid,  resulting  from  a  cross  between  C.  oeuan- 
thum  superbum  and  the  rarer  0.  Fairieanum,  of  which  the  former 
was  the  seed- bearing  parent.  The  dorsal  sepal  is  particularly  hand¬ 
some.  The  ground  colour  is  white  with  a  faint  greenish  white 
flush  at  the  base,  the  whole  being  lined  and  spotted  with  purplish 
Eia.  92.— CYPRIPEDIITM  BARON  SCHRoDBR. 
maroon.  The  petals  are  broad,  with  stripes  and  spots  of  chocolate 
on  a  pale  green  base.  The  pouch  is  a  glossy  brown,  with  faint 
veinings  of  yellow. 
THE  GARDENERS’  PATH. 
{Continued  from  page  507.) 
Men  I  have  known,  those  who  have  run  the  race,  must  now  by 
the  magic  wand  of  memory  shed  a  light  upon  that  end  of  the  path 
which  to  us,  be  it  far  or  near,  is  still  veiled  in  obscurity.  One 
would  fain  handle  the  past — this  past  which  has  passed  into 
eternity — in  that  spirit  which  inscribes  the  virtues  only,  and  which 
caused  an  observer  in  a  country  churchyard  to  infer  from  the 
epitaphs  of  poor  humanity  that  none  but  good  people  were  buried 
there.  But  it  must  be  admitted  that  more  or  less  of  that  past  has 
left  its  legacy  of  influence  to  us — the  present  generation,  therefore 
I  see  no  reason  why  it  should  escape  duty  free  ;  and  in  the 
endeavour  to  form  an  ideal,  comparison  is  too  valuable  to  be  left 
out  of  calculation,  hence  I  commence  apologetically  to  the  shade 
of  an  old  gardener  from  whom,  whilst  yet  viewing  the  path,  I 
gained  impressions  which  time  has  never  effaced.  Two  of  his 
favourite  theories  of  life — animal  and  vegetable  life — were  that 
boys  could  never  be  thrashed  too  often,  or  Ferns  watered  too 
frequently,  for  if  they  conjointly  did  not  need  it  at  the  moment  of 
application,  it  was  but  an  inappreciable  question  of  time  before 
they  would.  Literally  he  never  thrashed  me,  but  the  mental 
tortures  I  then  suffered  leave  me  but  little  compunction  now  in 
raking  him  up  as  an  example  to  avoid.  Somehow  I  conclude  that 
