534 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
December  3,  1896, 
boya  were  not  thought  much  of  then,  or,  at  least,  were  generally 
regarded  as  a  bad  lot. 
He  would  roar  at  me  when  I  had  a  message  to  deliver,  and  when  not 
in  a  savage  mood  he  was  always  satirical,  which  was  worse.  I  daresay 
that  he  was  a  clever  gardener,  for  there  were  rumours  of  rare  plants 
in  the  greenhouse  (“  grinhus  ”  he  called  it)  which  my  longing  to 
inspect  was  never  gratified.  Poor  man !  he  had  a  most  comfortable 
situation  with  old-fashioned  people,  in  one  of  those  pretty  Kentish 
gardens,  and  with  indeed  but  little  or  no  perceptible  annoyance.  I 
could  never  understand  then,  nor  do  I  now,  how  any  man  under  the 
gentle  influence  of  gardening  could  have  had  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  so  irrevocably  soured  ;  he  really  seemed  to  enjoy  life  in 
being  utterly  miserable,  and  so  his  life  story  closed,  leaving  a  moral 
which  might  have  been  construed  into  his  epitaph  thus,  “  Affliction 
sore  long  time  he  bore,”  from  within  ;  and  moreover  just  possibly 
transmitted  it  to  posterity,  for  it  would  hardly  be  safe  to  say  that 
the  type,  though  rare,  is  extinct.  Sir  John  Lubbock  says  in  his 
admirable  book  “  The  Pleasures  of  Life,”  that  “  most  of  us  can,  at 
we  choose,  make  of  this  world  either  a  palace  or  a  prison.”  Why 
one  should  choose,  when  it  is  purely  a  matter  of  choice,  as  it 
appeared  to  be  in  this  case,  to  weave  such  fetters  as  only  the 
inexorable  hand  could  break,  is  one  of  those  human  mysteries 
apparently  impossible  to  fathom. 
How  I  appreciated  the  kindly  old  nurseryman  and  his  “  missus,’ 
under  whom  four  milestones  of  the  path  were  traversed  ;  walking 
a  long  distance  night  and  morning  ;  working  hard,  but  encouraged 
by  many  a  kindly  word,  and  when  the  gentle  “  missns  ”  was  borne 
to  her  long  home  there  were  few  who  mourned  her  loss  more  than 
“  the  boy  ”  who  went  daily  to  tend  the  flowers  upon  her  grave. 
Very  unpretentioui  was  the  little  nursery,  but  famed  for  a  specialty 
of  plant  culture,  then  much  favoured.  There  is  a  sad  sequel  to  it 
though  ;  the  business  eventually  devolved  upon  one  who  did  not — 
could  not,  I  suppose — change  with  the  times  Other  fashions  came 
in,  and  it  dwindled  away  under  the  leadership  of  one  who  was 
studiously  inclined,  and  who  clung  to  the  traditions  of  its  youthful 
vigour  ;  hoping,  probably,  that  the  ebbing  tide  would  return  in  that 
particular  direction, “^but  it  never  did,  nor  has  it  to  this  day.  His 
path  had  a  rather  tragic  ending  I  am  sorry  to  say,  and  I  cannot  but 
think  that  had  he — the  successor — gone  with  the  times  instead  of 
against  them,  “  that  spot  where  once  a  garden  smiled  ”  would  not 
have  been  the  wilderness  it  was  when  last  seen. 
The  nurseryman’s  son,  as  many  gardeners’  sons  are,  had  been 
more  tenderly  reared  than  the  father,  and,  however  enviable  this 
position  with  its  many  advantages  may  appear  to  those  who  early 
on  the  course  are  left  to  depend  upon  their  own  resources,  it  is 
better  to  start  hard  and  finish  easy  than  vice  versa.  It  is  difficult  I 
know  to  apply  this  moral  early  in  life,  and  not  all  will  accept  it 
farther  on.  I  can  only  reason  from  what  I  know  ;  and  although  I 
have  seen  more  than  one  worthy  son  of  a  worthy  sire  closely 
keeping  to  the  track,  others  there  are  who  have  flown  off  at  right 
angles  from  the  straight  course.  One  young  fellow,  an  only  son, 
who  was  lifted  straight  into  a  good  position,  better  than  his  father 
ever  aspired  to  or  even  dreamt  of — and  how  I  envied  him  with  his 
nice  clothes,  ready  address,  and  polished  manners— early  went  the 
pace  that  kills.  The  father  was  a  gentle,  kindly  man,  not  given  to 
much  conversation,  in  fact  the  reverse  ;  bearing  his  load  of  sorrow 
patiently  in  the  retirement  of  his  duties  until  failing  health  and 
an  honourable  endeavour  to  repay  losses  incurred  by  others,  left 
him  nothing  save  that  prop  before  mentioned,  which  prudent  fore¬ 
thought  now  entitled  him  to  grasp,  and  finally  his  widow  after  him. 
A  prop  is  good  at  the  end,  but  when  our  boys  have  one  placed  in 
their  hands  at  the  start  it  is  too  often  enervating,  and  may  be 
positively  injurious. 
Retiring  from  active  life  nnder  favourable  conditions  with 
perfect  freedom,  absolute  rest  is  perhaps  what  more  aspire  to  than 
ever  carry  out  successfully  in  practice,  for  “  absence  of  occupation 
it  not  rest ;  a  mind  quite  vacant  is  a  mind  dittressed.”  One  I  knew 
who  was,  probably,  as  good  a  traveller  along  the  path  as  we  shall 
ever  follow,  attained  this  desideratum  a  few  years  since,  and  he  was 
well  prepared  for  what  he  had  long  looked  forward  to.  Thirty 
years  with  a  noble  family  was  a  fine  term  of  service  concluded  with 
a  substantial  recognition  as  be  retired  to  spend  bis  declining  days 
amongst  his  kith  and  kin  and  the  dear  native  bills.  What  an  enviable 
position  !  free,  independent !  Yes,  independent  of  all  but  work,  for 
the  abrupt  severance  from  it  brought  the  end  suddenly.  I  daresay 
that  many  at  the  middle  milestone,  at  the  zenith  of  physical  power 
(not  mental,  I  think,)  look  forward  to  absolute  rest  as  the  ideal 
object  of  attainment ;  but  it  is  a  mistake,  for  an  object  in  life  other 
than  passive  there  must  always  be — ahead,  or  the  thread  of  reason 
or  of  life  may  be  rudely  snapped. 
This  object  of  rest  that,  probably,  all  hope  for  and  possibly 
few  attain,  appears  to  be  an  ideal  one  in  theory  only,  and  where  j 
and  when  the  relaxation  still  compulsorily  enforces  some  congenial  j 
work  as  an  aid  to  the  means  of  living,  paradoxical  as  it  is,  perfect 
rest  is  found  in  continuous  work — not  necessarily  labour.  The 
neighbours  used  to  pity  old  B - ,  who  at  eighty  years  of  age  was 
to  be  seen  at  5  a.m.  on  most  summer  mornings  working  in  his 
garden,  “  pottering  ”  they  called  it,  amongst  his  flowers  which  he 
grew  for  sale  to  eke  out  a  support  at  the  far  end.  His  garden  was, 
indeed,  his  life  ;  in  part  literally,  and  wholly  so  figuratively,  and  it 
is,  I  think,  soothing  to  feel  that  one  is  of  use  in  the  world  whilst 
spared  to  remain  in  it.  Anyway  the  moral  is  clearly  exemplified 
in  all  phases  of  life,  and  not  less  pointedly  so  in  its  application  to 
the  gardener’s  path — the  last  stage.  It  was,  I  think,  at  the  eighty- 
seventh  milestone  the  old  gardener  received  a  short  notice  to  hang 
up  the  well-worn  spade.  It  should  be  mentioned  that  he  had  never 
been  a  strong  man  though  always  a  temperate  one.  Time’s  tool- 
house  does  not,  I  fear,  contain  many  such  relics — good  bright  steel 
to  the  last  inch  of  metal,  never  allowed  to  rust,  never  allowed  to 
rest  until  the  summons  came,  “  Peace,  be  still.”— An  Old  Boy. 
(To  be  concluded.) 
OLLA  PODRIDA. 
Oftentimes  in  rambling  about  one  meets  with  things  which  seem 
to  be  worth  recording  and  yet  hardly  deserving  of  a  separate  article, 
their  importance  not  being  sufficient  to  warrant  such  an  intrusion  on 
your  Space  ;  I  therefore  thoaght  it  better  to  give  sundry  brief  notices  of 
them.  In  former  times  I  put  them  under  the  head  of  011a  Podrida, 
that  savoury  Spanish  dish  seeming  to  mark  out  what  I  wanted  my  little 
dish  to  be. 
Something  Like  a  House  op  Muscats. 
In  the  interesting  paper  which  Mr.  Peter  Kay  read  last  year  before 
the  Horticultural  Club,  and  which  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the 
Journal,  he  gave  an  account  of  the  extent  of  his  Grape  growing  at  the 
Chaigmar  Vineyards,  Finchley,  which  was,  I  believe,  a  revelation  to 
many.  The  accuracy  of  this  statement  was  borne  witness  to  by  those 
who  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  them  in  the  delightful  visit  which  the 
members  of  the  Club  enjoyed  in  the  summer  of  1895  ;  bat  they  did  not 
and  could  not  see  wbat  was  my  privilege  to  behold  the  other  day. 
Imagine  a  house  400  feet  long  filled  with  that  queen  of  all  Grapes 
Muscat  of  Alexandria,  the  Vines  carrying  8000  bunches  of  perfectly 
finished  Grapes,  each  bunch  averaging  about  1^  lb.,  the  berries  large  and 
beautifully  coloured,  and  in  all  respects  most  perfect  specimens.  It  is 
to  be  remembered,  too,  that  this  result  has  been  achieved  during  an 
exceptionally  difficult  season,  the  heavy  soaking  rains  of  the  present 
autumn  making  the  borders  so  wet  that  it  was  extremely  difficult  to 
avoid  damp  and  mildew.  There  were  other  houses  filled,  some  with 
7  and  some  with  5  tons  of  Grapes  of  Gros  Colman,  Alicante,  and  Canon 
Hall  Muscat ;  but  Muscat  of  Alexandria  so  much  surpasses  all  these,  and 
is  so  often  but  indifferently  grown,  that  I  think  such  a  feat  is  well 
worth  recording. 
I  may  add  that  the  Vines  bore  nearly  as  heavy  a  crop  last  year,  yet 
one  must  recollect  this  is  only  one  establishment  among  the  many  which 
have  sprung  up  in  the  neighbourhood  of  London  during  the  last  twenty- 
five  years,  and  there  seems  to  me  to  be  no  bounds  to  the  development  of 
this  branch  of  horticulture.  One  is  glad,  too,  to  find  that  the  export  of 
Grapes  to  America  has  been  largely  developed  of  late,  and  such  fruit  as 
this  must  always  command  a  good  price  amongst  the  rich  millionaires  of 
the  States,  and  it  would  be  still  further  developed  if  suitable  agents  for 
disposing  of  the  produce  were  found. 
The  Oldest  H.P.  Rose. 
It  is  of  course  somewhat  difficult  to  determine  this  question,  because 
the  Roses  that  were  formerly  cultivated  either  for  the  exhibition  or  the 
garden  have  been  pushed  on  one  side  by  newer  and  better  varieties  ;  but 
it  may  be  safely  stated  that  G6n4ral  Jacqueminot  is  not  by  any  means 
the  oldest  H.P.  It  came  out  in  1853,  but  G6ant  des  Batailles,  which  your 
correspondent  mentions,  was  introduced  in  1846,  and  I  well  remember 
the  sensation  it  created  when  first  shown  by  the  late  Mr.  Rivers  ;  and 
yet  beautiful  as  it  is,  it  is  now  very  rarely  seen.  It  is  too  small.for  an 
exhibition  Rose,  and  its  terrible  tendency  to  mildew  makes  it  an  unsuit¬ 
able  garden  Rose;  but  there  were  H.P.’s  before  G(iant  des  Batailles. 
Baronne  Prevost  was  introduced  in  1843.  This  is  a  Rose,  too,  which  has 
completely  gone  out  of  cultivation.  Of  all  the  older  Hybrid  Perpetuals 
Gdndral  Jacqueminot  is,  however,  without  doubt  the  very  best.  As  a 
forcing  Rose  no  bright  colour  H.P.  can  compete  with  it.  Whole  houses 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  London  are  devoted  to  its  culture,  and  it  is 
surely  remarkable  for  a  Rose  which  has  been  upwards  of  forty  years  in 
cultivation  to  hold  so  high  a  position.  As  an  exhibition  Rose  it  is  also 
indispensable  ;  it  sometimes  carries  off  the  medal  for  the  best  H.P.,  and 
one  has  been  forced  very  often  to  inquire  on  standing  before  some  grand 
blooms  of  it  whether  anything  in  its  way  which  has  come  into  com¬ 
merce  during  these  forty-three  years  can  equal,  much  less  exceed  it ; 
and  in  like  manner  many  of  the  older  Roses  still  occupy  a  prominent 
place  in  the  affections  of  exhibitors  and  the  opinion  of  judges,  for  did 
not  Duchesse  de  Morny  carry  off  the  silver  medal  for  the  best  H.P.  at 
the  last  metropolitan  show  of  the  N.R.S.  ? 
Improved  Acme  Label  for  Roses. 
It  is  an  easy  transition  from  the  consideration  of  Roses  themselves  to 
that  of  the  best  method  of  labelling  them  in  the  Rose  garden.  There 
