|
Vanda Sanderiana |
The contents of my Bungalow gave
material for some "Legends" which perhaps are not yet universally
forgotten. I have added few curiosities to the list since that work
was published. My days of travel seem to be over; but in quitting
that happiest way of life—not willingly—I have had the luck to find
another occupation not less interesting, and better suited to grey
hairs and stiffened limbs. This volume deals with the appurtenances
of my Bungalow, as one may say—the orchid-houses. But a man who has
almost forgotten what little knowledge he gathered in youth about
English plants does not readily turn to that higher branch of
horticulture. More ignorant even than others, he will cherish all
the superstitions and illusions which environ the orchid family.
Enlightenment is a slow process, and he will make many experiences
before perceiving his true bent. How I came to grow orchids will be
told in this first article. |
|
|
|
The ground at my disposal is a quarter
of an acre. From that tiny area deduct the space occupied by my
house, and it will be seen that myriads of good people dwelling in
the suburbs, whose garden, to put it courteously, is not sung by
poets, have as much land as I. The aspect is due north—a grave
disadvantage. Upon that side, from the house-wall to the fence, I
have forty-five feet, on the east fifty feet, on the south sixty
feet, on the west a mere ruelle. Almost every one who works out
these figures will laugh, and the remainder sneer. Here's a garden
to write about! That area might do for a tennis-court or for a
general meeting of Mr. Frederic Harrison's persuasion. You might
kennel a pack of hounds there, or beat a carpet, or assemble those
members of the cultured class who admire Mr. Gladstone. But grow
flowers—roses—to cut by the basketful, fruit to make jam for a
jam-eating household the year round, mushrooms, tomatoes,
water-lilies, orchids; those Indian jugglers who bring a mango-tree
to perfection on your verandah in twenty minutes might be able to do
it, but not a consistent[ Christian. Nevertheless I affirm that I
have done all these things, and I shall even venture to make other
demands upon the public credulity.
When I first surveyed my garden sixteen years ago, a big Cupressus
stood before the front door, in a vast round bed one half of which
would yield no flowers at all, and the other half only spindlings.
This was encircled by a carriage-drive! A close row of limes,
supported by more Cupressus, overhung the palings all round; a dense
little shrubbery hid the back door; a weeping-ash, already tall and
handsome, stood to eastward. Curiously green and snug was the scene
under these conditions, rather like a forest glade; but if the space
available be considered and allowance be made for the shadow of all
those trees, any tiro can calculate the room left for grass and
flowers—and the miserable appearance of both. Beyond that dense
little shrubbery the soil was occupied with potatoes mostly, and a
big enclosure for hens.
First I dug up the fine Cupressus. They told me such a big tree
could not possibly "move;" but it did, and it now fills an
out-of-the-way place as usefully as ornamentally. I suppressed the
carriage-drive, making a straight path broad enough for pedestrians
only, and cut down a number of the trees. The blessed sunlight
recognized my garden once more. Then I rooted out the shrubbery; did
away with the fowl-house, using its materials to build two little
sheds against the back fence; dug up the potato-garden—made tabula
rasa, in fact; dismissed my labourers, and considered. I meant to be
my own gardener. But already, sixteen years ago, I had a dislike of
stooping. To kneel was almost as wearisome. Therefore I adopted the
system of raised beds—common enough. Returning home, however, after
a year's absence, I found my oak posts decaying—unseasoned,
doubtless, when put in. To prevent trouble of this sort in future, I
substituted drain-pipes set on end; the first of those ideas which
have won commendation from great authorities. Drain-pipes do not
encourage insects. Filled with earth, each bears a showy
plant—lobelia, pyrethrum, saxifrage, or what not, with the utmost
neatness, making a border; and they last eternally. But there was
still much stooping, of course, whilst I became more impatient of
it. One day a remedy flashed through my mind: that happy thought
which became the essence or principle of my gardening, and makes
this account thereof worth attention perhaps. Why not raise to a
comfortable level all parts of the area over which I had need to
bend? Though no horticulturist, perhaps, ever had such a thought
before, expense was the sole objection visible. Called away just
then for another long absence, I gave orders that no "dust" should
leave the house; and found a monstrous heap on my return. The
road-contractors supplied "sweepings" at a shilling a load.
Beginning at the outskirts of my property, I raised a mound three
feet high and three feet broad, replanted the shrubs on the back
edge, and left a handsome border for flowers. So well this
succeeded, so admirably every plant throve in that compost,
naturally drained and lifted to the sunlight, that I enlarged my
views.
The soil is gravel, peculiarly bad for roses; and at no distant day
my garden was a swamp, not unchronicled had we room to dwell on such
matters. The bit of lawn looked decent only at midsummer. I first
tackled the rose question. The bushes and standards, such as they
were, faced south, of course—that is, behind the house. A line of
fruit-trees there began to shade them grievously. Experts assured me
that if I raised a bank against these, of such a height as I
proposed, they would surely die; I paid no attention to the experts,
nor did my fruit-trees. The mound raised is, in fact, a crescent on
the inner edge, thirty feet broad, seventy feet between the horns,
square at the back behind the fruit-trees; a walk runs there,
between it and the fence, and in the narrow space on either hand I
grow such herbs as one cannot easily buy—chervil, chives, tarragon.
Also I have beds of celeriac, and cold frames which yield a few
cucumbers in the summer when emptied of plants. Not one inch of
ground is lost in my garden.
The roses occupy this crescent. After sinking to its utmost now, the
bank stands two feet six inches above the gravel path. At that
elevation they defied the shadow for years, and for the most part
they will continue to do so as long as I feel any interest in their
well-being. But there is a space, the least important fortunately,
where the shade, growing year by year, has got the mastery. That
space I have surrendered frankly, covering it over with the charming
saxifrage, S. hypnoides, through which in spring push bluebells,
primroses, and miscellaneous bulbs, while the exquisite green carpet
frames pots of scarlet geranium and such bright flowers, movable at
will. That saxifrage, indeed, is one of my happiest devices. Finding
that grass would not thrive upon the steep bank of my mounds, I
dotted them over with tufts of it, which have spread, until at this
time they are clothed in vivid green the year round, and white as an
untouched snowdrift in spring. Thus also the foot-wide paths of my
rose-beds are edged; and a neater or a lovelier border could not be
imagined.
With such a tiny space of ground the choice of roses is very
important. Hybrids take up too much room for general service. One
must have a few for colour; but the mass should be Teas, Noisettes,
and, above all, Bengals. This day, the second week in October, I can
pick fifty roses; and I expect to do so every morning till the end
of the month in a sunny autumn. They will be mostly Bengals; but
there are two exquisite varieties sold by Messrs. Paul—I forget
which of them—nearly as free flowering. These are Camoens and Mad.
J. Messimy. They have a tint unlike any other rose; they grow
strongly for their class, and the bloom is singularly graceful.
The tiny but vexatious lawn was next attacked. I stripped off the
turf, planted drain-pipes along the gravel walk, filled in with
road-sweepings to the level of their tops, and relaid the turf. It
is now a little picture of a lawn. Each drain-pipe was planted with
a cutting of ivy, which now form a beautiful evergreen roll beside
the path. Thus as you walk in my garden, everywhere the ground is
more or less above its natural level; raised so high here and there
that you cannot look over the plants which crown the summit. Any
gardener at least will understand how luxuriantly everything grows
and flowers under such conditions. Enthusiastic visitors declare
that I have "scenery," and picturesque effects, and delightful
surprises, in my quarter-acre of ground! Certainly I have flowers
almost enough, and fruit, and perfect seclusion also. Though there
are houses all round within a few yards, you catch but a glimpse of
them at certain points while the trees are still clothed. Those
mounds are all the secret.
bout Orchids
About Orchids, 1893 |
 |
Garden Notes
Home
Alpine Flowers
Botanical
Magazine
Flowers in
Pots
Garden
Articles
Garden Flowers
Garden Herbs
Gardening Hints
Old English
Flowers
Orchids
Roses
Rose Classification
Hybrid Tea Roses
Old Garden Roses
Floribunda Roses
Miniature Roses
Exhibiting Roses
End of Season
Rose Garden Tools
Rose Images
Trees and Shrubs
Vegetable Gardening
Your Plants
Your First Greenhouse
Garden Books
|