JULY
Scarcity of flowers -- Delphiniums -- Yuccas -- Cottager's way of
protecting tender plants -- Alstroemerias -- Carnations -- Gypsophila --
_Lilium giganteum_ -- Cutting fern-pegs.
After the wealth of bloom of June, there appear to be but few flowers in
the garden; there seems to be a time of comparative emptiness between
the earlier flowers and those of autumn. It is true that in the early
days of July we have Delphiniums, the grandest blues of the flower year.
They are in two main groups in the flower border, one of them nearly all
of the palest kind--not a solid clump, but with a thicker nucleus,
thinning away for several yards right and left. Only white and
pale-yellow flowers are grouped with this, and pale, fresh-looking
foliage of maize and Funkia. The other group is at some distance, at the
extreme western end. This is of the full and deeper blues, following a
clump of Yuccas, and grouped about with things of important silvery
foliage, such as Globe Artichoke and Silver Thistle (_Eryngium_). I have
found it satisfactory to grow Delphiniums from seed, choosing the fine
strong "Cantab" as the seed-parent, because the flowers were of a
medium colour--scarcely so light as the name would imply--and because of
its vigorous habit and well-shaped spike. It produced flowers of all
shades of blue, and from these were derived nearly all I have in the
border. I found them better for the purpose in many cases than the named
kinds of which I had a fair collection.
The seedlings were well grown for two years in nursery lines, worthless
ones being taken out as soon as they showed their character. There is
one common defect that I cannot endure--an interrupted spike, when the
flowers, having filled a good bit of the spike, leave off, leaving a
space of bare stem, and then go on again. If this habit proves to be
persistent after the two years' trial, the plant is condemned. For my
liking the spike must be well filled, but not overcrowded. Many of the
show kinds are too full for beauty; the shape of the individual flower
is lost. Some of the double ones are handsome, but in these the flower
takes another shape, becoming more rosette-like, and thereby loses its
original character. Some are of mixed colouring, a shade of lilac-pink
sliding through pale blue. It is very beautiful in some cases, the
respective tints remaining as clear as in an opal, but in many it only
muddles the flower and makes it ineffective.
Delphiniums are greedy feeders, and pay for rich cultivation and for
liberal manurial mulches and waterings. In a hot summer, if not well
cared for, they get stunted and are miserable objects, the flower
distorted and cramped into a clumsy-looking, elongated mop-head.
Though weak in growth the old _Delphinium Belladonna_ has so lovely a
quality of colour that it is quite indispensable; the feeble stem should
be carefully and unobtrusively staked for the better display of its
incomparable blue.
Some of the Yuccas will bloom before the end of the month. I have them
in bold patches the whole fifteen-feet depth of the border at the
extreme ends, and on each side of the pathway, where, passing from the
lawn to the Paeony ground, it cuts across the border to go through the
arched gateway. The kinds of Yucca are _gloriosa_, _recurva_,
_flaccida_, and _filamentosa_. They are good to look at at all times of
the year because of their grand strong foliage, and are the glory of the
garden when in flower. One of the _gloriosa_ threw up a stout
flower-spike in January. I had thought of protecting and roofing the
spike, in the hope of carrying it safely through till spring, but
meanwhile there came a damp day and a frosty night, and when I saw it
again it was spoilt. The _Yucca filamentosa_ that I have I was told by a
trusty botanist was the true plant, but rather tender, the one commonly
called by that name being something else. I found it in a cottage
garden, where I learnt a useful lesson in protecting plants, namely, the
use of thickly-cut peaty sods. The goodwife had noticed that the peaty
ground of the adjoining common, covered with heath and gorse and mossy
grass, resisted frost much better than the garden or meadow, and it had
been her practice for many years to get some thick dry sods with the
heath left on and to pack them close round to protect tender plants. In
this way she had preserved her Fuchsias of greenhouse kinds, and
Calceolarias, and the Yucca in question.
The most brilliant mass of flower in early July is given by the beds of
_Alstroemeria aurantiaca_; of this we have three distinct varieties, all
desirable. There is a four feet wide bed, some forty feet long, of the
kind most common in gardens, and at a distance from it a group grown
from selected seed of a paler colour; seedlings of this remain true to
colour, or, as gardeners say, the variety is "fixed." The third sort is
from a good old garden in Ireland, larger in every way than the type,
with petals of great width, and extremely rich in colour. _Alstroemeria
chilense_ is an equally good plant, and beds of it are beautiful in
their varied colourings, all beautifully harmonious, and ranging through
nearly the same tints as hardy Azaleas. These are the best of the
Alstroemerias for ordinary garden culture; they do well in warm,
sheltered places in the poorest soil, but the soil must be deep, for the
bunches of tender, fleshy roots go far down. The roots are extremely
brittle, and must be carefully handled. Alstroemerias are easily raised
from seed, but when the seedlings are planted out the crowns should be
quite four inches under the surface, and have a thick bed of leaves or
some other mild mulching material over them in winter to protect them
from frost, for they are Chilian plants, and demand and deserve a little
surface comfort to carry them safely through the average English winter.
Sea-holly (_Eryngium_) is another family of July-flowering plants that
does well on poor, sandy soils that have been deeply stirred. Of these
the more generally useful is _E. Oliverianum_, the _E. amethystinum_ of
nurserymen, but so named in error, the true plant being rare and
scarcely known in gardens. The whole plant has an admirable structure of
a dry and nervous quality, with a metallic colouring and dull lustre
that are in strong contrast to softer types of vegetation. The
black-coated roots go down straight and deep, and enable it to withstand
almost any drought. Equalling it in beauty is _E. giganteum_, the Silver
Thistle, of the same metallic texture, but whitish and almost silvery.
This is a biennial, and should be sown every year. A more lowly plant,
but hardly less beautiful, is the wild Sea-holly of our coasts (_E.
maritimum_), with leaves almost blue, and a handsome tuft of flower
nearly matching them in colour. It occurs on wind-blown sandhills, but
is worth a place in any garden. It comes up rather late, but endures,
apparently unchanged, except for the bloom, throughout the late summer
and autumn.
But the flower of this month that has the firmest hold of the
gardener's heart is the Carnation--the Clove Gilliflower of our
ancestors. Why the good old name "Gilliflower" has gone out of use it is
impossible to say, for certainly the popularity of the flower has never
waned. Indeed, in the seventeenth century it seems that it was the
best-loved flower of all in England; for John Parkinson, perhaps our
earliest writer on garden plants, devotes to it a whole chapter in his
"Paradisus Terrestris," a distinction shared by no other flower. He
describes no less than fifty kinds, a few of which are still to be
recognised, though some are lost. For instance, what has become of the
"_great gray Hulo_" which he describes as a plant of the largest and
strongest habit? The "gray" in this must refer to the colour of the
leaf, as he says the flower is red; but there is also a variety called
the "_blew Hulo_," with flowers of a "purplish murrey" colouring,
answering to the slate colour that we know as of not unfrequent
occurrence. The branch of the family that we still cultivate as "Painted
Lady" is named by him "Dainty Lady," the present name being no doubt an
accidental and regrettable corruption. But though some of the older
sorts may be lost, we have such a wealth of good known kinds that this
need hardly be a matter of regret. The old red Clove always holds its
own for hardiness, beauty, and perfume; its newer and dwarfer variety,
Paul Engleheart, is quite indispensable, while the beautiful
salmon-coloured Raby is perhaps the most useful of all, with its hardy
constitution and great quantity of bloom. But it is difficult to grow
Carnations on our very poor soil; even when it is carefully prepared
they still feel its starving and drying influence, and show their
distaste by unusual shortness of life.
_Gypsophila paniculata_ is one of the most useful plants of this time of
year; its delicate masses of bloom are like clouds of flowery mist
settled down upon the flower borders. Shooting up behind and among it is
a tall, salmon-coloured Gladiolus, a telling contrast both in form and
manner of inflorescence. Nothing in the garden has been more
satisfactory and useful than a hedge of the white everlasting Pea. The
thick, black roots that go down straight and deep have been undisturbed
for some years, and the plants yield a harvest of strong white bloom for
cutting that always seems inexhaustible. They are staked with stiff,
branching spray, thrust into the ground diagonally, and not reaching up
too high. This supports the heavy mass of growth without encumbering the
upper blooming part.
Hydrangeas are well in flower at the foot of a warm wall, and in the
same position are spreading masses of the beautiful _Clematis
Davidiana_, a herbaceous kind, with large, somewhat vine-like leaves,
and flowers of a pale-blue colour of a delicate and uncommon quality.
The blooming of the _Lilium giganteum_ is one of the great flower events
of the year. It is planted in rather large straggling groups just within
the fringe of the copse. In March the bulbs, which are only just
underground, thrust their sharply-pointed bottle-green tips out of the
earth. These soon expand into heart-shaped leaves, looking much like
Arum foliage of the largest size, and of a bright-green colour and
glistening surface. The groups are so placed that they never see the
morning sun. They require a slight sheltering of fir-bough, or anything
suitable, till the third week of May, to protect the young leaves from
the late frosts. In June the flower-stem shoots up straight and tall,
like a vigorous young green-stemmed tree. If the bulb is strong and the
conditions suitable, it will attain a height of over eleven feet, but
among the flowering bulbs of a group there are sure to be some of
various heights from differently sized bulbs; those whose stature is
about ten feet are perhaps the handsomest. The upper part of the stem
bears the gracefully drooping great white Lily flowers, each bloom some
ten inches long, greenish when in bud, but changing to white when fully
developed. Inside each petal is a purplish-red stripe. In the evening
the scent seems to pour out of the great white trumpets, and is almost
overpowering, but gains a delicate quality by passing through the air,
and at fifty yards away is like a faint waft of incense. In the evening
light, when the sun is down, the great heads of white flower have a
mysterious and impressive effect when seen at some distance through the
wood, and by moonlight have a strangely weird dignity. The flowers only
last a few days, but when they are over the beauty of the plant is by
no means gone, for the handsome leaves remain in perfection till the
autumn, while the growing seed-pods, rising into an erect position,
become large and rather handsome objects. The rapidity and vigour of the
four months' growth from bulb to giant flowering plant is very
remarkable. The stem is a hollow, fleshy tube, three inches in diameter
at the base, and the large radiating roots are like those of a tree. The
original bulb is, of course, gone, but when the plants that have
flowered are taken up at the end of November, offsets are found
clustered round the root; these are carefully detached and replanted.
The great growth of these Lilies could not be expected to come to
perfection in our very poor, shallow soil, for doubtless in their
mountain home in the Eastern Himalayas they grow in deep beds of cool
vegetable earth. Here, therefore, their beds are deeply excavated, and
filled to within a foot of the top with any of the vegetable rubbish of
which only too much accumulates in the late autumn. Holes twelve feet
across and three feet deep are convenient graves for frozen Dahlia-tops
and half-hardy Annuals; a quantity of such material chopped up and
tramped down close forms a cool subsoil that will comfort the Lily bulbs
for many a year. The upper foot of soil is of good compost, and when the
young bulbs are planted, the whole is covered with some inches of dead
leaves that join in with the natural woodland carpet.
[Illustration: THE GIANT LILY.]
In the end of July we have some of the hottest of the summer days, only
beginning to cool between six and seven in the evening. One or two
evenings I go to the upper part of the wood to cut some fern-pegs for
pegging Carnation layers, armed with fag-hook and knife and rubber, and
a low rush-bottomed stool to sit on. The rubber is the stone for
sharpening the knife--a long stone of coarse sandstone grit, such as is
used for scythes. Whenever I am at work with a knife there is sure to be
a rubber not far off, for a blunt knife I cannot endure, so there is a
stone in each department of the garden sheds, and a whole series in the
workshop, and one or two to spare to take on outside jobs. The Bracken
has to be cut with a light hand, as the side-shoots that will make the
hook of the peg are easily broken just at the important joint. The
fronds are of all sizes, from two to eight feet long; but the best for
pegs are the moderate-sized, that have not been weakened by growing too
close together. Where they are crowded the main stalk is thick, but the
side ones are thin and weak; whereas, where they get light and air the
side branches are carried on stouter ribs, and make stronger and
better-balanced pegs. The cut fern is lightly laid in a long ridge with
the ends all one way, and the operator sits at the stalk end of the
ridge, a nice cool shady place having been chosen. Four cuts with the
knife make a peg, and each frond makes three pegs in about fifteen
seconds. With the fronds laid straight and handy it goes almost
rhythmically, then each group of three pegs is thrown into the basket,
where they clash on to the others with a hard ringing sound. In about
four days the pegs dry to a surprising hardness; they are better than
wooden ones, and easier and quicker to make.
People who are not used to handling Bracken should be careful how they
cut a frond with a knife; they are almost sure to get a nasty little cut
on the second joint of the first finger of the right hand--not from the
knife, but from the cut edge of the fern. The stalk has a silicious
coating, that leaves a sharp edge like a thin flake of glass when cut
diagonally with a sharp knife; they should also beware how they pick or
pull off a mature frond, for even if the part of the stalk laid hold of
is bruised and twisted, some of the glassy structure holds together and
is likely to wound the hand.