faster and further away from summer into autumn. Yet I have a fancy
to mark the date of as sweet a September day as ever shone upon
this garden. I believe the people who got most enjoyment out of the
sunshine of that marvellous day were the butterflies. There was a
real butterflies’ ball held in the long border of single Dahlias!
An hour before noon the flowers, beautiful in all the brilliance of
their rainbow dyes, were visited by a dancing throng of Atalanta
butterflies. Yellow, red, orange, lilac, white--every flower had
its Atalanta or two. They were the finest butterflies of the kind
I ever saw. Strong on the wing, and faultless in the perfection of
their white-edged black velvet and scarlet suits, they were the very
embodiment of joyousness. Not a jot did they care, in their pride and
joy of life, though a hundred deaths surrounded them. They knew nothing
at all about that, indeed. Life in the balmy air with the sunshine
and the flowers was all in all to them. A few shabby Gamma moths, and
hosts of humble bees, combining business with amusement, mixed in
with the butterflies. By noon the whole gay company dispersed. Later
in the day I found those fickle Atalantas disporting themselves upon
some yellow Everlastings in another part of the garden. Butterfly life
varies in our garden year by year, but I never saw so many Atalantas.
This summer we have seen few Peacocks or Tortoiseshells. Orange-tips
(_Euchlæ cardamines_) were unusually plentiful in the spring, as were
also our White Cabbages throughout the summer. So much fair weather as
there has been required a good supply! since two white butterflies
in the morning are the sure sign of a fine day--and this summer they
had always to be about in pairs. Often, a large brimstone has floated
calmly by. The chalkhill blue (_Polyommatus Corydon_), for many
past seasons noted as appearing about the Yew hedges in March, has
failed us this year; there have been no humming-bird sphinxes, and
the far-scented Auratum Lilies, where often on warm evenings I have
sought great Hawkmoths, seem to have attracted nothing but scores of
very inferior-looking Gammas. It is an intense pleasure to watch these
various most beautiful beings, in all the freedom of their wayward
wildness. No inducement would to me seem powerful enough--now that the
barbarity of youth is past--to cause their capture and death, were they
never so rare as specimens.
And now the rain and the falling leaves recall but too vividly the
true date (Sept. 28), reminding me that I have to tell of the garden’s
autumnal desolation; yet if the days would only keep fair and bright,
enough still is left there to make one happy. The single Dahlias
have won their way quite since last I wrote, and now I love them
dearly. They are alone sufficient to light up half the garden. Our
chief border is made up of seedlings, an exquisite variety of colours,
mauve or rose-lilac coming least often, and a yellow with reddened or
burnt-sienna tipped petals by far the loveliest. Named varieties are
along with the Sunflowers opposite. White Queen I like the best--such
large pure flowers. A White Queen with an Atalanta butterfly settling
on it is a perfect little bit of contrasted colour. I am schooling
myself to say Dah-lia, but habit is strong, and Daylia will persist
in coming out. In Curtis’s _Botanical Magazine_ of 1803, vol. xix.,
p. 762, “Dahlia Coccinea, scarlet-flowered Dahlia,” is figured. There
is a note--“So named in honour of Andrew Dahl, a Swedish botanist;
... not to be confounded with Dalea, a plant named after Dale, the
friend of Ray.” The pronunciation settled, the magazine goes on to
say the Dahlia is “a native of South America, and may be considered
as a hardy greenhouse herbaceous perennial.” These beautiful flowers
are especially valuable, since rain has no effect on them, though
rough winds so easily break the brittle stems. The double Dahlia is
unknown in our garden; it has never been admitted. Fine as it is in
form and colour, the dislike to it seems, perhaps, unreasonable, yet
through some far-off association, I can never disconnect the double
Dahlia from a sort of mixture of earwigs and pen-wipers! The clumps of
Japanese Anemones, both white and rosy-grey, are full of an unfailing
charm. We try to prolong their existence by snipping off the round
seed-heads. One might as easily make ropes of sand.... The same service
done to Dahlias is just within human possibility. The dark red-mauve
variety shows an individuality which gives it great value in the autumn
borders. The irregularly shaped flowers, whose narrow petals manifest
an inclination to double, last longer than those of the other two
kinds. Rain and wind have destroyed the beauty of Salvia Patens; it
will bloom out again, however. The rich blue of this well-loved Salvia
contrasts well with white Anemones when mixed in the flower-glasses.
As for cut flowers, they are always a doubtful pleasure. I gather them
with a pang, and would rather enjoy them blooming their full time out
in the garden. And yet what other ornament is there--even of finest
porcelain--to compare with fresh-cut flowers? Nor are pictures, nor
rich satins of Italy, sufficient without flowers to make your room
look bright and habitable. Even that best decoration, walls well lined
with books, is the better for a few flowers on the table. So that I
am not yet prepared to follow the example of the old lady who never
allowed one flower in her garden to be cut, and filled her glasses with
artificial Roses! Sunflowers are sprouting round their strong stems,
and surrounded thus by constellations of smaller suns, are perhaps even
handsomer than before. We have two curiosities of Sunflower at this
moment--curious as demonstrating a resolve to exist and flower under
any circumstances whatever. One is a large thick-stemmed plant, which
must have met at some time with some violent discouragement; it lies
curled round flat on the earth, looking almost like a poor starved cat
with a large head; for, though quite overgrown with summer Phloxes and
Roses, etc., one large flower at the end of its stalk tries to look up,
while two or three of smaller size, growing along the stalk, do the
same. In contrast to the deformity below it, a miniature Sunflower,
slenderly graceful, with blossom no larger than a florin, springs out
of the mortar between two bricks high up on the wall. There is no
visible crevice, but some tiny nail-hole there must be where somehow a
seed had lodged.
Though many borders have now begun to look forlorn, we feel the garden
has done well. It is still quite full of flowers, in some parts
gay, even, as it could never have been with the dulness of the most
brilliant “bedding out.” The entrance court is bright with Nicotiana,
scarlet Pelargoniums, Zinnias, double white Petunia, and blue Lobelias.
The long-desired pink China Roses, intended for these beds once, could
not be found anywhere. Such simple loveliness is out of fashion, it
seems! Torch plants (_Tritoma_) are alight in all the edges of distant
shrubberies. There are Japan Anemones and Œnothera everywhere. The
Sweet Pea hedge by the tennis-court is out again in bloom. Marigolds
take care of themselves. They keep going off and coming on again,
shining out in the dark where least expected. Our Marigolds are of the
deepest orange-gold. The seed was brought from Cannes, where their
colour is always fine. They incline to turn pale with us, so we have to
weed out pale faces in order to keep the stock black-eyed and fiery.
Golden Rod is plentiful and useful, and I like it for the sake of
old remembrance. Eighty years ago, as I used to hear, the gardens at
Hampton Court knew no other flowers at all.[7] The great square beds
were simply filled with Golden Rod. Those must have been happier days
at Hampton Court, before carpet bedding was known--when the Yews were
in all their beauty, and the fountain sent up its single lofty jet,
and children played upon the mimic harp wrought in the beautiful iron
gate of the Pavilion Walk, or peeped through the bars at the browsing
deer.
[Footnote 7: In the royal private gardens, however, at Hampton
Court, rare plants were cultivated so far back as 1691; such as the
Green-flowered Knowltonia Vesicatoria, etc.]
Amongst what may be called the ruck of flowers throughout the
garden, are deep crimson Snapdragon, Zinnias, of all shades of
colour; Verbenas, pink, white, red, and striped purple; low Phloxes,
flesh-coloured and crimson--more beautiful than they ever were in
their proper season; Musk, Michaelmas Daisies, Euphea Platycentra,
Mignonette, Lobelias--the bronze-leaved Lobelia Cardinalis; lilac and
white and pink Everlastings, white Marguerites and red Pyrethrums,
Princes’ Feather, yellow Heartsease, and Mrs. Sinkins Pink in a grand
dash of second bloom--an endless variety, all making the effort to put
forth their best, now that the last times draw so near. We might gather
baskets of flowers and fill the house with them, were we so minded, and
still hardly miss them from the garden. And yet has it not been said,
“Bright tints that shine are but a sign that summer’s past”? And full
well I know the garden’s pleasure is even now growing towards the end.
Roses, it need scarcely be said, abound; even Charles Lawson is red
with a second bloom. A few Damask Roses are coming out by mistake. They
look very strange, putting one in mind of a long-forgotten Rose, the
Rose des Quatre Saisons. I see it clearly now, as I knew it in other
days--pink all over with its October blossoming--in a garden whose
loveliness lives only in the past. “Quarter Sessions” Rose, the ancient
guardian of the place not unnaturally used to say! Shall I try to paint
that garden? for surely none such exist any more. It was like Shelley’s
poem of the “Sensitive Plant,” full of the poetry of trees, and grass,
and flowers.... A nearly level space cut in the depths of a hanging
wood; no enclosing boundary to be seen, save here and there, between
the Rhododendrons, hints of a mossy low stone wall, or the Sweet Briar
hedge at one end fencing off a stretch of Cedarn turf. On the upper
edge of the gently sloping lawn a grand old Beech tree with silvered
bole caught the rays of the morning sun. There was a giant Larch, all
bearded with long grey lichens; a Tulip tree, a standard Magnolia. Here
also was the orangery; up its columns were twined trumpet Honeysuckles
and Passion-flowers. In front, a sunny plot--oblong beds, with narrow
walks between--was devoted to Carnations, Ranunculus, and many choicest
favourites. A walk wound round the lawn, and upon the smooth grass
were beds full of lovely old-fashioned flowers. Large tree-Roses,
yellow Briars, and Scotch Roses (white and red), and the old Queen of
Sweden, and tall poles covered with climbing Roses, loose-petalled and
cherry-coloured--Noisettes, and Souvenir de Malmaison grew also on the
turf, with arches of Honeysuckle and thickets of incense-breathing
Spice plants. On the lower shady side the walk went on between bosquets
of Kalmia and Azalea. Here also great heaped-up limestone rock
formed a sort of natural wall between the garden and the wood. Every
cranny was filled with rare and delicate Ferns and all shade-loving
Alpine plants, while double white and blue Periwinkles streamed down
everywhere. Alpine Roses, too, flourished here luxuriantly. On the
lower side, at one corner, a vista was cut through the trees, so that
over the Rhododendrons, here kept quite low, one looked through a frame
of Beeches far away across the wide sunlit valley, across the corn
and pastures, hedgerows, coppice, and farm roofs, to the long range
of wooded hills, and the grey tower cresting the distant headland. A
little wire gate, hid behind the rocks, gave access to the garden from
the house by a narrow pathway in the wood. I never knew that garden in
its prime. When I remember it the sweetest flowers grew amid long weeds
and grasses, and it had all the wild grace of a deserted garden; for
those who loved it were gone, and the old gardener could scarce hobble
round to tend his “Quarter Sessions” Roses; and now he too is long
dead, and the place is--modernized....
The Fantaisie has been an unfrequented spot of late. It is a wilderness
of flower and seeding plants, somewhat damp and overgrown. “The Forest”
will have to be remodelled, and we contemplate an annexe on the north
side. Such rapid growth is made that soon the character of both garden
and Fantaisie must wholly change. The larger trees are fast losing that
look of smiling youth which so enchants us in young newly planted wood.
Each little tree is growing tall, and each begins to spread itself in
uncompromising isolation. Evergreens encroach more and more upon the
borders, crowding out the flowers and crowding each other, so as to
render necessary many a painful sacrifice. Twelve months ago signs of
the coming change were hardly visible. Since regret is unavailing, new
plans must be laid to draw new pleasures from the inevitable. I note
with some pride that the experiment of beheading Cryptomeria Elegans
succeeds so far that in every instance the trees bush out healthily,
instead of running up into brown raggedness.
As I write, near the library window, a dim glory seems to be stealing
round. The light from a stormy sunset has fired the Virginian Creeper
and the apples on a large tree beyond the stone ball at the corner of
the wall. The leaves glow blood-red, and the fruit shines like molten
ore. The tree is decaying, with a huge brown fungus feeding on its
heart. It is so old that a Virginian Creeper was planted to grow up the
gaunt trunk, and Mistletoe is left to flourish over all the branches as
it lists. Yet in a good apple year the fruit still clusters from the
top of the tree down almost to the ground. And growing on its green
lawn thus, one dreams a passing dream of the apples of the Hesperides,
and the red Virginian climber is the great fiery scaled dragon gliding
up through the leaves to gaze with dull eye seawards. But there are no
maidens dancing in a ring, and I have just seen three hungry thrushes
attack the apples unforbidden.
Nothing is so uncertain as pears. There has been a first-rate lot on
a young Flemish Beauty, growing against the Gardener’s cottage. They
have been gathered earlier than usual, which may be the reason why
they surpass in flavour and juiciness those of last year. Williams’
Bon Chrétien, always good, is this year somewhat impaired in outward
appearance by black dots all over the fruit. Can these dots be
caused by the age of the trees? In one half of the Vine-houses long
bunches of white Muscats are hanging still. They are crisp and finely
flavoured, and show well against a purple background of Madresfield
Court. Next season we hope for a crop of Frontignacs, to satisfy the
wish for old-fashioned thin-skinned Grapes. Round the windows the Vines
are yellowing, with green fruit ripening fast. These are unusually
sweet for outdoor Grapes, and have yielded a fair wine in their time.
Large green Apples (_Reinette du Canada_), in the walled garden, are
nearly as beautiful as the trees of Blenheim Orange which are reddening
in the orchard.
Very pleasant and Arcadian in the mellow autumn sunshine are these
days of Apple gathering! There is no undue haste; the man on the
ladder up in the tree leisurely fills his basket. Baskets, half full
of fruit, stand near, upon the leaf-strewn grass. Children are sure
to gather round, and there is an odour of ripe Apples upon the air.
After an indecision of some years’ duration, I have at last arranged
my September bill of fare--in Arcadia!--Grapes and Pears to look at,
Nectarines and “the curious Peach” to smell, fresh Figs to feed on in
the morning, Golden Drop Plums all day long!
But, ah! there has chanced just now a golden drop of quite another
kind. The last gold sand has fallen of the last hour of these dear
garden days, and only one more word must be said--Farewell!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.