PREPARATIONS FOR REMOVAL.
In the last chapter I have stated that so charming did the country seem
to me, so pure its pleasures, and profitable its cultivation, that I
resolved to remove there permanently, and give up entirely the less
lucrative, if more distinguished, pursuit of the law. A most essential
preparation for this change was the necessity of cultivating and
increasing the present stock of plants--the tender and fragile things
requiring winter protection--which the abundance of the last year had
left me. My stock was not, perhaps, what finished gardeners would call
choice; they were not those out-of-the-way foreign productions which
only rejoice in one name, and that a polysyllabic Latin one; but,
although they were equally entitled to a scientific appellation, they
were generally known under common ones. I had an abundance of
carnations, which I had sometimes referred to as varieties of _Dianthus
caryophyllus_ when my uneducated city visitors called to see me. There
was quite a stock of scarlet geranium; for, although I had ordered from
the florist at Flushing a dozen different colors, he had determined that
one kind would answer my purposes. There were a few of the exquisite
_bellis perennis Hortensis_, more generally known as daisies. But of all
my treasures, the most numerous of any one kind was a great variety of
verbenas, which I had raised from seed, and which had sported into every
variety of color, except--as Weeville once said when he was in an
envious mood--a handsome one; but tastes differ.
These valuable plants must be protected during the winter, and
preparations had to be made to insure their being turned into the beds
the ensuing spring in healthy condition. To this end it was necessary to
add to the books of reference. To “Breck’s Book of Flowers,” and Rand’s
“Work on the Garden,” which I already possessed, I added Beust’s “Flower
Garden Directory;” Leuchar’s “How to Build Hot-houses;” Todd’s “Young
Farmer’s Manual;” Fuller’s “Small Fruit Culturist;” Warder’s “American
Pomology;” Dr. Chase’s “Recipes, or Information for Every Body;” Mead’s
“American Grape Culture,” besides a number of others equally learned and
abstruse, in addition to subscribing for the _American Agriculturist_, I
put my name down for the _Farmer’s Friend_, and the _American Farmer_,
as well as the London _Field_, which always contained a valuable article
on “Work for the Week,” that gave me a number of important suggestions.
The thorough study of these for the space of a month made me perfectly
acquainted with the subject in hand; they not only told me all about
green-houses and window-culture, but gave me valuable hints about
propagating vines, pruning trees, increasing and improving manure,
building concrete walls, skinning sheep, sawing logs, chopping down
trees, and concerning a vast number of other subjects, all of which
information might prove exceedingly useful some day or other if my
farming enterprises proceeded.
By the aid of these works it was ascertained that plants could be grown
advantageously in a room of an ordinary dwelling-house, provided the
proper care was exercised. This was quite satisfactory, as,
unfortunately, I had no other place than the fourth-story room of my
house in the city to devote to my new protégés. Under the published
directions, which I studied over till I had them by heart, a room with a
southerly exposure was selected, a staging was erected in front of the
windows, and the gas was so secured that no thoughtless person could
turn it on and poison the air of the extemporized green-house. The
preparatory study and the final execution of the plans recommended had
somewhat delayed the fall potting of the plants, until a few frosts had
warned me that there was no time to lose. Unfortunately, when I
appointed a day for effecting the transfer from the garden to pots and
boxes, and went to Flushing for the express purpose, I discovered, to my
dismay, that Patrick was in a great state of confusion as to which
flowers were hardy and which required removal. As my reading had not
extended to that question, or I had forgotten it amid the extensive list
generally catalogued, I had to go mainly on what might be called general
principles. By general principles is meant that, as the cold had been
pretty severe, it might be presumed to have exercised a preliminary
influence on the tender species; so, wherever a perennial was observed
to be withered and have a sickly appearance in its leaves, it was taken
up and potted.
Fortunately, I was well acquainted with the characteristics of verbenas,
carnations, and Johnny-jump-ups, and selected them without trouble; but
as to other matters, I felt, to the last, that there was considerable
uncertainty. The verbenas having struck root at every joint, and as I
felt that not one must be lost, a very considerable number of pots was
necessary, and the time I could spare for personal supervision was
exhausted long before the work of transplanting was accomplished. It was
necessary, therefore, to leave Patrick to his own unaided resources,
with such advice and instruction as it was probable he would appreciate.
He evinced his usual enthusiasm and self-reliance, and within a few days
arrived at my city residence with a wagon full of what the books termed
“bedding plants,” and assured me he “had the likes of that three times
over.” The labor of carrying a hundred pots full of earth up four
flights of stairs is excessive; and ere Patrick’s reserve was exhausted,
I was much the same myself. Nevertheless, perseverance conquered, and we
finally transported the last pot, managing to break less than a dozen on
the way. Unfortunately, some of Patrick’s trips were made during a cold
snap that we had, and it is possible that the frost slightly damaged the
plants, which did not seem exactly healthy when they arrived. There were
some among them that I did not recognize accurately, and one in
particular looked so strange, that I inquired of Patrick what it was. In
answer to my question, he scratched his head for a second, poked his
finger under the stunted foliage, peered in among the leaves
inquiringly, and finally said
[Illustration]
authoritatively, “That! why that’s a verbayny, sure; and yer honor knows
a verbayny as well as meself.” “But, Patrick, that does not look at all
like a verbena; it has a very different leaf. Are you confident that you
are right?” My honest servitor looked at me a moment reproachfully, and
then replied interrogatively, “And does yer honor think I’d be after
decaiving you about such a thing as a verbayny?” Of course, there was
nothing more to be said, and the difference in leaf, which seemed so
puzzling, must have been due to what florists would designate as a
sportive change in the plant--possibly the first specimen of a new and
valuable seedling.
I tended those plants carefully; water was given them regularly, the
windows were opened on every genial day, and the directions contained in
my books were marked, and re-read daily, to insure the observance of
every important point. Still the plants did not seem to thrive. They
grew weaker slowly, but steadily; every morning found them less
vigorous, and often was marked by a premature death. In fact, the living
ones diminished quite rapidly, and ere a month had elapsed nearly all
had perished utterly. This epidemic was peculiarly fatal among my
verbenas, although the books had described them as being rather
unusually hardy; and with the exception of Patrick’s new seedling, which
was vigorous enough, they were either dead or dying. This was quite an
appalling state of affairs. Recourse was had to my literary counselors;
recipes were found for curing mildew, bugs, borers, red spiders, and a
large number of other difficulties, but nothing on the subject of
general debility.
My flowers had no active disease, unless it were an analogy to human
consumption, or what our quack doctors describe as a loss of manly
vigor; and as these complaints are not referred to in horticultural
works, and as the medicines guaranteed to cure the human frame could
hardly be expected to benefit them, I scarcely knew what to do. In
despair, I purchased some whale-oil soap, and proceeded to wash the
leaves with that highly-recommended compound. Perhaps whale-oil soap is
not advantageous in general debility; perhaps it was made too strong, or
applied too often. Under its application, my future progenitors of
bedding beauties perished faster than ever. A solitary fuchsia, that had
been purchased the spring previous, went early; the roses followed
precipitately; the daisies were not far behind; the verbenas made haste
after these; the carnations followed in this headlong race, until, in
spite of the most tender care, the most scientific nursing, the most
approved protection and artistic cultivation, ere spring arrived, the
entire collection was dead save one--that famous new seedling verbena of
Patrick’s discovery. It still lived, not flourishingly nor
enthusiastically--not as though it could endure much more
assistance--but, as the pleasant days were near at hand, exhibiting
sufficient strength to last till the winds of heaven could be trusted
not to visit its cheek too roughly.
My assiduity in tending that solitary plant was praiseworthy. Nothing
was left undone that could insure its welfare; water, warmed to a proper
temperature, a sufficiency of fresh air, occasional supplies of a little
new earth or well-rotted manure, a gentle stirring of the surface, and
pruning of straggling and superfluous sprouts--none of these were
omitted. In spite of this attention, it remained pale, yellow, and
feeble, so deadly must have been the nature of the unknown and invisible
malaria that had penetrated into my green-house; but it survived the
danger. It became gradually weaker as March passed by and April
advanced, but was still alive when, in May, after it had been carefully
hardened off by progressive exposure to the air, it was once more
consigned to the earth of the garden. The fuchsia was gone; the roses,
the daisies, the carnations, were no more; its brothers had fallen by
the way-side; but this peculiar variety--this child of my own
raising--this new species, that had no equal for hardness, and probably
would have none in beauty--this seedling, that was destined to electrify
the floral world--this original discovery, which I had already mentally
resolved should make my name immortal as the _Verbena Barnwellii_--was
saved! That was all-sufficient.
Weeville had inquired from time to time how the scientific cooking-shop,
as he ironically designated my green-house--because the dry furnace-air
which ascended to the upper story did make it rather warm--was
progressing, and sarcastically remarked that a hundred new and healthy
plants could be bought in the spring for what it would cost to keep one
over the winter. But I had too much confidence in the books which I had
studied to believe in his old fogy notions. I had put him off with
“glittering generalities,” intending to keep my discovery a secret, and
enjoying by anticipation his amazement and rage when he should find that
a mere tyro, by scientific appliances, could surpass an experienced hand
like himself, and do that which was beyond his utmost hope--originate a
new variety. I had intended waiting till my plant had recovered its
vigor under the influence of the “wanton wind” and the warm sun; but as
it did not improve rapidly, and no doubt missed my fostering care, I
took an early opportunity to invite him into my garden.
There were a number of roses, fuchsias, and other bedding plants that I
had just purchased and set out, and he remarked at once, with a laugh,
“So your cook-house did not work; you have had to buy new plants after
all. Furnace-houses, with dry, hot, parched air, are poor places for
green leaves and thirsty vegetable mouths. Moisture is a necessity to
the cultivation of flowers, and it will not answer perfectly when
applied only to the roots.”
During this discourse I had led him toward the new seedling, and at the
proper moment I replied,
“That may be true; but the satisfaction of tending one’s own flowers is
great; the pleasure of watching them is sufficient reward; and then
there is always a chance of effecting something original.”
“Yes, there is that, no doubt. Amateur green-houses are original
enough.”
“I mean there is a possibility of making some discovery, of starting a
new variety. For instance,” I said, slowly and impressively, “look at
that; is not that reward enough for all my trouble?”
“Look at what?” he replied, peering about in a stupid way, striving not
to notice the wonderful plant at his feet, and stopping in a doubtful
way when his eyes finally rested on it.
“Ay, look at it. Study it well,” I continued, enthusiastically. “Examine
its texture and its foliage; observe the delicate edge of each leaf; the
tender strength of each spray. Conceive its future freshness of beauty,
and the glory its discovery will confer.”
“Are you talking of that?” Weeville inquired, giving the sacred flower a
sacrilegious shove with the toe of his boot. “Why, what do you take that
for?”
“What do I take it for? You may well inquire. I take it for the _Verbena
Barnwellii_, the crowning glory--”
“Verbena fiddlesticks! It is nothing but a weed--a piece of wild sorrel,
just like a dozen others hereabouts, for they seem to abound in your
garden--only it is rather miserable looking, and is near about dead from
some cause or other. But what has that to do with your city
green-house?”
Explanations were unnecessary. Patrick had made a mistake; he had either
taken up a weed for a verbena, or had potted a weed and verbena
together, and the verbena had died early, for certain it was that my new
seedling, the puzzling variety of an old species, was nothing but an
ugly specimen of worthless sorrel. It died soon after. I was glad it
did. Possibly scientific hot-house culture is not beneficial to weeds,
but until it perished of itself I had not the heart to dig it up, and
thus put a violent end to so many vain hopes and promising
anticipations. The _Verbena Barnwellii_ is still in the undiscovered
future. Patrick had committed other errors; most of the plants that he
had taken up ought to have been left out, and most of those that were
left out should have been taken up. The results of this practice
convinced me that Weeville was right, and that it is cheaper to buy
plants than to raise them, even with all the aids of modern science; and
that, if any gentleman finds too many weeds in his garden, he has only
to remove them to his green-house and cultivate them assiduously to
exterminate them rapidly.
[Illustration]