“Fountains; they are a great beauty and refreshment, but pools mar all,
and make the garden unwholesome, full of flies and frogs.”
For two persons who have just been at some pains to establish a pool in
their grounds, this is a hard saying! That the judgment has much to
support it, apart from the weight of its utterer, I cannot deny. At the
same time a better case can, I think, be made out for the culprits than
may appear at first sight. Fountains in a copse, be they never so
limpid, never so sparkling, would be stamped with an unendurable stamp
of artificiality. Pools on the other hand, though there are certainly
not many in these copses of ours, are at all events not inconceivable.
In the present case we flatter ourselves that the particular spot we
have selected for our pool was intended by Nature to contain one, and
nothing but the incurable aridity of these dry hillsides hindered her
from carrying out that intention. Where every drop of water has to be
watched over like hid treasure, it may be doubted whether the amount
that we can afford to have trickling through it in summer will suffice
to hinder the water in it from becoming yellow, brown, or green. That is
a point however which remains for future discovery. Our main
preoccupation at present rests with the planting of the edges of our
pool, especially with the clothing of the bank which, rising to the
north of it, will absorb most of the midday sun, and will require
therefore the most attention.
In its present condition a good deal of that bank looks bare to
desperation, yet I strongly suspect that summer will prove it to have
the reverse fault of being crowded with a dense, and inextricably
entangled mass of vegetation. Fortunately half its present inhabitants,
being biennials, will depart after the first season, when, the prospect
clearing, the permanent inhabitants will stand forth confest and
visible.
Omitting this temporary part of its furniture, I will jot the others
down as they stand, which will enable us to see what we have, and also
to form a better idea of what we still lack.
First and foremost a kindly gift; two large clumps of Arundo donax,
easily supreme anywhere as pond-side decoration, the more so, as they
quickly attain to their full size. No other plant of the reedy order,
not even excepting a bamboo, gives quite the same impression of
vigorous, of almost insolent energy as does this one. It adapts itself
moreover perfectly to our sandy soil, and so long as one sees that it
receives a reasonable amount of moisture, seems to ask for little else.
Next follow two or three plants of Arundinaria japonica, and below these
again Arundinaria, or Bambusa palmata, skirting the edge of the pond,
and passing on into the so-called bog. This last came from Kildare,
where it has established itself, and run practically wild along the edge
of a lake. Here it seems to do its growing more slowly, but the plants
are spreading, and I think promise fairly. Below the other bamboos, but
above palmata come two large plants of Astilbe rivularis, placed so that
their arching leaves will overhang their lower neighbours, and all but
touch the water. Next, turning the corner of the pond, come various
low-growing bushes. Berberis Darwini below, with the faithful
Aquifolium, and the taller stenophylla above, ending in a fringe of
bog-myrtle, and of Rodgersia podophylla, among which some Solomon’s seal
are now barely discernible. After these come a few plants of
Hemerocallis, both fulva and flava, which need continual dividing in the
borders, but seem to flower well, and give no further trouble so long as
they are within reach of an occasional splash. Acanthuses appear to be
in the same position, the difference between their growth in wet and dry
soil being extraordinary; indeed when one remembers how they abound in
Spain and Italy, one fails to understand the limp and desolated aspect
they see fit to assume here, under a very much more moderate
dispensation of drought.
Next follows Funkia Sieboldi. Funkias are all meritorious plants, but
Sieboldi, to my mind, towers head and shoulders above the rest. Apart
from the beauty of the flower, its grey-green, almost iridescent foliage
is like no other leaf that grows, and when the two are combined the
result is High art, art at its best point. Such praise is, however,
merely impertinent. It is more pertinent to say that the whole genus,
but especially Sieboldi, belong to that very limited category of plants
that are at once fit for the most orthodox of beds or borders, while at
the same time they are free enough, and independent-looking enough, not
to seem ridiculous in a bit of pure “wildness” such as this little
pond-side purports to be. This is far from being a common virtue. One
only needs to run over such words as “Hollyhock,” “Begonia,”
“Pelargonium,” to perceive in a moment what would be intolerable outside
of a more or less stiff parterre. It is not so much a question of
beauty, as of fitness and adaptability, perhaps also of freedom from
certain set associations, which, having once rooted themselves in our
minds, make it impossible for us ever to rearrange our impressions, and
recast them in a new form. This however is a digression. To go on with
my list.
Upon the actual edge of the pond we are at this moment planting some two
dozen varieties of Iris Kæmpferi. These have recently come from Haarlem,
and being still new-comers, have their destiny ahead of them. The common
yellow iris, best and handsomest of all native, water-edge plants, had
only to be transplanted, as it was already flourishing close at hand. As
a successor to it comes Ranunculus Lingua, another indispensable native,
but one that requires sharp watching; its capabilities as a coloniser
being unlimited, the long, pink-tipped suckers pushing forward into the
water at a rate that would soon turn any limited space of it into a mere
jungle of triumphant buttercups.
In the part of the bank which, sloping rather quickly away, inclines
towards the “glade,” come various low-growing shrubs, which carry the
line down to the region of heather, which in its turn brings it to the
level of the grass. The tallest of these,--rather too tall for the
place,--is Viburnum opulus, common beside many a Surrey pond, but not
nearly enough grown in gardens, as the best of amateur gardeners has
recently reminded us. Its cultivated relation, Viburnum plicatum, is
just beyond it, placed there, not because there is the slightest
occasion for its being upon the water’s edge, simply because it happens
to be one of those plants that never seem quite happy unless they have
abundance of space to move about in, the long shoots, laden with
blossom, having a wonderful power of reaching out to distances that at
first sight seem to be quite beyond their grasp. Another plant of which
the same may be said is Hydrangea paniculata. So far ours have spent
their existence dully in tubs, the idea being that they required winter
protection. Judging by some that were experimented upon last winter this
seems to be a mistake, and I propose to try a few here, by way of
successors to the foregoing, with which their equally industrious sprays
seem to possess a sort of kinship.
Our grassy “glade” being now all but reached the remaining corner of the
bank has been filled with various grass-leaved flowering plants, which
seemed to come in appropriately. Of these the largest is Libertia
formosa, green all the year round, and in summer bristling with white,
iris-like flowers, and, by way of plant-fellow to it, Sisyrinchium
Bermudianum (Plague upon these polysyllabic dog-latinists!), one of the
friendliest of little plants that ever pined for a decent English name.
Put it where one will--on a bank, in a bog, in a flower-bed--it seems
equally happy and appropriate; always compact, yet increasing as
rapidly as any weed; above all continually in flower, even, so I noticed
last winter, in the middle of frost and snow, and when its leaves were
so brittle that they snapped when they were touched, like any icicle.
My list seems to be already stretching to a tolerable length, yet there
are plenty of things that have not yet found their way into it. Here is
Bocconia cordata, for instance, impossible to do without in such a spot.
Here are the spider-worts, both blue and white. Here are various
spiræas, chiefly low-growing ones, such as “Anthony Waterer” and
palmata, the latter only happy in a more or less damp place. In the
peat-filled hollow beyond quite a little crowd of claimants rise up for
notice. A good many of these are now only satisfactory in the
retrospect. Of such are Primula japonica, and Primula rosea,
sorry-looking tufts of brown shreds, with no new leaves as yet showing.
Cypripedium spectabile is in the same plight, but Hellonias bullata is
still green, Gentiana asclepiadea has a flower or two showing, Lobelia
cardinalis, both the older and newer varieties, look red and happy, and
Schizostylis coccinea promises fairly, though it never behaves with us
quite as it ought to do, and as I have known it behave in kindlier
soils.
Turning to the region of mere dryness, three or four rough stone steps,
and a ridiculous little ridge, lead towards the azalea corner.
Here cistuses of various kinds have their home, and, being fairly
sheltered, do well, though several require remembering in the winter. I
find the same to be the case here with regard to the rosemaries,
especially the younger plants, as they grow older they seem to harden.
Lavenders fortunately are safe everywhere, in all weathers, and the same
may be said of Skimmia japonica and Fortunei, two of the most
satisfactory of small winter-flowering shrubs. These with a few tufts of
Andromeda floribunda, and a small jungle of alpine rhododendron, bring
us up to the azalea corner.
All these plants, especially the more recently planted ones, will need
pretty constant looking after during the next year or so, but once that
crucial period of their existence is over, it is my hope--possibly only
my delusion--that they will learn so to arrange their affairs as merely
to require the sort of attention that is necessary to see that they do
not overcrowd one another, or--what is more serious--become invaded by
wild neighbours, rose-campions, and the like, swarming in upon them to
the point of suffocation. The safest way of avoiding this is undoubtedly
to cover the ground with low, carpeting growths, which will remain green
nearly all the year round, and at the same time not make too severe a
demand upon the soil. The number of such kindly little evergreens, or
semi-evergreens is a constant surprise when one comes to collect them,
and the fact that there should be so many speaks volumes for a climate
that we are none of us ever weary of abusing. Apart from absolute
rock-plants, nearly all of which are evergreen, there are a number of
others, which rarely or never lose their leaves, and whose presence
saves banks and hollows like these from the reproach of bareness, and
further takes away--certainly ought to take away--all excuses for
visitations from that Tool of the Destroyer, the pitchfork. Of such
plants none are better than certain campanulas, including our own
hairbells, both the blue and the white. Wood-sorrels again are excellent
in a shady place, or, for a sunnier one, there is their energetic cousin
Oxalis floribunda, in this soil the most undaunted of colonisers,
growing all the winter. “Creeping Jenny” again, and “Blue-eyed Mary,”
delightful things with delightful names, will cover as much space as
they are allowed to do. Of the more easily grown forget-me-nots there
are at least four kinds--palustris, for planting close to the water, or
in it; dissitiflora, happy all the summer, so long as it gets a little
shade; sylvatica and alpestris, growing anywhere, and everywhere.
Epimediums, again, are excellent, though apt to get a little rusty in
the winter. So is Tellina grandiflora, an unwisely named plant, since
its strength lies, not in its flowers, but its leaves. Thymes, too, are
always available; likewise potentillas, erysimums, and veronicas, though
these last may seem to be trenching upon the rock-plant region. Then, if
we want larger growths, are there not all the megaseas, which may be
torn in pieces two or three times a year, if we like? Of low-growing
shrubs, such as Euonymus radicans, the various creeping cotoneasters,
the savin, Gaultheria shallon, and others, there is no lack. Yet
another, and one of the best of them all, Cornus canadensis, a true
shrub, and an evergreen one, although no larger than a wild
wood-strawberry.
But I find myself growing breathless, and the list of such kindly
“carpeters” is in reality only begun. Flinging down woodruffs, wild
pansies, foam-flowers, sedums, mossy saxifrages, waldsteinias, and
periwinkles, as one might out of a basket, I will only now delay to find
room for a few rock-pinks, particularly for these four--cæsius,
cruentus, atro-rubens, and deltoides,--all of which may be sown
broadcast in the spring, and all of which, especially the last, may be
trusted to hold their own against any but the biggest and most ferocious
of natives.
We have been honest caterers for our clients, as far as preparation
went, and my hope, I may say my ideal, is that they will henceforward be
content with receiving merely surface nourishment from time to time, and
will neither look for or need that eternal process of renewal, and as a
consequence of disorganisation, which is the bane, though I am willing
to admit the unavoidable bane, of nearly every flower-bed and border.
Ideals are odd things, and this one of mine seems, even as I write it
down, about as ridiculous and puny an ideal as any forlorn idealist was
ever driven into making a boast of! Such as it is, however, I cling to
it tenaciously. After all what does it mean? Written out a little large
it means repose of mind, and a freedom from the strain of change; it
even means a certain sense of finality, and that at a very sensitive
spot in one’s small environment.
To a greater or less extent we all sigh for finality. Nobody has ever
attained to it, that I have heard of, and not many people would perhaps
relish it if they could do so. None the less it remains, something
haunting; a dimly descried presence, to us vaguely desirable. To sit at
ease under their own vines; to be at rest in their own shaded places,
has from the earliest days flattered the imaginations of men, busy and
idle ones alike. Dawdlers in sunny places, and haunters of gardens like
ourselves are naturally assigned to the second of these categories.
Since we have to support the reproach of idleness, let us at least then
take heed that we secure the comfort of it. If Leisure is an
acquaintance of ours he is an acquaintance of so few people nowadays,
that we had better make the most of him. Now fuss the good man detests,
and change, merely for change’s sake, is undoubtedly one of the very
worst forms of fuss. Like every other pursuit and following,
horticulture no doubt has its battlefields, and those who go out upon
them must expect charge and countercharge, rapid assault and varying
vicissitude, like other heroes upon other battlefields. For me such
combats, I am free to confess, have not even a vicarious charm; Peace
being the only deity to whom I would willingly raise even the smallest
of garden altars. With other out-of-door conditions we all aver that it
is their stability, their adorable unchangeableness, which lends them in
our eyes their most persistent charm. Why then are we not to look for
the same charm in our gardens, which after all come nearest home? That
it is a charm easy of attainment I were loth to asseverate, but that
seems hardly a reason for not endeavouring to attain to it. It is in
this direction at all events that my own private plottings and plannings
propose to turn. If I must moil and delve; if I must plant, dig, and
contrive now, it is with the fixed and fond determination of before long
sitting resolutely down, and doing absolutely nothing!