A view, a brand-new view, and in a garden supposed to be viewless! That
our best point as regards scenery lies in the direction of the Dorking
downs, is I think beyond question. The worst of it is that lying as they
do nearly due north of us, the more of them we show the more the wind
catches at our plants. Openings upon this side have, consequently, to be
thought out with care, and executed only after long deliberation.
This time I think we are safe. A space of copse, ending in a fence, over
which in summer tree-lupins and everlasting peas tumble together in
friendly confusion, has been cleared. What was lately solid copse,
fifteen to twenty feet high, has sunk to a mere russet-coloured growth,
just bracken height, no more; three feet to four feet, that is to say,
rising occasionally to five. This makes a broadish space, in which
bracken and bramble, stunted elder, seedling birch, two or three low
thorns, and some wild guelder-roses sprout together. Past this,
sweeping up from the region of the larches, comes our new grass walk,
eleven feet wide, consequently a walk of pride to people who have
hitherto subsisted upon two-foot tracks! With a fine easy curve it turns
away to the south, making for the gate which divides the garden from the
copse. That turn being shared by the new opening, will I think ensure
that no new rush of cold air can come tearing in upon the flower-beds.
But for this no hatchet or billhook would have been conducted to the
spot by me. Our new little view is--_pace_ our neighbour’s opinions--a
remarkably nice little view, but did it display Alps or Andes, in place
of the despised Dorking downs, the right-minded gardener would in the
latter case hesitate; might even feel in the end that it would be too
dearly purchased.
Now for the next question, and a serious one. Are we to allow ourselves
to make any garden use of this new clearing or not? This touches upon
the larger question of meddling generally. To meddle, or not to meddle?
Is it permissible--as regards what lies outside the strict garden
boundaries--to interfere, or ought we to leave the whole matter to
Nature, in other words to Chance?
To lay down the law dogmatically upon this point would be to lay it down
for every garden in Great Britain, or all not girded by kitchen
gardens, or ploughed fields. Such a prospect, though enticing, might
take some little time to carry out. Confining oneself for the moment to
the immediate case, one finds that like most other cases, political, or
horticultural, it is mainly one of compromise. Were our copse beginning
to dwindle perilously, then, with a politician of the last generation, I
should exclaim “_Can’t_ you leave it alone?” Seeing that, though we have
been chopping assiduously ever since we came, two-thirds of our space is
still covered with uninvaded copse, the case seems to me to be a fair
one for experiment.
That being decided upon, what to experiment with becomes the next
question, and here aspect is clearly the ruling factor. That no early
morning sun will reach the place even in summer is certain. Four
respectable oaks, of quite a gentlemanly girth, stand along the fence,
and forbid it. They are not near enough for their roots to do much
damage, but the firstlings of the sun’s rays they will certainly keep to
themselves. This being so, there is a limit clearly as to what will
answer. All things considered, especially with regard to the fact that
the brambles could hardly be dislodged without a wrench which would
disorganise everything, I am inclined to give my vote for more brambles,
only this time civilised ones. There are plenty fortunately to choose
from. There is, for instance, Rubus odoratus, showing a vigour, and a
turn for colonisation hardly to be exceeded by the very wildest of wild
brambles. There is the cut-leafed bramble; there is the bramble of the
Nootka Sound; there is the whitewashed bramble; there is the
salmon-berry; the cloudberry; the bramble of the Rocky Mountains, and
others, all of which I already in fancy see tossing themselves up and
down the bracken, and over their wilder brethren, in one delicious froth
of white or rose-coloured blossom.
Another, and a yet more fascinating vision, sweeping over the field of
my mind, has for a moment given it pause. What of a jungle, not of
brambles, but of roses? None of your trim standards, of course, but some
of the freer kinds--Rosa alba, Rosa lucida, Rosa brunonis, with some
Ayrshires, some Dundee ramblers, and one commanding thicket of the
biggest of the Polyanthas? It is a heady vision, and as a portion of the
natural “wildness” might intoxicate the brain of Lord Bacon himself. In
gardening it does not do, however, to be too easily intoxicated. We have
to keep a sober head; we have to look at the matter from all its points
of view; there is the question of aspect, already touched upon; there is
the question of soil; above all there is the question of
fertilisation--dear, delicate word! No, we must not allow ourselves to
be carried off our feet by any vision, however roseate. We have always
been a pair of sober horticulturists, and we will continue to be so
still. Our rose-jungle must wait. It is only postponed: we will have it
yet, and in a better place. Even if we never _did_ have it, even if the
postponement had to be an eternal one, is it not, one sometimes asks
oneself, the gardens that never have been planted--“whose flowers ne’er
fed the bee”; whose dusky scented walks no foot has ever trod, that
yield the deepest, the most unqualified enjoyment? “Heard melodies are
sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.” What then of unseen gardens? What
wealth of blossoms! what a flood of sunshine, which yet never scorches!
what green and translucent groves, which at the same time are never
damp! what order, without the faintest touch of formality! what
wildness, what heavenly entanglements, without so much as an approach to
confusion! But I perceive that I am again wandering out of the domain of
horticulture, into a much less attainable region, and it may be as well,
therefore, to pause.