The book of garden design

by Charles Thonger

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE
Lawn and Shade	[Frontispiece]
Terrace Climbers	[16]
A Paved Walk	[32]
Sundial in Garden Walk	[40]
Stream and Woodland	[54]
Herbaceous Grouping	[64]
A Lily Tank	[70]
A Garden House	[76]

Photographs by F. Mason Good.

THE BOOK OF GARDEN DESIGN

CHAPTER I
OF GARDENS AND GARDEN DESIGNERS

From the earliest times the garden has been regarded as a fitting adjunct to the dwelling-places of man. The very name seems to suggest a place of beauty and repose, where the fairest of fruits and flowers are collected into a small compass for our special pleasure and edification. The term “garden,” too, is often employed in a broader sense, meaning a tract of country, so lavishly endowed with natural beauties, as to almost suggest that it is the special property and care of some master hand, who cultivates his broad acres where we are content with inches. Eden, where, according to Milton’s famous description in “Paradise Lost,” the “cedar and pine and fir and branching palm,” mingled together in a tangle of sylvan loveliness, was a garden of Nature. We speak of Italy as the “garden” of the world, and are accustomed to attribute the same term to some specially favoured district or locality in each county at home. From each of these all suggestion of design is absent; a mightier hand than ours has planted their groves, watered their fertile valleys, and strewn the meadows and hedgerows with flowers. To these favoured spots of earth, those at any rate which are left us, the garden designer must cast his eye, as he sets out to learn the rudiments of his craft. Not that garden making consists in the endeavour to duplicate a whole landscape on a small scale—this was an error into which Brown’s followers blindly fell—but because so much that is of value to us may be gathered from an intelligent study of the means by which Nature achieves her most beautiful effects. The disposition of wood and water in a stretch of well-balanced scenery, the beautifully proportioned effect of level and rising ground, of valleys and hills; all these afford an object lesson, which, at some time or other, is bound to prove suggestive when endeavouring to forecast results in artificially arranged grounds. Nature, then, is the school where the novice should go to be thoroughly taught the rudiments of his art. Not only will he learn much that is not to be found in books, but his love of the picturesque and beautiful will be fostered and encouraged—a necessary proceeding if he is to achieve any measure of success as a maker of gardens.

To a certain extent the good designer is born not made, but much may be done by intelligent study and a real fondness for the work, to make up for any lack of natural ability in this direction. But in order to plan a really satisfactory garden, one qualification is absolutely essential: before all things the designer must be himself a gardener. That is, he must have spent some portion of his life actually working among the flowers and trees, whose suitable arrangement he afterwards proposes to decide. He must have sown and planted with his own hand, watched the growth of leaf and bud, and observed the habit of each plant and its adaptability to certain situations. Colour effects must also be noted, in short, nothing should be allowed to escape his eye which concerns the varied phases in the life of the simplest of the garden trees and flowers. Here lies the secret of half the failures which have occurred since garden making came to be regarded as something more than mere haphazard treatment of a piece of enclosed ground. Its votaries have many of them been men who knew absolutely nothing of the ways of flowers, to whom the wonders of nature were as a sealed book. That they were clever draughtsmen none will deny, and that many beautiful gardens were made on paper is equally to be admitted. But that was all, they were unable to see how their gardens would look after being planted a few years—probably they did not care, at any rate they were miserable failures, as must ever be the case when a well drawn design is considered sufficient proof of supreme ability. This class of garden maker is by no means extinct to-day, and with paper, drawing appliances, and a few books of plans for guidance, is able to turn out sketches which, to the uninitiated, seem to suggest unlimited acquaintance with the subject. But transfer these designs to the ground, lay out the paths and beds as he suggests, plant trees and raise mounds, dig watercourses and build rockeries to satisfy his caprice, and what do we find? Our garden is a wretched affair, a thoughtless jumble of half-matured ideas, a desecration of common-sense and good taste. Trees are planted where their graceful outline is cramped and hidden, flowering plants have no possible chance of displaying their full beauty before us, and everywhere we look there are signs of ignorance and wasted opportunity. There is something so contradictory in the term “garden architect”; it suggest the union of two totally distinct professions. Bricks and mortar, cut stonework and terracing, are now pushed into the garden, with the result that its real object is lost and its beauties crowded out. The architect is greedy; not content with designing the house and its approaches, its stabling and many accessories, he must needs take the garden in hand also, and we find his work everywhere and weary of its endless repetition. But we have brought it on ourselves, and must either rest content with that we know to be false, or make an effort to free ourselves from this meretricious form of art without further delay. All may not possess the faculty for suggesting a complicated plan for themselves, but there are few who may not study the outlines of the subject, so that they may be better able to control those whom they employ. After all, the garden should reflect the ideas and taste of the owner, not of the professional. The art of garden making consists very largely in the exercise of common-sense and a due perception of the fitness of things. These, coupled with a love for flowers and a knowledge of their requirements, will lead the beginner to success far more quickly than any ability he may possess for map and plan drawing.

The formal garden, as it existed in the days before its modern substitute cast a slur on the word “formality,” reflected no small credit on the skill and taste of its originators. There was a sense of breadth and stateliness about it which is sadly lacking in its modern rival. Especially praiseworthy were the open stretches of turf, and bold grouping of trees, which were characteristic of the time. The planting of avenues, to whose beauty many of our older houses owe so much, the alleys and greens bounded with hedges of clipped yew, and the wide borders filled with herbaceous flowers, were all pleasing in spite of their stiffness. Aided by handsome terraces, used only where needed, as at Haddon and other places, these old time gardens were free from any suggestion of trickery or deception. Their designers were men whose ideas, if a trifle austere, were perfectly honest; they liked their handiwork to display its beauties in a straightforward manner, with the consequence that their gardens were well-proportioned, and clearly betokened that money had been ungrudgingly spent where necessary. The modern formal garden is of quite another stamp, with its flimsily-constructed terraces, its ill-designed vases and statuary. There is a certain straining after effect noticeable, and a lack of dignity displayed, which makes this latter a very feeble imitation of its prototype. How can a modern villa be expected to act as a suitable foil to a style of garden design which is a cheap adaptation of that practised at Versailles or Chatsworth?

But, leaving the formal garden for a moment, and passing to a consideration of that which was the outcome of an entirely different set of ideas. The landscape school of designers believed that severity and stiffness were totally out of place in a garden, and the only way to secure artistic and beautiful effects was to go direct to Nature for a model. This was right in so far as it went; it became ridiculous when carried to extremes. If “Capability Brown,” himself the most noted member of the new school, and his followers had been content to study Nature, gathering thus many valuable lessons, and then being content to adapt them to the altered conditions which the nature of a garden imposed, much good might have resulted. But instead, their great ambition was to stifle any ideas they might have on the subject, and become slavish imitators, trying to reproduce a whole landscape within the small limits of the garden boundaries. Brown was hailed as a genius, and his advice requisitioned in the remodelling of many of England’s best gardens. All traces of formality were swept away, the terraces, stately parterres, yew hedges, and regular-shaped beds were abolished, and the ground laid out on entirely new lines. This consisted in the introduction of miniature mountains, streams and torrents, the latter crossed by bridges; the remaking of paths, so that they wound in serpentine curves, entailing needless labour to traverse. At Blenheim, Brown turned a river into a valley, with such effect that he is said to have proudly declared “the Thames would never forgive him.” He abhorred avenues, and this style of planting gave place under his rule to the irregular dotting of belts and clumps at varying intervals over an estate. There is no doubt but that some of the “follies” of his satellites were wrongly attributed to him, but, in spite of this, Brown was a consummate mannerist, and undoubtedly was the means of spoiling many a good garden by his efforts at deceptive planting and arrangement.

After Brown’s death in 1784, Humphry Repton was considered the leading garden designer for many years. To him we owe the origin of the term “landscape gardener,” a name chosen to designate a science which combined the united resources of the landscape painter and the practical gardener. Repton is entitled to our respect, in that his schemes were not directed towards the sweeping away of old gardens, but rather to increase, if possible, their beauty and attractiveness. He considered himself a disciple of Brown, but on examination of his methods and work, we are led to conclude that he differed from him in many material particulars. Brown would not tolerate formality in any shape or form, but Repton, realising that few extremes are pleasing, preferred to strike a mean, and combine the ideas of the early designers with those of his predecessor. Thus, whilst duly appreciating the charms of a garden laid out with proper regard to natural effect, he wisely saw that it was ridiculous to attempt to bring this style to the very doors of the house. Architectural features do not readily combine with those of the field and moorland. Hence we find that gardens designed by him were somewhat severe in treatment close to the house, gradually merging into a freer and more natural style, as the work of the builder and mason was left behind. Thus, by slow gradations, the most formal design was merged without incongruity into the wild and uncultivated landscape which bordered the property. Repton also made a number of sketches in connection with his work, tending to show how the general appearance of his garden would change from time to time, as the trees grew and the idea of newness disappeared. Though we cannot agree with many of the rules laid down by him for the benefit of future workers, there is much to admire in his methods of garden planning and arrangement. If he cannot be considered as the inventor of any marked and novel departure (the “gardenesque” style excepted), at any rate he did nothing to spoil existing gardens by the introduction of foolish innovations, which was the fault of many who went before him. Where his ideas on garden planning must be considered as at total variance with our own was in the banishing of many necessary conveniences, simply because they did not happen to be ornamental or harmonise exactly with the landscape. A garden is a place of pleasure and recreation, and there can be no possible harm in erecting comfortable summer houses, seats and resting places, from which to view its beauties, even though these are not to be found in natural scenery of the ideal type.

But the examination in detail of the idiosyncrasies of each and every garden designer would be, to say the least of it, a proceeding which could do no good, and might be productive of much harm. The novice, seeking for assistance and advice, will be needlessly confused by any lengthened reference to the various “styles” laid down as correct by individuals of widely differing tastes and ideas. After all, when we have laboriously studied the art of garden making in this and other countries as it existed over a number of years, and have nodded approval at the work of a certain exponent, only to find later that our ideas are more in accord with those of his successor, what do we find? That the greater part of what we have read is calculated to perplex rather than help, and in the end leave us no whit better able to form opinions as to the right and wrong way of setting about our own business. Putting aside all minor considerations, and looking at the matter in the broadest and simplest light, there are, and have been from time immemorial, but two styles of garden design. On the one hand, we have the artificial, on the other, the natural. The first is generally the offspring of the professional designer, the paper planner, the lover of architectural features, the supporter of the makers of fountains, terracing and statuary. The second can in its truest form emanate only from the garden lover, the man who grows flowers and trees for the sake of their individual beauty, and strives with the materials which Nature lavishly supplies, to make a picturesque and beautiful enclosure near his dwelling. From this it must not be inferred that architectural adornments are wrong, or that a garden can be made in any situation without their aid. The contrary is the case. On a sloping hillside, a garden may only be possible by the aid of terracing: an uninteresting corner may be redeemed by a well-placed sundial or statue: a simple fountain, with the music of its falling water, may by its presence give pleasure during the long summer days. But in spite of all, architectural features must ever be the exception, not the rule, in the well ordered garden, and it is only when they are really needed to further our scheme of “lawn and tree, flower and shrub deftly interwoven,” that there is the slightest excuse for introducing them.

There can be nothing more distressing to the garden artist than the idea of making gardens to a stock plan. We are not dealing in wall-papers, ornamental tiles or mosaic work when we undertake the laying out of a garden; to this day there are many who think that the business, if business it may be called, can be conducted by post. Surely, they argue, the professional, if he knows anything at all, will have no difficulty in advising without the trouble and expense of a visit. Given the dimensions of a plot of ground, what can be easier than to make a plan on paper showing the positions to be occupied by lawns, shrubberies, flower beds and walks? Alas, this is how hundreds of gardens are made, and the same wretched designs are dumped about the country like so many copies of a popular picture. A quotation from the writings of Batty Langley will show that the man who relies on plans is depending for guidance on a sadly broken reed. He says:—“Now, as the Beauty of Gardens in general depends upon an elegant Disposition of all their Parts, which cannot be determined without a perfect Knowledge of its several Ascendings, Descendings, Views, etc., how is it possible that any Person can make a good Design for any Garden whose Situation they never saw? To draw a beautiful, regular Draught is not to the Purpose: for altho’ it makes a handsome Figure on the paper, yet it has quite a different Effect when executed on the ground.” Individuals must necessarily have their peculiarities, and it is right they should: we recognise the same qualities, perhaps some trick of light and shade, in a score of totally different subjects painted by a great artist. But there is no excuse for the designer who, having laid out one garden to his satisfaction, immediately proceeds to imitate his previous effort in a dozen different places. Because a terrace happens to look well in a hillside garden, there is no reason for supposing that its inclusion is desirable in one situated on the level. Yet how many tons of earth have been carted from one place to another, so that stupid embankments might be raised, and afterwards fortified with terraces—all this in places where there was not a hill for miles. Love of imitation has been the downfall of many an otherwise good designer, whose enthusiasm for the work of others has completely over-ruled his own common-sense. We are not even meant to imitate Nature, the best of teachers, but rather look to her for inspiration, adapting the lessons learnt in meadow and woodland to the altered conditions which highly cultivated ground imposes.

Nothing to my mind can be less helpful to the garden maker than the common practice which prevails of instituting competitions in the horticultural papers, with prizes for the best garden design sent in. As an encouragement in the art of draughtsmanship, or a stimulus to the beginner to use his ingenuity, this form of plan drawing may prove decidedly beneficial. But to imagine that the designs themselves are of the slightest practical use is, in the majority of cases, absurd. An attractive plan, mechanically adaptable to gardens of varying sizes, is the greatest temptation which can be set in the path of the unwary. It teaches men to grub about the earth with measuring rod and chain, levelling, filling up hollows, cutting down trees, so that no obstruction may be offered to the carrying out of the design in its entirety. Whereas all our thoughts should be for the natural appearance of the ground, its slopes and gradients, which harmonise perfectly with the face of the surrounding country. Existing features should in nearly all cases be retained, or simply modified to our purpose. Imagine the wantonness of cutting down a beautiful tree, because our plan says that a path ought to run where it now stands; or what possible excuse can there be for ruining a stretch of fine turf with beds cut in the form of circles, lozenges and triangles. The moral of all this is plain. Each garden must be treated, as regards its laying out, simply and solely on its own merits and possibilities. It matters not whether we are dealing with a humble quarter acre attached to the modern villa, or have in hand the broad surroundings of the country mansion. There is no rule-of-thumb method for either; each is worthy of just as much love and care as might be bestowed were it the only garden in the world. Sedding says, “A garden is man’s report of Earth at her best,” which, whatever else it may imply, surely suggests that our best work, and our noblest conceptions of the beautiful, must be pressed into service if we are to effect any real improvement. Set styles, and the whims and caprices of the individual, live but a short time; they are here to-day, but to-morrow their very name is forgotten. The next generation will probably eye with disfavour much of the garden work which is now regarded with so much satisfaction. But there can be no reproaches for the man who has worked honestly, endeavoured to penetrate the hidden ways of Nature, and trusted in his own common-sense and reason to point out the best course. The love of flowers and trees for their own sake, and not because it is fashionable, is the same in every age, and that form of garden design only is right which is founded first and foremost on the study of Nature and Nature’s laws.

CHAPTER II
GENERAL PRINCIPLES

Before bringing his attention to bear on special cases, the garden designer must have clearly in view the general principles which are the underlying features of all good work. In this way more real progress will be made, and far deeper insight obtained into the mysteries of garden planning and arrangement, than by the most devoted study of complicated plans, or the careful examination of the methods of any particular school, no matter how excellent its teaching. It is useless attempting to compass the most simple form of design if all the while we are ignorant of those elementary laws which are mainly the outcome of common-sense and good taste. The greatest danger to which the novice is subjected, that of being hopelessly confused by a multiplicity of styles, of which by the way we hear far too much, is considerably lessened if he will but bear in mind the few laws which tend to show that gardening is not a mere haphazard science, but one founded on a very sure and substantial base. It is the neglect of these simple observances that has caused men like Capability Brown to be ridiculed, when they might have received nothing but praise. No matter what style of garden arrangement is contemplated, or whether we are going to China or Holland for inspiration, our work is bound to prove unsatisfactory unless beneath the outer veneer which proclaims its origin there is observable a respect for Nature’s teaching, and a due regard for the dictates of artistic feeling and ordinary good taste.

The first point to be aimed at in all good gardens, is to secure a reasonable amount of comfort and convenience for those for whom their pleasures are intended. Nor is there any defence which can be argued in favour of an opposite course. A garden is devised primarily for the edification and enjoyment of man, in the same way that good pictures, good buildings and other forms of artistic effort are intended. Mere utility is not sufficient, neither is mere beauty, it is a combination of the two which must be sought. In the designing of so-called artistic gardens many ridiculous schemes have been perpetrated, calculated in the end to disgust all right-thinking people, and convince others of the shallowness of certain forms of modern art. Of what use is it growing flowers and trees, if no facilities for close examination are afforded those who use the garden? Can a design which denies us conveniently arranged paths, and comfortable resting places from which to enjoy the best views, be considered in any way satisfactory? Depend upon it, the man who is for ever telling us that such and such an arrangement would be more convenient, but could not be tolerated on the score of art, possesses but very superficial ideas on the question. It was folly of this kind that prompted certain designers to make their paths twist and curve in all directions: Nature, they said, abhorred straight lines, so they compelled pedestrians to walk double the necessary distance to reach any particular object. Any plan must be regarded with suspicion, which when applied to the garden affords a pleasing prospect from the windows of the house, but presents no inducements for closer inspection. During both wet and dry weather it should be possible to visit certain parts of the garden; a paved walk is a great convenience if it can be afforded, and a cool shady pathway will be much appreciated during the hot days of summer. The fruit and vegetable garden should always be within easy access of the kitchen quarters; and though the tool and potting sheds ought not to be obtruded, they should be convenient of access and not approached by narrow, tortuous paths. On the plea that these and other necessary conveniences are unsightly they are often banished to remote out of the way corners, and as a consequence economy both of time and labour are out of the question. We do not hide our cherished works of art in cupboards or attics, but hang them in a good light where they can be viewed comfortably at all times. The same should be the case with our gardens, which deserve to be conveniently situated and readily accessible in all their parts.

Undue complexity is as a rule totally out of place in the garden, for the reason that it bewilders the visitor as to the aims and intentions of the designer. Such gardens give one the impression that they were designed piecemeal, each time with no thought for what had been attempted before. Simplicity does not necessarily mean formality, it is rather the expression of a set of ideas in a straightforward, common-sense manner. We cannot have simplicity when we fill our gardens with patchwork flower beds, destroying the beautiful surface of a lawn to make them; neither is tawdry furniture, ill-designed statues, fountains, sundials and seats, likely to impress the beholder with feelings other than those of ridicule or contempt for a display of vulgar opulence. Wherever we look there should be evidence of a desire for unity in the several parts, a sense of breadth and dignity which is the true test of a skilled workman. So many people persist in confusing this desire for simplicity with a wish for puritanical severity—straight walks, bare unbroken stretches of lawn, and buildings uncovered with creeper or shrub; it is nothing of the kind, and gardens in which there is the richest ornament, and the most lavish display of flowers, may yet remain perfectly simple as regards their planning and arrangement. At the same time monotony is of all things to be guarded against, more especially as it is inseparable from certain forms of design. The most beautiful scene on earth would soon pall were it continued with wearisome repetition over a considerable portion of the landscape. A grass walk bordered with stately yews is a charming feature where the situation demands it, but who can deny the weariness occasioned by endless rows of these solemn sentinels, when reproduced on every side. Herein lies the reason why the work of certain designers proves so unsatisfactory. It is possible to have too much even of a good thing, and the fact that a certain feature has proved suitable in one case, is no reason for supposing that it will be equally satisfactory in half a dozen others. When making a plan, it should be our object not to consider how much we may do without incurring the risk of monotony, but how we may best whet the appetite for more of a similar character.

It is to variety that we owe the greatest pleasures in our gardens, and yet there are many who would deny us even this. It is variety which makes the study of Nature the pleasure that it is. Who ever saw two woodland glades exactly the same, two mountain streams which presented identical features, or a glimpse of lush meadows and rich, purpling hills which was not different to any we ever saw before? Why not the same in our gardens? No two situations are exactly the same, one must possess features that the other lacks, or present possibilities incapable of fulfilment except in its own case. There is, indeed, no reason why we should conform to a stereotyped plan, except that imitation is usually considered less trouble than originality, in that the latter involves individual thought, and a necessary determination to see clearly to the root of things. But apart from the lack of variety displayed in the general planning of several gardens in the same or different localities, there is often a want of diversity in the various parts of a single garden. This is the opposite fault to that of undue complexity, and it is the more pleasant, because of its rarity, when we find that a happy mean has been chosen. Variety in garden design can be attempted in a number of ways, either in the alteration of ground levels, the formation of walks, or the grouping of trees and shrubs. The first named must always be a matter demanding extreme care and judgment, for the good reason that the natural levels are nearly always best. In the remodelling of existing gardens, it is often necessary to go to considerable labour and expense to bring the ground back to its original form. The craze for terracing which has led to the upheaval of banks and mounds in all sorts of impossible positions, has led to an appearance of extreme artificiality in many modern gardens. However, it is often possible to so alter levels that variety takes the place of monotony, and an added charm is given to certain situations.

Perhaps the safest way to proceed in this direction is to take advantage of some existing depression or elevation, which, probably too slight to relieve the prevailing flatness, may be deepened or heightened as the case may be. The natural grade should be taken as a guide, and emphasis given to points which admit of such treatment. The aspect of the surrounding country will exercise considerable influence in this direction. A garden containing many mounds, hillocks, and hollows will look absurd set in a nearly flat landscape, and in a hilly district, cultivated land wrought into an unbroken level will appear even more out of place. The fact that building operations has led to the excavation of a large bulk of earth, should not lead the designer to utilise it for promiscuous bank making. It is seldom that a close survey of the ground will not reveal points at which it is possible to secure variety, without altering the general contour to any appreciable extent.

TERRACE CLIMBERS

Garden paths nearly always cause monotony when too much of their length is seen at once. This must not be considered as in any way deprecatory to the straight walk, than which often nothing is more satisfactory. If the path is straight, there should be compensating influences in the way of well grown plants or shrubs along its sides to attract our attention. Where these are impossible, the walk should be made to bend slightly, occupying the curve with a group of flowering shrubs, or some other suitable screen to hide its continuation from view. The garden paths should most certainly follow the varied levels of the ground, and nothing can be worse than to attempt to fill up the hollows and shave off the gentle elevations in order to produce a dead level. This is the very way to engender the monotony, which we are trying to dispel. A wild mountain path, or the track through some woodland glade, never lacks variety, simply because the feet that made it followed the line of easiest gradient. In nine cases out of ten, the ugly walk is the result of direct transgression of this simple rule, and all that is needed to effect an improvement is the reversion of the ground to its old level.

The variety obtainable by the judicious employment of living trees and plants is so infinite, that there is no excuse for neglecting their friendly aid when planning the several parts of the garden. A certain spirit of conservatism seems to prevail among modern gardeners, and of the thousands of beautiful subjects which exist for our benefit, not a tithe of the number are pressed into service. Take, for example, that large and beautiful family, the Flowering Shrubs, how very imperfectly is their value realised in the majority of cases! Dull, gloomy evergreens are used almost exclusively in the orthodox small garden, and never a thought is given to the host of fine deciduous trees, many of which are supremely lovely. The nurseryman has learnt by experience the few stereotyped evergreens which are most in demand, and he stocks these, and these only, so that the casual purchaser is led to believe that the list of trees and shrubs suitable for English gardens is very limited. For screening off unsightly corners evergreens are of the highest value, but on the margins of lawns, and for lending interest to mixed plantations, the designer would do well to introduce the flowering shrubs, of which a list is given later in the book.

Anything approaching eccentricity is to be avoided in the designing of gardens, as is also any scheme which partakes of the nature of a sham. We all know with what eagerness the Bank-holiday crowd approaches counterfeit ruins, trees which squirt water from their branches, or figures of men and animals cut out of living box and yew, but such follies are beneath the consideration of the true garden lover. After all, the pleasure grounds are primarily intended for the owner and his family, and nothing becomes more stupid and pointless on closer acquaintance than these inane pranks, of which there are hundreds of examples throughout the country. For the same reason, the making of surprises, as the sudden revealing of unsuspected features in the garden scene must always be considered as evidences of debased taste, the prostituting of a beautiful art, for the sake of securing a momentary exclamation of astonishment on the part of an ignorant visitor. A certain amount of mystery is sometimes justifiable, and there should always be afforded ample inducement for closer inspection of Nature’s beauties, but when it is evident that the designer’s sole idea in creating a certain feature was to occasion surprise, as apart from genuine pleasure, then it becomes necessary to condemn such artifices in unmeasured terms. The hidden ways of Nature should be sufficient mystery for the most exacting without lowering our gardens to the level of vulgar peepshows, by the introduction of mazes and freaks of tree sculpture.

The attempting of too much in a small space is another fault to be guarded against, though where the designer is not allowed his own way, this is often a matter of difficulty. So many people when seeking the assistance of the professional, impose upon him the necessity of giving them “a bit of everything” in the way of design. They must have a rose garden, a corner devoted to rock plants, a few square feet for carpet bedding, a place for water and bog plants, a pergola, and much beside, all without reference to the suitability or otherwise of the place for such introductions. The idea that a garden will never lack interest because it resembles a patchwork quilt in the number of its divisions, is surely erroneous; the pleasure thus obtained is but momentary, and soon ceases to become other than wearisome. We look for perfection in detail, but we must also consider the garden as a whole, and seek to make its various parts subservient to one another, the several units of one well-balanced plan. Undue regularity must also be accounted a sign of weakness,—

“Grove nods at grove, each alley at its brother,

And half the garden but reflects the other;”—

Proper balance is of course desirable, but the arrangement of beds in well-matched pairs, or the setting of vases at each corner of a lawn, is as unnecessary as it is opposed to all natural laws.

The faculty for seeing in the mind’s eye, the general characteristics of the garden as it will appear when laid and planted, is a gift for which, if possessed, the designer may be truly grateful. It enables any weak spots which may exist in the plan to be corrected before it is too late. Of course no one can determine the exact effect which time will produce, and it is well we cannot, for perhaps the greatest charm of garden design is its delightful elusiveness, the uncertainty which exists as to the manner in which flower and tree will disport itself. But unless we attempt to see further than the mere outlines of the plan, we are trusting to chance to secure for us the results we most desire. Especially are we liable to err in the matter of colour effect, a consideration which is outside the scope of the black and white plan. Unrelieved stretches of turf become monotonous unless afforded the foil of suitable foliage; broad masses of bright hued flowers demand the sober relief of grey stonework or silvery leaved trees and plants. A certain spot is often dull and unsatisfying, simply because it lacks this element of colour; a group of flowering shrubs with bright hued blossoms or even a stone vase filled with climbers may dispel all idea of monotony. In the securing of suitable contrasts, work may be raised above the merely mediocre, to a level of high artistic merit. Easy transition of form and colour is no doubt the safest course to pursue, but a certain boldness of touch may in certain instances prove highly advantageous. The shrubbery, often a tame and featureless affair, may be rendered attractive by the sharply contrasting effects of adjacent groups of deciduous trees, and the dark, glistening foliage of evergreens. It is quite possible to carry the practice of rounding and softening the corners beyond reasonable limits, and we sigh for some prominent feature to rivet our attention, if only for the moment.

CHAPTER III
THE SELECTION OF A SITE

There are few points connected with the art of garden design over which greater differences of opinion are likely to arise, than those associated with the preliminary consideration—choice of site. For this reason, the present chapter must inevitably prove more suggestive than dogmatic; less concerned with particular instances, than with the broader aspect of the question. It is rare, indeed, to find two persons, each about to build a residence and lay out a garden, whose ideas as to the most desirable site for the purpose are in any way concurrent. One prefers an elevated situation from which a good view of the surrounding country may be obtained; the other dislikes the labour of climbing, and must perforce live in the valley. The proximity of other buildings, giving a sense of companionship and security, is essential to some; others, again, seek no better society than that of the woods and silent heath. A man’s profession or hobby will considerably influence his choice of locality for a home: the city man must live near a good train service, the ardent golfer’s first thought is for easy access to the links. Instances could be multiplied ad finitum, all clearly pointing to one end, namely this: that it is useless to regard any one position as ideal, such a conclusion only being possible when we are fully cognisant of the peculiarities of the individual for whom we are working. However, there are certain characteristics which, if not indispensable, are at least highly desirable in almost every case, and in briefly discussing a few of the foremost considerations which must present themselves to everyone about to build and lay out grounds, it is left to each one to modify or alter according to his own opinions and preconceived ideas.

In the first place, the accessibility of the piece of land which it is proposed to treat, must be carefully studied, and this before any possible advantages or disadvantages connected with the actual site come to be weighed. The exigencies of modern life demand that ample facilities shall exist both for ourselves to visit others and for others to visit us. There are many who have settled in delightful places in country districts whose subsequent regret is that they are out of the beaten track. They can neither make calls nor receive their friends without great difficulty and inconvenience; and worse than this, communication with tradesmen, and the delivery of letters and parcels, are matters attended with serious disadvantage. A time comes in the lives of most city people, when the only form of existence which seems desirable is that known as “buried in the depths of the country.” As a temporary expedient, or regarded in the light of a picnic excursion, this is no doubt delightful enough; but a permanent residence so situated becomes after a time well-nigh intolerable. Convenient distance, then, from railway, post office, shops, and other evidences of civilisation, is the first point upon which the prospective purchaser must satisfy himself. Carrying the question of accessibility a step further, it becomes necessary to ensure that the property shall be approached by a convenient road. As to whether the road is little frequented, or is in the nature of an important thoroughfare, individual taste and opinion will necessarily be divided, but the main consideration, applicable in both cases, is that the road shall be a good one. No comfort can be expected if the approach to one’s residence is ill-made and badly kept,—a mere “boreen,” as the Irish would say. Neither should it be deemed sufficient that a road is likely to be made in the near future. The authorities often move with unaccountable slowness, and cases are by no means uncommon in which unfortunate residents have been kept waiting for years before anything more than a mere track has been made to their property. Whilst other details may to a great extent be modified and adapted to meet requirements, this primary consideration is unalterable: either there is suitable access or there is not. In the latter case, it is extremely doubtful whether a host of minor advantages will act as adequate compensation.

Unless it is proposed to approach the residence by a fairly long drive, a garden situated beside a main road has many drawbacks. Chief of these is the dust which is constantly raised during the summer months. Especially in this age of motor cars, many otherwise pretty places are completely disfigured during the time they should be most beautiful: shrubs, trees and hedges are alike smothered with a thick covering of dust. On this account, and for other obvious reasons, a branch or bye-road, if well kept, is far preferable as a boundary line.

Presuming that the question of approach has been satisfactorily solved, the character of the land, its aspect, surroundings and other details present themselves for careful examination. Much will depend upon the class of soil with which we are dealing, not only as regards its suitability or the reverse for garden operations, but because it is a matter directly affecting the health and comfort of the owner and his family. Heavy clays are of all things to be avoided; they spell unceasing labour, and endless discomfort to all whose misfortune it is to work them. Flowers and trees raised on them are always backward, and if disease is not actually present, growth is nearly always weak and stunted. In winter, the land is cold and wet, extremely tenacious and demanding added strength and perseverance to dig; in summer, it is parched and baked, whilst tender plants have no possible chance of making headway. The greasy condition of the garden walks is another prominent feature of soils of this description. All things considered, a light, free-working loam, resting on a substratum of a gravelly nature, is probably best adapted to secure greatest comfort to the occupier, and health and prolificacy to all forms of vegetable life. Drainage cannot be entirely depended upon to remedy soils of a cold, heavy nature, and to all whose intention it is to devote their energies largely to the delights of garden making, my advice is to shun clay lands by every means in their power.

The careful designer will devote much attention to the question of aspect, endeavouring to secure warmth and sunlight for the most frequented portions of house and garden. It is generally conceded that land having a gentle slope towards the south-east more nearly approaches the ideal than any other. Especially if the public road skirts the northern side of the property, allowing the entrance drive to be made from that direction, and thus leaving the whole of the southern slope free for lawns and garden, will this aspect prove pleasing. Nothing can be more disappointing to the garden lover than the constant trouble experienced in rearing tender plants and trees in the damp and cheerless positions assigned to them by certain unthinking designers. In such gardens the sun is only felt for a fraction of the day, and as a consequence those beautiful effects of light and shade, without which the finest scenes are flat and uninteresting, are conspicuous by their absence. Altitude, as has been mentioned, is generally more a matter for individual preference and opinion than for the expression of any decided rules on the subject. Unless, however, any real objection is felt against land situated at a fair elevation, I should unhesitatingly prefer it, in the majority of instances, to that found in flat, low-lying positions. There is all the difference between the garden perched high on the bleak hillside, where cutting winds play havoc with its contents, and that situated midway down an easy slope, above the line of mist and fog. Providing that the aspect is sunny, and the soil well-drained, such a situation is far warmer and healthier than the apparently more sheltered site lower down. The designer, too, will find his work easier in the former case than in the latter. Privacy is seldom attainable in low-lying gardens; they are generally overlooked, either by neighbours or by pedestrians on the public highway. It is next to impossible to screen off unsightly objects from view, and it is inevitable that the prospect obtained of the surrounding country is cramped and confined, if not altogether excluded. On the other hand, an elevated site safeguards all these objections: it is seldom overlooked, or if it is, artificial planting and arrangement may be depended upon to quickly remedy matters; whilst if fine views exist in the vicinity, the designer is afforded an opportunity of increasing the scope and charm of his own handiwork by including them. Altitude is undoubtedly an important consideration which must be duly weighed before a satisfactory decision can be given.

Shelter, or rather lack of it, is one of the troubles which is almost inseparable from newly laid-out gardens; and as even the most quick-growing trees and shrubs take some time before they can prove efficient barriers, natural or existing wind breaks should in all cases be sought. Natural features will consist of ranges of hills on the sides of the property most exposed to cold winds—the north, north-west and north-east. Where these exist, nothing could possibly be better, but of course probably not one site in fifty will be enhanced by such advantages. Plantations, protective belts, and stretches of woodland are valuable features, which, if existing at a convenient distance from the proposed site, and facing the required quarter, will secure it from the ill effects of high winds. Should the property already contain a well grown hedge, it may be advisable to retain it as a feature of the new design, thus providing shelter, and doing away with the entire appearance of newness which will otherwise be manifest. Should mature plantations already exist on the property, great caution must be exercised by the designer as to his treatment of them. It often happens that a belt of trees hides a good view, or does not lend itself to the proposed plan. In the first case the owner may be tempted to open out vistas by the removal of timber; and in the second, the entire demolition of the plantation may be contemplated. Before doing either, he should be quite certain that, in addition to obtaining his view or carrying out his scheme in its entirety, he will not also be destroying a form of shelter which would take years to replace. Naturally, the surroundings will exercise considerable influence on the choice of a site, and here again the tastes of the individual have to be considered, rather than the opinions of the idealist. The presence of water, either a lake or stream, in the adjacent landscape is an unfailing attraction to some; others would rather face a prospect of meadow and woodland; whilst there are many who ask no better than that their garden shall be within sight and sound of the restless sea. In each respect the individual must please himself, having in mind, however, that a style of design applicable in one instance will probably be totally unfitted in another. There is one thing which the garden lover will surely guard against with every possible care, and that is the encroachments of the jerry-builder. So much depends upon the character of the extended views obtainable from the garden, that it would be extremely unwise to surround oneself with land which, in all probability, will be dotted with ill-designed villas within the course of a few years. It is worth many little inconveniences to ensure that what we have we may hold, and that the view which affords us so much pleasure to-day will be ours for so long as we care to enjoy it. Factories, ugly churches (of which there are many), and cottage property of every description, are features capable of creating a blot on our vista of landscape, and the ideal site is one on which such objects not only do not now intrude themselves, but have no possibility of doing so in the future.

The outlines of the property must also be regarded as relevant to the question of site, more especially having regard to the impossibility which exists of making a satisfactory design for gardens of certain shapes. All who have attempted to achieve artistic results with the orthodox villa strip, know the extreme unsuitability of the narrow parallelogram. It is no easy matter, again, to secure a well balanced plan, in which the separate features are not unduly scattered, within boundaries which are square or nearly so, though this form is infinitely preferable to the foregoing. Perhaps the best, certainly the easiest, results are attained when the outline is triangular, though it is highly important that the positions of base and apex be considered. No one desires to curtail the impression of size in their grounds, and it is generally acknowledged that the more open and less contracted are the distant views, the better will be the effect. For this reason the apex of the triangle should concur with the least interesting prospect, the base with that to which it is desired to give prominence. Taking the case of the house and gardens on the southern slope, the residence should be at the upper or northern extremity, with the best views, the gardens and landscape beyond, stretching south-wards. The chief windows will face south, and on the extent of the vista, its variety and absence of signs of foreshortening and curtailment, the skill of the designer will be appraised. That the garden boundaries should end in a point does away with all illusion of space; we mark the sudden transition from the cultivated to the wild, and our grounds appear as a modest wedge which is in momentary danger of being demolished by the encroachments of the neighbouring property. Irregularity of outline is another feature to which objection may be raised on account of the extra expense incurred in fencing. The number of angles, too, renders the making of boundary paths a troublesome matter, and for various reasons a free, flowing outline is far preferable.

If a site can be secured on which a number of fine trees already stand, it should, other things considered, receive preference over one which is bare and barren. A well grown tree, grateful on account of its shade, and beautiful for its stately outline, is one of the most valued objects in the garden. Should there be too many trees, it is easy to cut down any that are not required; it is another matter to plant fresh ones. However, nothing will be gained by endeavouring to retain existing features of an unsuitable nature, or by altering a well balanced plan so as to include some object foreign to the scheme. In such cases it were better to start operations in a field destitute of tree, shrub or living plant, thereby enabling the projected design to be carried out unhampered by restrictions. The lack of well grown timber is indeed the greatest drawback in new gardens, which must perforce continue for many years before they put on the aspect of maturity, or even middle age, so that unless there is ample reason for the contrary, the retention of any suitable specimen trees which may occur on the site should be ensured. Much responsibility attaches to the designer who undertakes the laying out of a garden on an entirely new site; he starts absolutely afresh, and cannot lay the blame for any possible blunders on the shoulders of his predecessor. Before deciding finally on any one position, most careful observations should be made, and the opinion of those in the locality sought as to climate, presence of fogs, and other details which only extended residence in the neighbourhood can determine. A good site, favourable alike as regards soil, aspect and elevation, is certainly the surest foundation which can be laid for the future designing of a beautiful garden.

CHAPTER IV
WALKS AND LAWNS

Directly we leave the public road and enter upon the precincts of the dwelling, the question of suitable walks and paths at once demands attention. According to the size of the house and its surroundings, we may have to traverse a stately drive bordered with noble trees, or simply a flower-fringed pathway, to reach the entrance door. The subject of carriage drives must necessarily be somewhat outside the scope of this little book, which is destined as a guide for those possessing grounds of small or medium extent. We find, however, that the desire for an imposing approach is by no means confined to those whose property demands a certain amount of pretension; the owners of quite small places will often sacrifice anything, that they may have a drive of even humble proportions. It is to attain this object that the most fantastically contorted approaches are devised, many actually running parallel with the main road for almost their entire length. It may be taken as a fixed rule, only alterable under rare circumstances, that a drive should be as direct as possible in its course; the idea that needless twistings will give an air of importance and dignity to a place is totally erroneous. I remember once visiting a house of quite unpretending dimensions, the approach to which was by way of a drive of astonishing length. In driving up, one actually passed twice within close view of the house before arriving at the front door; each time, instead of taking a direct route, the drive meandered away into a wilderness of shrubs. The effect, needless to say, was supremely ridiculous. If the public road be straight, or nearly so, the entrance drive should leave it at right angles, an oblique juncture only being permissible when the road is decidedly curved. Privacy should be secured by suitable planting, as it is by no means desirable that the best parts of the garden or the windows of the house be overlooked by persons using the general approach.

Another point which must necessarily be borne in mind when contemplating a feature of this description is the expense of up-keep—no insignificant item in the case of a considerable length of drive. Nothing looks worse than ill-kept, weedy pathways, and unless constantly tended and regravelled from time to time, they soon present a spectacle of dismal neglect. The small house is generally better approached by a short direct route, omitting even a carriage court or turn, unless ample space can be allowed. The seclusion afforded by a drive is easily obtainable by other means, and the feeling of pretentious importance which this feature often imparts is scant compensation for loss of needed ground for lawns and flower-garden.

Garden walks are capable of great variety of treatment; they may be laid in several materials, and by their presence, both utilitarian and artistic ends may be compassed. The most common fault with designers is the formation of too many walks, a style of arrangement which is particularly objectionable in small gardens. An artificially constructed pathway is rarely in itself a beautiful object, though it may often appear so owing to the nature of its surroundings. For this reason a walk should generally be made to serve a useful purpose, rather than act as a mere foil to surroundings of a different type. The walks nearest to the house will, in many cases, form part of a terrace scheme, and it is well that these should be made a distinctive feature. Stone flags look extremely well, much better, in fact, than cobbles, which are tiring to walk upon. Dressed stone is expensive, but it is often possible to obtain suitable material at fairly cheap rates from the town authorities who have the disposal of old street pavements. Terrace walks are necessarily both formal and artificial, and remarks as to natural levels have no application where they are concerned. A fair width is advisable, but care must be taken that the house itself is not dwarfed by an undue expanse of terracing. If different levels are attempted, steps should be employed to give access from one to the other; a sloping path is quite out of place in a terrace scheme. I do not care for the practice of working in different coloured materials to form a mosaic; there should be sufficient variety, both of colour and form, in the living contents of the garden, without having to face the necessity for embellishments in stone and brick.

A PAVED WALK

When contemplating any special features in the way of design, always consider whether it is possible to approach them conveniently by a suitable pathway. All the best views should be readily accessible without the necessity for traversing possibly wet lawns, or pushing through heavy undergrowth. Paths leading direct from the stables to the flower-garden must be broad and well made, as they will be in constant use for heavy traffic, carting manure, water barrows, etc. The lesser frequented walks need not be so wide, and providing that they do not lead through highly cultivated portions, and are dry and well made, need not be kept scrupulously gravelled. A degree of wildness is quite in keeping with certain parts of the garden, though an ill-kept, weed-grown path is never permissible. The walks which traverse the wild garden, orchard and woodland, will destroy much of the charm of these sylvan retreats if they betray signs of too constant attention—their surface smooth, the grass edges rigorously trimmed, and evidences of the line, shears and roller everywhere apparent. A prim pathway would be a sad eyesore on the ragged face of the hillside, the mountain track equally ridiculous winding among shaven lawns and glowing flower-beds. It is often necessary to effect a satisfactory transition between these two styles, and this can only be done by means of a well-marked boundary. Either a broad hedge, a small gateway, or a short pergola may be depended upon in most instances to render the passage from one to the other free from incongruity. Two walks should never be seen running parallel to one another for any considerable distance; one or other is almost sure to appear needless. If the second path is a necessity, it should be screened from its fellow by suitable planting. In the same way, the junction of two distinct paths should be so arranged that there is no reason to suppose that either one or the other is superfluous. Repton’s ideas on this and kindred matters relating to walks are worthy of study and imitation. He makes it a rule that in the case of two walks branching off from one another, each should take a decided outward turn, as though there were no possibility of their meeting again.

Paths which lead “nowhere” are usually a failure, and we can most of us recall the annoyance experienced after following a walk for some distance only to find that it ended in a cul-de-sac. If such arrangement be necessary, as it sometimes is, some compensating influence should always be provided at the end. A small summer-house, a curved seat and sundial, a well grown tree inviting rest and shade beneath its branches—any of these will remove the pointless appearance.

There are absolutely no rules regarding the formation of serpentine walks, unless they be those of a negative quality. Such walks are always permissible and often charming if they are made in deference to the natural form of the ground. Divergence from the straight line is necessary to avoid a group of trees, to skirt a piece of water, or to embrace some particular view, but not for the purpose of deceiving the visitor as to the extent of the property. Twisted walks look very foolish in a place which obviously possesses straight boundaries, and however delightful it may be to lovers in the twilight to linger thus lovingly on their homeward way, the majority of us are merely annoyed by the mazelike contortions which the average “landscape gardener” sees fit to inflict upon us. So long as the curves are pleasing to the eye, there is no need to make them equal, rather the contrary; the great point to avoid is the creation of a hard line between two neighbouring bends.

Grass forms a delightful edging to garden paths, but it requires to be well kept, otherwise it is unsightly. To afford facilities for mowing, a level breadth of turf sufficient in width to accommodate the lawn-mower should be laid along either side; this is especially necessary if sloping banks rise immediately from the sides of the walk. In the wild garden, natural edgings, ground ivy, cotoneaster, or St John’s wort will look more appropriate than either mown turf or tiles. Walks and pathways must always be considered as part of design, but their utility and convenience should be the first point studied. It is disappointing to see in many places the arid stretches of gravel, walks of more than necessary width, and carriage sweeps large enough to turn a coach and four: all this lessens the space available for turf and flowers, and offers nothing in return, as the cost of up-keep is in no way decreased.

As a recent garden artist has declared, the lawn is the heart of the British garden. It is the centre of the social life which, in our too brief summer, is enacted out of doors; it is the setting for the host of beautiful flowers and shrubs which come to gladden our hearts as the warm sun dispels the snows and mists of winter. That style of design must be accounted best which spares no pains to give a fair spreading lawn to every garden, no matter what its size. Nothing tends to give greater breadth and dignity to a place than a stretch of well kept turf, and nothing is more restful to the eye than the prospect of cool greensward. The lawn, or a portion of it, should always be seen from the best parts of the house; not even the choicest shrubs, or the richest terrace gardens, will satisfy in the same manner. On large lawns there may be recesses at intervals, in which tender plants or choice colonies of lilies, backed with rhododendrons and azalea, will receive comparative shelter.

The size and shape of lawns intended for croquet and tennis will necessarily be determined by the rules of the game, often, unfortunately, to the detriment of the general effect. The sunk lawn, surrounded with a low bank, which is often made for croquet, is by no means beautiful, and the banks, unless made with an easy slope, are difficult to keep evenly trimmed. For both games the designer would do well to consider the comfort of spectators, who are frequently compelled to sit in the blazing sun. A shady pergola with convenient openings would be very welcome if covering a path running parallel to the lawn; or a clipped yew hedge, though somewhat heavy and lacking both colour and variety, might add considerably to the pleasures of the onlookers. At any rate, a shady cloister of living plants would be far preferable to the stuffy little summer-house which is often the only form of shelter.

The impression of space is very ably conveyed by a good lawn, and this is the more easily attained if there are but few walks in the vicinity. An irregular fringe of shrubs, with taller trees behind, the whole gradually merging into the distant vista, is one of the most satisfactory ways of closing in the lawn from the rest of the garden. It is often a temptation when space is limited to sacrifice a large portion of greensward, so that more flowers may be grown. It would be best to consider matters very carefully before removing a single sod of turf. If more room is needed, a few bold masses of herbaceous plants near the edge of the lawn will probably give the best results. There is no defence for the barbarous practice of dotting the grass with flower-beds, cut in a variety of ill-considered shapes, neither should clumps of shrubs be placed so that they destroy all sense of perspective. The softly undulating meadow lands of the English landscape, with their rich fringe of native woodland, will teach the designer much of the beauty and value of the garden lawn; and in the planning of the best effects, he may with safety study the lessons which Nature provides in almost every direction.

CHAPTER V
FORMAL AND LANDSCAPE PLANTING

A certain sense of responsibility attaches to those who plant timber, quite out of proportion to that incurred in the pursuit of the minor and more transitory forms of garden arrangement and design. The builder oak, the vine-prop elm and sailing pine, which to-day are so small that we can carry them unaided, will develop into mighty trees, silent witnesses of the times and doings of generations yet unborn. We are planting for posterity, and shall be held accountable for the good or evil that we do. Tree planting calls forth certain motives of unselfishness, for it will be given to others than ourselves to see the full beauty which only maturity can show. All honour, then, to those old designers, to whose thought and care we owe the stately avenues, the pride and glory of many an English home. A beautiful tree, Nature’s gift of shade and shelter to man and beast, is the most precious picture in a fair landscape, and we are doing good work when with care and foresight we increase, even in ever so humble a way, the timber supplies of our country.

Avenues are perhaps the most important example of formal planting, but as they concern park and woodland effects rather than those pertaining to the garden, their discussion is somewhat outside the scope of this book. Of recent years, however, a practice has arisen among designers of making an approach of this kind to quite unpretentious dwellings. Even in suburban grounds we frequently see an avenue, perhaps no more than fifty yards in length, leading to a modern villa. Against this we protest, as a form of pretentious imitation, foolish to the last degree. The avenue, which should never be less than one hundred yards long, is essentially associated with a house and estate of considerable size and some measure of importance, and to attach it to a small residence is merely to cast ridicule on the owner. Plantations of shrubs, with a few bold groups of deciduous trees, will give the needed shelter to carriage drives, and at the same time allow of far greater freedom of design than is permissible with a style of planting which is both formal and exacting.

As regards the use of clipped yews for garden hedges, much diversity of opinion exists among designers. On the one hand, we have men who employ them in nearly every garden they undertake to lay out, and argue that, far from being objectionable, every opportunity should be embraced for planting them; on the other, a class who regard them as wholly foreign to the ideals of beauty and the picturesque. Which is right? Certainly not the former, for of all things tending towards monotony both in summer and winter, an undue proportion of evergreens—clipped evergreens especially—must be considered the most likely. If people must have topiary gardens, such as exist at Levens and Elvaston, by all means let them; but, at the same time, they should not fail to realise that these are gardens of deformity, mere curiosities in no way connected with the teachings of Nature. Yew hedges are the great delight of the “office designer,” whose thought is less for the true beauty of the living plant than for the elegant completeness of his deftly-drawn plan. An ill-kept hedge is a wretched sight, thin at the bottom, full of holes, and generally decrepit, and the labour of keeping some hundreds of yards of clipped yew in repair entails an amount of labour not easily realised by those who have not attempted to do so. There can be no doubt, too, that the near presence of hungry evergreens is prejudicial to roses and tender plants on account of the nourishment they demand, and the idea that they act as harbourage to insect and other pests is also well founded. Their merit consists in the fact that they form an admirable shelter, certainly the best obtainable after walls and fences, and a certain old-world air of picturesque dignity which they impart. Despite this, their use is constantly overdone; they are planted to distraction, dividing the garden into chess-board squares and alleys leading nowhere; they render the soil sour and cold, exclude sunlight, and sooner or later wear an appearance of gloomy desolation, especially in the cheerless days of winter and late autumn. Had they been used sparingly, instead of to excess, it is possible they would still be regarded with the favour they once enjoyed, for we must not forget the charm of the old manorhouse gardens, where yew hedges were, and still are, true ornaments, because highly appropriate. It is all a question of environment, and the greatest discretion is needed when transferring a feature of this description to modern surroundings, depriving it in the process of its old traditions—a relic of the past in a new and often incongruous setting. A yew hedge sometimes looks well when used as a boundary between the flower and vegetable garden, a convenient arch or archways being cut to afford communication from one to the other. A level top is preferable to one cut into semi-circular hollows or crenelations; and any further embellishment, such as standard trees with oddly-shaped heads planted at intervals, is certainly to be avoided.

Isolated trees, whether yew, box, mopheaded acacias or holly, are objects of pity to the lover of natural beauty, when he sees them transferred by the shears into cones, umbrellas, and other stupid shapes. There are many reasons, some practical, others sentimental, for refraining from this barbarous practice, which is carried on mainly at the instigation of the architect, who is apparently ashamed of associating his walls and terraces with any but mutilated forms of plant life. The cost of maintenance, as in the case of clipped hedges, is an item not to be disparaged; the loss of form and individual character is scant compensation for well matched regularity; and by the absence of varied colour, the rich tints of maturity and the delicate green of budding branch, the clipped tree is reduced to the level of an unresponsive object, dull and inanimate. If formality is needed, why not make use of such trees as have a naturally well-defined outline—the Irish yew, cupressus, and the hardy junipers, they give a better effect with a tithe of the trouble.

The bower walks, once so favoured, are now seldom made in gardens, though as an example of formal planting they are not without a certain charm. Adequate protection from hot sun and cold winds is afforded at all times, and the garden scenes are not hidden from view, as is the case with evergreen hedges. In the neighbourhood of the orchard, a filbert walk would be a pleasing object, and even on poor soils, heavy crops of nuts may be obtained after a few years.

The “mirthful maze” is but a stupid survival, and has no place in gardens intended for other purposes than beanfeasts, or for the edification of any who would not derive equal satisfaction from a Punch and Judy show. The pity is that places which have none too much space for flowers and the rational arrangement of trees and shrubs, should be cumbered with anything so utterly unproductive of either beauty or satisfactory achievement.

SUNDIAL IN GARDEN WALK

Natural planting as opposed to that which is guided by the laws of geometry, is infinitely more pleasing in the majority of English gardens. The effective grouping of trees, either in the form of isolated clumps or boundary plantations, is a matter requiring great skill and artistic perception, and it is only right that the designer should have a hand in their disposal, even if they occur outside the strict boundaries of the garden. A mistaken idea, prevalent among certain owners of property, is that garden design affects only that piece of ground which it is proposed to lay out with beds, lawns and walks. This is not so, for the beauty of certain gardens lies not so much in their own attractiveness, as on the distant views obtainable from them. Of course there are limits to this theory, as for example the hill gardens of Italy, with their extended vistas of rolling mountains and fertile valleys—the hand of man is not responsible for scenery of this type. But in English gardens, especially those which are set in a small park, or paddock, we expect that the same mind that designed the garden shall also have the direction of such of the surrounding property as is observable from it. Unsightly objects, factory chimneys, ugly buildings, or workmen’s cottages can usually be screened from view by suitably disposed groups of hardy trees. The attainment of some measure of beauty in the home landscape will also provide an excuse for the opening out of the garden, the reduction of boundary walls and hedges, letting in air and sunlight, without of course rendering the place wind swept.

In forming boundary plantations, there is seldom any need for making them continuous, a form of planting which becomes exceedingly monotonous, at the same time defining the limits of the property in an unmistakable fashion. Privacy and shelter are of necessity considered, but if without defeating these objects we can secure a vista of distant country, rich meadowlands and purple hills, it would be waste of opportunity not to do so. As the outline of boundary plantations will in many cases cut the horizon, leaving the tops of the trees showing clear against a background of sky, great attention should be paid to making this outline as attractive as possible. It is a mistake to use trees of only one kind, as this results in a level monotonous outline anything but pleasing. The tall spire of a poplar will give variety and point to a plantation composed almost entirely of trees with rounded heads; a graceful birch with its feathery outline would break the level of a smooth belt of shrubs. Colour too is all important, a judicious mixture of evergreen and deciduous trees is generally preferable to a plantation composed entirely of one class. There is no need to make the boundary plantation straight on the inner side, whatever may be required on the outer, and the formation of well marked swells and bays will lend an air of charm and indefiniteness. It is usual to plant trees of large growth on rising ground, reserving dwarf varieties and bushes for the hollows, but this is a rule which must be modified according to circumstances. By a continuous system of grouping the eye may be carried from the garden itself to the very outskirts of the property, and this is much more satisfactory than the plan of treating the outer plantation as a mere fence, quite independent of what may lie within it.

The indiscriminate dotting of specimen trees about a park or garden is much overdone, and in the greater number of cases irregular groups of trees having somewhat similar characteristics would be far more satisfactory. Certain trees, as the tulip tree, and the wych elm, are well adapted for isolation on the lawn, and are welcome for the shade they afford; but thorns, the flowering crabs, and the Scotch firs should always be planted in groups. As these smaller plantations are often required to hide some unsightly object, care must be taken when marking out the ground that the eyesore is hidden from every point of view. This can generally be contrived by small subsidiary plantings, dependent on the main group. Having staked out an area of ground which when planted will hide the object from the principal point, proceed to view the site from all quarters, adding and remodelling as may be necessary. For this, and work of a similar character, the use of ranging poles of various heights is helpful. Supposing that it is desired to make a small plantation with the object of concealing an ugly building, the designer will take up his position at the principal vantage point. An assistant will move the poles from place to place until the necessary width of the plantation is determined. To decide the class of trees needed, and their height, which should not be greater than absolutely necessary, poles of varying heights may be raised perpendicularly, noting the particular one which just clears the object. Supposing this to be twenty-five feet, then trees twenty-five feet high will be required, and knowing this it remains to select those which are most in keeping with the surroundings, or supply the special effects desired.

CHAPTER VI
KITCHEN-GARDEN AND ORCHARD

Hitherto we have mainly considered that part of garden design which has for its object the production of pleasant scenes, of pictures formed by gay flowers, and beauteous carpets and backgrounds of greenery. But utilitarian ends have yet to be served, and fruits and vegetables must be grown to supply our needs. There need be nothing dull or prosaic about the kitchen-garden and orchard, distinct though they be from that which is purely ornamental. The truest garden pictures are often to be found in these seemingly severe and business-like quarters, and these without in any way varying the keynote of utility, which is the chief reason for their existence.

A foolish prejudice has of recent years been raised against the kitchen-garden, and the designer is often asked to hide it away in some remote corner of the plan. It must be carefully screened away from the gaze of visitors, as though there were something to be ashamed of in being the possessor of a piece of ground, where the best of fruits may be grown, and gathered in the freshest condition. Personally I would rather wander in such plebeian quarters than in many of the tricked-out landscape gardens which excite such wonderment and admiration. Are there not a thousand sights dear to the heart of the nature lover—the tender blossoms of the fruit-trees, the drowsy hum of bees, the old-fashioned lavender hedges and reserve borders of mixed flowers for cutting? Even is there beauty of flower and foliage in many of the humblest vegetables, a beauty which, because unlooked for, is doubly welcome.

The site of the kitchen-garden should be fixed in close proximity to the house and stables. On no account should it be so arranged that a portion of the pleasure ground must be traversed to reach it. If it can be walled in so much the better, both on account of the added shelter and for the facilities afforded for the growing of wall fruit. The plan should be entirely regular, the walks crossing one another at right angles, the fruit borders and vegetable beds laid out with due regard to convenience and economy of space.

A suitable aspect is very important—land having a gentle slope to the south being by far the most suitable. In any case the position should be an open one, with free exposure to the sunlight. The presence of large trees, whose branches overshade and roots impoverish the soil, will be extremely prejudicial. The question of boundaries is one in which the initial cost will be more considered than the adaptability of various forms to certain situations. A good yew hedge, or even a split oak fence, may occasionally prove useful, but nothing can equal the merits of well built walls. No doubt they are expensive, but a close examination proves that they are really more economical in the long run. If well built, and properly treated, they last some hundreds of years; they provide the best form of shelter, enabling a variety of tender vegetables to be grown, without the loss occasioned by cold and exposure: they afford support for trained fruit-trees, which by their high-class crops return no insignificant proportion of the initial outlay. The hedge, cheaper though it is at the outset, possesses few of these advantages. Constant attention, in the shape of clipping and training, is necessary, if it is to afford adequate shelter; it is many years before it is of sufficient size to compete with the wall; it is useless as a support for fruit-trees, and its roots deprive the crops in neighbouring borders of much of the fertility which is rightly theirs. The highest walls should face the coldest quarters, the north, east and west. A good height for a north wall would be twelve or even fourteen feet; for the two side walls ten feet, and for the south wall six or seven feet. A coping, either of stone or bricks set at an angle, should always be found on kitchen-garden walls, the projection on either side being at least two inches. The face of the wall should be perfectly smooth to facilitate the training of trees, but on the outer side buttresses or any ornamental details harmonising with the architectural work in the rest of the garden, may be employed to obviate monotony. Detailed descriptions of mural work would be out of place here, but the owner is advised to see that the wall is well pointed, so that there shall be no crevices likely to harbour vermin. Training wires are much better than nailing the branches to the wall, a practice which weakens the brickwork and involves more trouble and risk of injury. The eyelets, at any rate the chief ones, to which the wires will be attached and strained, should be built into the wall and not driven in subsequently. They will thus be much firmer in position, and the wall will remain uninjured. Suitable irons, from which nets may be hung as a protection from frost and birds, may also be fixed at the same time.

In a stone country, this material will take the place of bricks, as being more in keeping for garden walls.

A delightful approach to the kitchen-garden may be made by way of a deeply-arched opening in the wall; a pair of bent iron gates would look charming set in a grey stone wall, much better than a door. Too often the kitchen garden is gained by passing through a doorway which suggests the entrance of a prison cell: these massive, nail-studded arrangements are strangely out of keeping with the freedom and freshness of the garden. By means of a few clumps of gay herbaceous flowers just inside the kitchen-garden entrance, there will be no need to screen this department off from the rest of the garden: in fact, a very pleasant vista may be arranged from one to the other.

Whether the garden is surrounded by walls or hedge, a wide border should be formed immediately next the boundary line. In the case of walls, this is especially desirable, as enabling a suitable root medium to be provided for the choice fruit-trees which will be trained to them. These borders will vary in width, partly according to the aspect, but mainly with reference to the size of the garden. A twelve-foot border is perhaps as satisfactory as any, but eighteen feet is no uncommon width in larger establishments. Under a wall facing north, the width of the border need seldom be more than six feet. It is well to devote very careful attention to the preparation of these borders, thorough drainage being the first essential. The soil may also be removed to a depth of two and a half feet, and a layer of stones, brick rubbish, and other material spread at the bottom; this will prevent the roots of the fruit-trees from striking too deeply. If some old turf and manure be placed above and the soil finally returned, the border will be in the best condition for planting. A gentle fall from back to front should be contrived, so that sun and air may reach all parts of the crop.

One of the primary essentials for the kitchen-garden is the formation of really good walks. Constant traffic, the passage to and fro of water-carts and wheelbarrows, would soon cut up a half-made pathway and render it almost useless. Nothing can be nicer than broad flags, both for appearance and utility, but unless stone happens to be plentiful in the neighbourhood, the expense of these would be considerable. Tar walks, though entirely objectionable in the flower garden, are sometimes tolerated here, and are both durable and fairly satisfactory. A good gravel path lasts a long time if kept constantly in repair, but the main considerations are good gravel and plenty of it. Kitchen-garden paths should always be of fair width, though in a small place every available inch of ground must be pressed into service for cropping purposes. A wide walk possesses many advantages—it enables barrows and carts to pass without the necessity of one or other being taken back, and generally facilitates those operations which are in a sense peculiar to the vegetable department.

Next to the pathway on the inner side, a smaller border for herbaceous plants may be made. From these plants the chief supplies of cut flowers for the house would be obtained, as it is often undesirable to denude the garden borders for the purpose. A four-foot border would be sufficient, and when filled with gay perennials would prove a charming and useful feature of the design. Behind this border a suitable opportunity occurs for a row of espalier fruit-trees, and these might be continued round each division of the garden, with suitable breaks at intervals for obtaining access to the ground behind them. The smaller the garden, the more suitable would be the espalier method of training, as it occupies the minimum of space, allows the fruit to ripen freely, and gives opportunity for those cultural details which are with difficulty performed on standard or bush trees. The usual style of fence is one formed of iron uprights and strained wires, but this is not so picturesque as a combination of wood and wire. If in addition to wooden posts, a top rail is added, the effect of the whole when covered with branches in full blossom is beautiful in the extreme. In suitable situations, notably short pathways leading from one part of the kitchen-garden to another, the espalier fences may be brought almost to the edge of the walk, and the two joined by a succession of iron arches with strained wires from one to the other. Long bowers of fruit-trees may thus be made, and having regard to the economy of space thus effected, and the high quality crops which may be obtained by this means, the practice is worthy of further extension.

A good water supply, either in or near the kitchen-garden, is very necessary. It is advisable also that some provision exist for exposing water intended for garden plants to the air for some time before use. A pump with an open cistern attached is good, if not altogether picturesque, but a circular tank, such as may be found in many old gardens, combines both principles. A good position for a sunk tank would be at the junction of four paths, which if the garden is laid out on the rectangular system advised, would be the exact centre, thereby giving convenient access from all points. A stone coping would give the necessary finish to the tank and at the same time prevent anyone falling in. By the by, it would be well if designers would sometimes devote more attention towards rendering fountains, lily ponds, and other such introductions, safe. I remember once looking over some fine gardens in company with other visitors, when an incident of this kind occurred. A lady, carried away by the beauty of the surroundings, entirely failed to notice a small lily tank placed at the angle of a pathway. The consequences were disastrous, but I hardly know which of the two suffered the more—the lady, as she surveyed the bedraggled remains of a Paris frock, or the owner, at the loss of a specially choice Nymphæa. Such is the enthusiasm of the lily specialist, that I rather incline towards the latter!

Adjoining the kitchen-garden and communicating easily with it, there should be a sufficiently large enclosure to contain the frame ground, hot beds, compost and manure heaps. It is a great advantage to have these outside the walls of the garden itself, as a certain amount of untidiness is inseparable from such quarters. An entrance from the stable yard, large enough to admit a horse and cart, will be needed, as naturally much of the manure will be brought here for hot beds, preparation of compost heaps, etc. A small reserve ground would also fittingly adjoin, where plants for bedding and other purposes could be grown until needed.

In gardens of considerable extent, a well built toolhouse would prove an inestimable benefit. If built in two stories, the upper portion might be used as a fruit room, though I certainly prefer underground structures for the purpose; whilst the lower would accommodate lawn mowers, garden implements, and other impedimenta. As only places of considerable extent will require buildings of this description, it is unnecessary to do more than make passing reference to them; however, those whom it may concern should devote some attention to the matter, as it is surprising to note the number of large gardens which are miserably provided with suitable structures.

The orchard is the glory of many of our old country gardens, providing scenes of beauty which not even the choicest artificial planning and arrangement can compass. The orchard beautiful is perfectly distinct from the orchard utilitarian, though owing to neglect and the consequent assertion of Nature’s ways, the former often takes the place of the latter. Shelter is perhaps the most important consideration where fruit-trees are concerned, and as in the orchard this will not be attained by walls, thick belts of evergreen and deciduous trees should be planted on the more exposed sides. Damsons make excellent shelter trees, and are both beautiful in flower and welcome in fruit. A well-drained, sunny position should always be chosen, and if the trees are to be grown on the plantation system, that is on arable land, there is no need for the site to be easily approached from the pleasure grounds. Except during the blossom season the utility orchard is not particularly beautiful, and there is little inducement for visitors to make it part of their round of inspection. However, it should always be so situated that the fruit may be safe from trespassers, who are often troublesome when the orchard is close to a main road.

The old grass land orchard, filled with picturesque standard trees, is capable of being made a wild garden of true beauty. In early spring we may have troops of golden daffodils and silvery narcissi, making vistas of colour among the lines of grey trunks. Ropes of purple and white clematis may festoon the trees, and some of the semi-wild roses, with their rich foliage and single flowers will fill the hedges and ramble over the banks. The cool swordlike foliage of Iris, with the stately spikes of flowers, the old-fashioned holly-hocks and spreading clumps of poppies, may all find a home in the chequered shade of the orchard. White Madonna lilies will fringe the pathway, and honeysuckle and sweetbriar would welcome us at the gate. But lest I be misunderstood—this orchard, lovely though it be and easy of attainment, is not for fruit; at least the crops will be small and blemished, and very different to those from the market grower’s plantation, where the idea of climbers twisting among the branches of the trees would be regarded as an act of vandalism. But to the lover of flowers, the setting of an old orchard is so precious, that some sacrifice is willingly made to enable the possession of this kind of wild garden.

CHAPTER VII
THE TREATMENT OF WATER

Happy indeed are they whose gardens contain a piece of water,—for water when properly treated is one of the first aids to beauty and completeness in design. It may be a stately lake, large enough to permit of boating in summer and skating in winter, or perhaps only a small artificially constructed tank, a home for lilies and choice aquatics. Water is Nature’s mirror, in which some of her choicest pictures are reflected; the ever-changing features of cloud and sky, the broken outline of hill and wood, and the nearer fringe of vegetation which rises softly from the bank. It is because water is so essentially a handmaiden of Nature, that we must exercise the greatest care and skill in our introduction of it, into scenes which are purely artificial in character. Water gardens and “water works” have nothing in common, though designers of the latter will unhesitatingly apply the former term to their wretched creations. What would the beautiful old gardens of Italy be without their fountains?—Torlania, Frascati, and the cypress terraces of D’Este, Tivoli, their charm is not to be equalled. But how can we reconcile to the true ideals of a garden, the monstrous outpourings of the great fountain and cascades at Chatsworth, the canals and fountains at Versailles and Caserta, and those very triumphs of ugliness the water squirts of the Crystal Palace? As well call Trafalgar Square a garden as apply the name to these freakish show places.

Water may occur naturally in the garden scene, as in the form of lakes, ponds, rivers and streams, or artificially by the introduction of fountains, cascades, and architectural objects, connected with a supply obtained from waterworks or pumped on the estate. In the former case, the designer usually resorts to means more or less artificial, whereby he may alter existing features to suit his plan or fall in with his ideas. Whilst it would be idle to assert that the pond or stream in its original form would prove best adapted for securing good effects in laid-out grounds, there can be no gainsaying the fact, that alteration and adaptation too often mar their natural beauty and give but little in return. The native brook winding its way among ragged banks, fringed with yellow flag and purple loosestrife, is charming when its surroundings consist of wood and brake and lush meadowland; it becomes a weedy ditch when shaven lawns and trim pathways have taken their place. The designer’s first thought when he approaches a site on which there is a stream or pond, must be to choose between two alternatives: either the water shall be left much as it is, and the garden planned in harmony with its unadorned simplicity, or the grounds be designed first, and the stream entirely altered in consequence. Needless to say, the latter step is by far the more expensive.

The “landscape gardener” who has pronounced leanings towards architecture, will treat our streamlet with scant courtesy. Probably he will alter its course altogether, bringing it up to his terrace garden and confining it between strictly parallel walls of stone or brick. The pond will fare no better, its swampy sides, the former home of bulrushes and sedge, will be drained, promontories will be cut away, the outline made regular, and the whole surrounded with a balustrade, on which stone vases will rise at intervals. This is the view which has been embodied in the design of hundreds of English gardens; the possession of a scrap of water being seized upon as an opportunity for a lavish display of dressed stone or artificial rockwork built into an endless variety of grotesque forms. Extremes are seldom pleasing, and the lover of flowers and sylvan scenes will regard these monotonous canals and round ponds as scant compensation for the loss of much natural beauty. The artificial treatment of water, especially when it is required to form part of a formal scheme, is one of the most costly undertakings in the whole practice of garden craft, and there are many who bitterly regret the day when they took the first step towards taming this fickle ally.

From this it will be inferred that I have little sympathy with those elaborate arrangements which were considered of such supreme beauty by Le Notre and certain of the older designers. Not the least objectionable feature of water which has been conveyed by pipes or other means into basins and similar receptacles, is that it is nearly always stagnant. Movement is essential if sweetness and purity are to be obtained; the offensive condition during hot weather of water in garden tanks is the surest confirmation of this. Water is precious because it enables the cultivation of a host of beautiful plants, whose presence we should otherwise lack; but healthy vegetation is almost impossible amidst the decay occasioned by stagnation.

STREAM AND WOODLAND

On a small property water generally occurs in the shape of a stream or brook, often running an irregular course, with possibly small falls between the different levels. A case of this kind recently came under my notice, and I was interested to see how the owner proposed including it in his plan. The stream entered somewhere on the outskirts of the property, and on no occasion passed nearer than 300 yards of the lawns and highly cultivated portion of the grounds. Hence there was no question of any necessity for formal treatment; the stream as a matter of fact might have been left exactly as it was, without incongruity. However, it offered opportunities of a kind not to be missed, and a few months later I went to see what had been effected. To begin with, the stream had been “cleaned out” for its entire length, which meant that every particle of water weed, every tuft of rush and sedge had been destroyed; a quantity of mud and sludge had been dredged up and thrown on either bank, and a bridge or two was thrown across for no apparent purpose. By means of a small dam, a suitable depression in the ground had been flooded into a miniature lake, from whose surface rose two aggressive little islands, planted with small conifers and dotted with rocks. Clumps of iris lined the shore, lilies had been planted, and twining round the whole so as to give easy access to every part, was a serpentine path, immaculately gravelled. As I believe the owner has since repented, I mention this as an instance of what should not be done in similar cases.

A more rational and certainly more artistic way of treating this same stream, would have been to consider it as part of the wild garden. By free drainage of the surrounding land its volume might have been increased, so as to give it more the appearance of an impetuous mountain brook than a sluggish and somewhat tame little piece of water. Each cascade might have been deepened so as to give the water a greater fall, and small backwater pools where lilies and water plants could be introduced, would have added to the interest without appearing in any way artificial. Any increased force of water would necessitate higher banks, and these would be built in close imitation of those already existing. The strata being rocky, the soil might have been cleared in places, and the bare stone exposed; it would become moss grown in a short time, and with a growth of ferns in the crevices would look exceedingly well. Frequently such streams are fringed by a plantation, through which a pathway could be made; the walk should be brought close to the stream at the most interesting points, and may then meander away among the trees. The Torrent Walk at Dolgelly is a stream of this kind, and though in a sense a show place, parts of it are delightfully wild and free.

The worst possible treatment of the stream is to make it an excuse for the erection of trumpery rustic bridges, unnecessary stepping stones and those varied etceteras which are only possible near water of some description. The designer should have in view the opportunity which is presented him of making the stream and its banks the home of a good collection of aquatics; if the requirements of plant life are closely studied and carried into effect, there will be little chance of the stream proving anything but satisfactory.

Irregular shaped pieces of water are seldom satisfactory, unless they are closely modelled on those found in nature. Varied outline is usually considered satisfactory in that it enables a spirit of indefiniteness to be preserved, and the true extent of the pond or lake to be concealed from view. Whilst this is occasionally desirable, it is by no means invariably so, and it often happens that all idea of breadth and dignity is lost in the effort to secure irregularity. Numerous curves along the shore line, and the formation of unnecessary bays and promontories, generally stamp the work as artificial to the last degree. To realise the principle which partly governs the shape of such pieces of water, it is helpful to note the action of a quick rushing stream or river on the banks which confine it. A lake is often but a swollen section of a stream. The only thing to cause a deviation in the course of a river is the encountering of some obstacle, either a rocky promontory, a small hill or some such obstruction. On reaching this obstacle we invariably find that the stream is thrown against the opposite bank with considerable force. If a rocky strata be encountered it will be many years before an impression is made, if the bank is soft it will be mined away in a short time. In any case, the final results are the same, namely the formation of a bay on the side opposite a promontory; the more abrupt the obstruction, the greater the force of the water, and consequently the deeper recess of the bay. This is an elementary law which the designer must carry into practice in order to achieve some measures of reality in artificial lakes. Islands are rarely necessary except in the case of large lakes, as they lessen the extent of water, cramp the proportions, and are in themselves of no particular beauty.

The saying “Plant the hills and flood the hollows” is as true to-day as when it was first uttered. Artificial sheets of water, constructed at great expense in elevated positions are almost invariably incongruous. True we have the lonely tarns perched far up on the mountain side, but these have no semblance to the garden lake, either in form or surroundings. Unless there is a natural inlet and outfall for our proposed lake, the probability is that it will ere long become foul and stagnant, and in the absence of a feeding stream, may run dry in the summer.

On the character of the planting near the margins, will depend almost entirely the good or bad effect of the lake. The fringe of vegetation, the overhanging branches, and soft lawns which fall gently to the edge, are the true beauties of which water is but the foil. Too few trees will result in a bald, unfinished appearance, too many will cause the water to become foul, and at the same time destroy its power of reflection. The proper spots for plantations are the rising banks and promontories, for which irregular groups of such trees as willows, alders, rhododendrons, dogwood and birch are particularly suited. Scrappy planting is to be avoided, boldly defined masses of certain varieties being far more effective. In the marshy ground near the bays, the noble gunneras, rheum palmatum, and certain varieties of spiræa and the larger grasses look extremely well. A list of suitable plants for such situations will be found in another chapter.

If possible, portions at any rate of the lake should be visible from the best parts of the flower-garden, or even from the house itself, and to attain this end vistas should be carefully preserved by the due regulation of timber and plantations.

Stone embankments quite spoil the appearance of sheets of water, giving them a semblance to those miniature lakes which are frequently encountered in public gardens at the seaside. If there is a likelihood of the banks being seriously damaged by the wash of water, a suitable protection in exposed places may be made by stones set in cement, the whole being afterwards hidden with grass and trailing plants. Where the general surroundings are wild or rocky, a lake with gently undulating banks and sweeping outline will look out of place; the promontories will require rougher and more broken treatment, whilst firs, such as may be seen on Brathay Crag, Windermere, would be more in keeping than willows and alders, which are associated with scenery of a milder type.

If the site commands a view of a fine natural sheet of water, it is seldom advisable to create an artificial lake. The latter is almost bound to look puny and ridiculous, whilst comparison is invited, which seldom tells favourably on the work of the designer. Similarly, the artificial stream only too surely betrays its character when a free flowing river is also included in the line of sight. It is seldom nowadays that we hear of water being treated in the lavish style of design which made Brown famous among his contemporaries. So far as the small property is concerned, the less of Art and the more of Nature we have, the better. In most cases, existing effects should be jealously preserved, the designer making it his business merely to amplify and elaborate these without destroying their individuality. Above all, the presence of water should be made the excuse for an aquatic garden, than which nothing gives greater interest and pleasure. Fountains and cascades are very well, but they are always alike and present from day to day the same prospect of rising or falling water. The water garden is ever fresh, ever new, its aspect undergoes constant alteration, owing to the growth and change of the plants it contains. Above all the reflected beauty of flower and branch, of cloud and summer sky, are never failing sources of attraction, bringing home to the most jaded mind some of the fairest and most subtle charms of the great world of Nature.

CHAPTER VIII
HARDY HERBACEOUS PERENNIALS

As the glowing colours to a beautiful picture, so are the flowers to our gardens. In many books written on garden design, we find no mention whatever of the best kinds of plants, wherewith to fill the beds and borders when they are made. Surely this is a mistake, for our object in making a garden is to provide a home for flowers and trees. Were an artist attempting to instruct us in the making of a picture, he would not stop when he had completed the rough sketch in charcoal. The most important work has yet to come. The filling in of the colours, the harmonising of the various shades, and the final touches which proclaim the good or bad workman, are points over which the novice is likely to stumble. A faulty, ill-balanced plan will to a certain extent ruin the appearance of our garden for all time; but Nature is kind, and the flowers which spring luxuriantly from the earth will by degrees help to hide many crudities. But this fact must not be abused, as is frequently the case with the careless worker. How often it is said in effect “Oh, of course the garden does not look nice yet, but wait until the things have grown, so as to hide the ugly corners.” It is the designer’s duty to see that there are no “ugly corners,” and there ought to be beauty, because so full of promise, in the bare outlines of paths, beds and lawns—the charcoal sketch of the picture. The best effects are generally obtained by boldly defined colour masses, providing of course that these are arranged so as to harmonise well with each other. The choicest flowers are of very little use if they are jumbled heedlessly together; tall and dwarf reds, blues, whites and yellows heterogeneously mixed. In suggesting suitable subjects for beds and borders, I have endeavoured to arrange the plants in sections, according to colour, at the same time giving a rough idea as to the height, which under ordinary circumstances each will attain. The list makes no pretensions whatever to completeness, the object being rather to suggest a few really desirable subjects, many of which are too seldom seen in our gardens.