Now it is to a wise choice of evergreens and to their rightful placing that we must look for the basis of our content in the winter garden. The insight of our forefathers foresaw the solid comfort of the rampart of Yew which was fostered of old in many a manor-house garden. It caused them to fence about their dwellings on north and east with a belt of sturdy timber trees, to meet and ward off in their pliant strength the roughest winter gales. It planned the sheltered nut-walk and the pleached alley and the cosy settle, carved out of the thick Box bushes, on the grassy verge of the bowling-green. They took of the materials at hand, and many have since their day blessed the foresight which planted, not only for themselves, but for their children's children. That they were not blind to the rare beauty of foreign trees many a magnificent Cedar of Lebanon and massive Holm Oak or deciduous tree—like the fine Tulip trees at Mackery End, beloved of Charles Lamb—bear noble testimony to this hour.
Nothing, perhaps, in the wide range of garden beauty is more pictorial than an ancient Cedar, dusky and glaucous, with cavernous shadows, holding upright the smooth, pale-brown, rounded cones on its flattened branches, or some grand Silver Fir standing alone in its solemn symmetrical beauty, or even, as may now and then be seen, though rarely, some stately Araucaria, wind-sheltered, whose radiating branches sweep down upon the greensward. Others there are, no less pictorial perhaps, nor even less exacting, for none can do without the shelter of a good position, such as the Stone Pines, with corrugated trunk and green spreading head; or again, the graceful fragrant Cypress (C. lawsoniana) of more recent date, with its slender pyramidal growth and drooping feathery branches, taking on at the close of winter the ruby-red of the catkins which tell of the coming of the small, bloom-powdered cones.
The desperate hurry, the incessant crowding out of the times in which we live, give little encouragement to the sentiment of planting for posterity, yet some such planting is continually being done. This much must be said, that the last fifty years have seen the introduction of numberless fine trees and shrubs, the fitness of which for our climate time alone could test. During that period in England, the Mammoth tree of the Yosemite Valley (Sequoia gigantea) has been planted in its thousands, and by irony of fate, the giant not seldom finds itself cramped within the limits of a half-acre plot. But leaving out the question of space, it is a tree utterly unsuited to our northern climate, unless under exceptional circumstances, as its scorched and fretted branches on the windward side sufficiently prove; while in itself it is not nearly so grand or suggestive as its near-of-kin, the beautiful Californian Redwood (S. sempervirens).
Ah! that burning question of space, how it comes between us and our highest garden aspirations! Have we not all seen the Deodar or the Araucaria trying to exist in a narrow, twelve-foot forecourt, and smiled, if we have not rather been ready to weep, over the crass absurdity of its position? But such mistakes are made every day. Let us think, then, before we plant, of the things that are going to be, and take prudent counsel with ourselves.
Our garden resources, nowadays, are beyond all calculation greater than those of our forefathers, and we rejoice and are glad because of it; but we should let nothing oust from our affections the hardy trees and shrubs, native and naturalised, that are at home in our climate, beautiful in themselves and invaluable in their fitness to give shelter to the more fastidious immigrants from other latitudes.
Shelter, in fact, is as the keynote to the winter garden. Beauty is killed when leaves that should be green and smiling are bruised and brown, when boughs that should be perfect in grace and curve are twisted and tortured. We may be very sure, too, that such symptoms of discomfort in our gardens will re-act in disquiet on ourselves, whereas the mere sight of tree or bush standing firm in its green bravery through storm and stress tends, it may be unawares, to brace and uplift. Even the familiar Laurel, good as it is when suitably placed, and used not too freely, is constantly scathed and disfigured in damp or low-lying localities. For the same reason, it is doubtful whether Rhododendrons should be planted within range of our windows. Most of them, in severe weather, frightened before they are hurt, put on a melancholy air and droop of leaf which is apt to send a shiver through any shrinking mortal whose vitality is already low enough.
The bare boughs of winter, on the contrary, are never depressing. They sleep, but it is not the sleep of death; they rest, but while they are resting, we feel that the mystery of life silently works out the fulfilment of the promise of re-awakening. Meanwhile, before the veil of leafage hides so much else that is beautiful from our eyes, we see the things that are, tree trunks in all their majesty of girth and column and fencing bark, the net-work of budding spray, each after its kind distinct, yet each in its own form perfect. Even in mid-winter, the brown gummy buds of the Horse Chestnuts begin to swell at the ends of the swaying boughs, and the Ash-buds, as they make ready to burst their bonds, put on a deeper hue.
The Beeches keep their silken green tight shut within their scale-bound points, and will not let it unfold an hour too soon; but look at the lovely colouring, now silvern, now golden green, of the Lichen-stains on the smooth grey bark. Contrast it with the deeply-chiselled ribs of the Sweet Chestnut, the rugged armour-plates of the Oak, the thin white tissue of the dainty Silver Birch. It is this diversity, these contrasts, which make up the charm of winter, while the sombre green of Fir and Yew intermingling with the leafless trees gives just the touch of warmth and comfort which winter lacks. If any of these bless our gardens with their gracious presence, let us hesitate long before any trivial inconvenience tempts us into doing away with them. A single group of Silver Birches, one spreading Beech, a clump of Scotch Fir, with a stretch of grass beneath them, is more precious to look out upon in the winter garden than all the borders and rockeries that can be devised. Urge as we may, however, for their own sake, the fitness and constant delight of our native trees and evergreen shrubs, we plead for them, no less, because by their well-advised use our sheltered gardens may become congenial abiding-places for the strangers we may invite within our gates.
Do we profit as much as we might by the wealth of garden beauty, in the way of trees and shrubs, which for every intent and purpose lies within our reach?
Take Magnolias, for example. They are not sub-tropical trees, as we are apt to think, but fairly hardy, and the Laurel Magnolia, so well known as a beautiful covering for a south wall, is seldom enough seen in standard form. Yet it is one of the most stately of evergreen trees, and it would be hard to find one more worthy of a good position, sheltered from north and easterly winds. The whole outline of the tree is noble, with its broad, shining, russet-backed leaves, a delight to look upon in winter—nor is it shy, when full-grown, of bearing in late summer its scented ivory-white lily-cups. It is too much, however, to expect the lovely-sculptured, crimson-flushed cones, which in warmer climates than ours open about November to disclose their hanging scarlet seeds. Some of the deciduous Magnolias, too, such as the fine Chinese Yulan (M. conspicua) and the bushy white-flowered Japanese species (M. stellata), are full of interest, even while lifeless. All through the winter we may watch the gradual filling out of the hairy, conical flower-bracts, until at length, in very early spring, the impatient buds can contain themselves no longer, and all too soon, sometimes, push them off altogether that they may creep out of their prison bands.