One garden (by no means among the largest) was particularly attractive. Nothing much was attempted in it, but the little that was attempted was so well done. The turf was of the finest, like dark green velvet, soft to the foot. Only a few kinds of flowers, but all of the very best. Choice Roses clustered against the west wall—not nailed to the wall, but trained carefully on wood against it; in front of these grew dwarf standard Rose trees, and before them again stretched a long border of Carnations, ready to bloom when their turn came. The grey-green spears were beautiful already, and a pleasure to see, even before a bud among them was unfolded, because so well kept and so healthy. Massed richly in one corner near the house the still bright foliage of the Lily-of-the-Valley showed that a wealth of these flowers must have made the garden sweet in June. A tree or two at the far end (I was peeping through them) gave the shelter and comfort no garden should be without. This little strip, small as it was, deserved the lovely name of “garden.”
One could not help observing with amusement that in some cases back and front gardens did not match; like goods in a shop-window front, the best had been put out for the public. The public is very much obliged for the show, but how about the family, if there is one? No pretty flowers for them, no comfortable nooks, no pleasant sward, no borders of white Pinks nor clumps of Mignonette. Next door, perhaps would be seen the other extreme—too much fussing, too much detail, too many rustic shelters, even the flowers too much crowded together; but to gardens that err in this way much may be forgiven, for much they have been loved.
There is nothing like individuality for making a small garden attractive. Few gardens are too small for the careful cultivation of one particular flower or series of flowers. A sunny little patch entirely given up to rock and wall plants would be an interest and education to one’s neighbours as well as to one’s self; or a system of tubs and tubes might result in a pond-garden for many kinds of water-flowers; or one might have a Carnation garden, or a garden where all the Star-worts had a chance—there are now so many varieties that well repay for cultivation; or there could be a collection of the best Violas, Sweet-peas or Columbines;—any of these would afford the sort of hobby that occupies and makes content the man of leisure as much as it refreshes him who has to work.
Miniature rock and water gardens are among the latest and most pleasing developments (it would be unfair to call them fashions) of the gardening world, though for obvious reasons they are not well represented at our flower-shows. To begin with, it is impossible to cart about the kind of plants that belong to them, and they are never suitable for exhibition; unlike the placid Roses and smart Orchids, who are used to being stared at, and appear to like it. But we can enjoy the “Rockies” and the Water-plants at home. One gentleman of my acquaintance—by profession a man of law, by taste a gardener and engineer—has so arranged his small suburban plot with rills and fountains that in it Pond-weeds and Water-lilies are waving and lolling. No Joseph Paxton ruling the length and breadth of the Crystal Palace grounds could be more content than he is with his small domain.
LATE SUMMER
It is strange how the owners of small suburban gardens, where every inch is of importance, idealize the gardens of their country cousins. Did they but know it, these are often nothing but disappointments. What opportunities are lost for want of enterprise! Instead of all that might and could be done in them, nothing is done. Bushes and trees and shrubberies are allowed to overgrow; poultry are considered of more importance than Peonies, or any other flowers, and are allowed to get through hedges and scrape about among the borders. The troublesome things are hustled away, after a fashion, but are under no real control, and two or three eggs are supposed to atone for the severest damage. The old herbaceous plants that have been growing and spreading for years attain to any age and size, which does not improve their shapes or blossoms. The country garden is lovely sometimes of its own sweet wayward will, but its owner might frequently do worse than take a lesson in up-to-date gardening from the proprietor of the small suburban patch.
A writer who always says the things I wanted to say first, has just confided to the public the particulars of the arrangement of his own small garden near a town, and seems astonished at himself to find how fond he gets of it. It would not astonish me. We all get more fond of small gardens than we do of large ones—great lawns and shrubberies are for the crowd—the brilliant crowd; we crave a niche in which to work and live, a little corner of our very own, to plan, to perfect, and to stamp with our own impress. So if we happen to have “grounds” instead of gardens, why, then, to put things right, we make a garden within a garden, and it is in this small spot we feel at home; it is familiar, and it fits us, like the old friend or the long-worn glove, and in our eyes it is beautiful as Corisande’s own garden when she picked the Rose. As to beauty, either real or fancied, it is lucky that size is not everything. Here are a few words I found the other day in a book called “Art out of Doors.” It was not meant for the suburban garden, but well applies to it:
“Two trees and six shrubs, a scrap of lawn, and a dozen flowering plants, may form either a beautiful little picture, or a huddled disarray of forms and colours.”
On our own taste it depends whether the little garden is to be the “picture” or the “disarray.” Perhaps if it is the latter we shall not be aware of it, for love is blind; anyhow, even bad players may enjoy the game, and, happily, like chess, the gardening game is one that can be played, and played well too, with little pieces on a tiny board.