My flowers had no active disease, unless it were an analogy to human consumption, or what our quack doctors describe as a loss of manly vigor; and as these complaints are not referred to in horticultural works, and as the medicines guaranteed to cure the human frame could hardly be expected to benefit them, I scarcely knew what to do. In despair, I purchased some whale-oil soap, and proceeded to wash the leaves with that highly-recommended compound. Perhaps whale-oil soap is not advantageous in general debility; perhaps it was made too strong, or applied too often. Under its application, my future progenitors of bedding beauties perished faster than ever. A solitary fuchsia, that had been purchased the spring previous, went early; the roses followed precipitately; the daisies were not far behind; the verbenas made haste after these; the carnations followed in this headlong race, until, in spite of the most tender care, the most scientific nursing, the most approved protection and artistic cultivation, ere spring arrived, the entire collection was dead save one—that famous new seedling verbena of Patrick’s discovery. It still lived, not flourishingly nor enthusiastically—not as though it could endure much more assistance—but, as the pleasant days were near at hand, exhibiting sufficient strength to last till the winds of heaven could be trusted not to visit its cheek too roughly.
My assiduity in tending that solitary plant was praiseworthy. Nothing was left undone that could insure its welfare; water, warmed to a proper temperature, a sufficiency of fresh air, occasional supplies of a little new earth or well-rotted manure, a gentle stirring of the surface, and pruning of straggling and superfluous sprouts—none of these were omitted. In spite of this attention, it remained pale, yellow, and feeble, so deadly must have been the nature of the unknown and invisible malaria that had penetrated into my green-house; but it survived the danger. It became gradually weaker as March passed by and April advanced, but was still alive when, in May, after it had been carefully hardened off by progressive exposure to the air, it was once more consigned to the earth of the garden. The fuchsia was gone; the roses, the daisies, the carnations, were no more; its brothers had fallen by the way-side; but this peculiar variety—this child of my own raising—this new species, that had no equal for hardness, and probably would have none in beauty—this seedling, that was destined to electrify the floral world—this original discovery, which I had already mentally resolved should make my name immortal as the Verbena Barnwellii—was saved! That was all-sufficient.
Weeville had inquired from time to time how the scientific cooking-shop, as he ironically designated my green-house—because the dry furnace-air which ascended to the upper story did make it rather warm—was progressing, and sarcastically remarked that a hundred new and healthy plants could be bought in the spring for what it would cost to keep one over the winter. But I had too much confidence in the books which I had studied to believe in his old fogy notions. I had put him off with “glittering generalities,” intending to keep my discovery a secret, and enjoying by anticipation his amazement and rage when he should find that a mere tyro, by scientific appliances, could surpass an experienced hand like himself, and do that which was beyond his utmost hope—originate a new variety. I had intended waiting till my plant had recovered its vigor under the influence of the “wanton wind” and the warm sun; but as it did not improve rapidly, and no doubt missed my fostering care, I took an early opportunity to invite him into my garden.
There were a number of roses, fuchsias, and other bedding plants that I had just purchased and set out, and he remarked at once, with a laugh,
“So your cook-house did not work; you have had to buy new plants after all. Furnace-houses, with dry, hot, parched air, are poor places for green leaves and thirsty vegetable mouths. Moisture is a necessity to the cultivation of flowers, and it will not answer perfectly when applied only to the roots.”
During this discourse I had led him toward the new seedling, and at the proper moment I replied,
“That may be true; but the satisfaction of tending one’s own flowers is great; the pleasure of watching them is sufficient reward; and then there is always a chance of effecting something original.”
“Yes, there is that, no doubt. Amateur green-houses are original enough.”
“I mean there is a possibility of making some discovery, of starting a new variety. For instance,” I said, slowly and impressively, “look at that; is not that reward enough for all my trouble?”
“Look at what?” he replied, peering about in a stupid way, striving not to notice the wonderful plant at his feet, and stopping in a doubtful way when his eyes finally rested on it.