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Bless me, what a delightful
prospect is hero! And so it ought to be, for this garden was designed
for pleasure — but
for honest pleasure; the
entertainment of
the sight, the smell, and refreshment of the mind. — ERASMUS.
— John Sedding. In gathering together these notes, I have no desire, nor am I competent, to undertake a dissertation upon styles or schools of gardening, to pose as an expert upon garden design or the science of horticulture, or to be understood as laying down the law upon any subject whatsoever. My wish is simply to answer for others some of the questions which sorely perplexed me in my early gardening days and to tell the story of my own experiences with this happy craft to those who may be treading the fragrant way a pace or two behind me, not that they may miss a single step in the fascinating path of personal experiment and achievement, but only that they may enjoy a sense of friendly fellowship without which no experience, however delightful, proves quite satisfying. That
we have
opinions does not, or should not, mean that we expect others to espouse
them immediately upon their recitation, and, if the ideas hereafter set
forth are expressed with some fervour, the spirit actuating them is not
dictatorial, not even argumentative, but wholly enthusiastic and
sympathetic. There is as much said nowadays, as there has always been, upon the styles of gardening, and each advocate claims for his especial school all the virtues, leaving for the rest none at all, so that it is a bit bewildering to know how so many different kinds of gardens can be so lovely; but the answer is, it seems to me, that styles and schools have little to do with the charm and beauty of a garden; that the vital secret lies much deeper — in the gardener himself, and is born of his artistic perception and his power to take infinite pains to adapt his means to an end, which end is loveliness. In gardening, as in other matters, the true test of our work is the measure of our possibilities. Of the various schools, our garden would be termed formal, for there are the straight lines, the geometrical curves, the ordered design, the intention of man and the indication of his hand frankly confessed and plainly visible beneath the luxuriance — a sweet austerity dimly felt beneath the cajoleries of witching vine and creeper, of gay flowers rioting in their sun-bathed beds. And while I love best the “balanced beauty” “carefully parcelled out and enclosed” of this type of garden, I love, too, and am deeply interested in, all other kinds of gardens from the great and magnificent, with marble terraces and stairways, rare plants and many gardeners, to the narrow border beside the cottage path or the pot of flowers in the window of a tenement; for each has sprung from the desire of some one to express himself in beauty, and the simplicity of the medium matters not at all. As quoted at the head of this chapter, “A garden is preeminently a place to indulge individual taste,” and whether one chooses to be Italian, English, Japanese, Colonial, or “natural” in one’s style, or a little of each, one does not achieve a lovable, livable, intimate garden until one has put one’s self into it — lived in it, worked in it, dreamed in it, studied it and brooded over it and woven into its warp of scientific knowledge a woof of sentiment and tenderness.
My
first garden, of
which the present is but the emancipated and further developed spirit,
was a rectangular space twelve feet long by six feet wide, neatly
enclosed in a fence of clothes pins and boasting in each corner, by way
of embellishment, a fine pink conch, and in the centre a milk pan sunk
to the level of the earth and edged with white pebbles — a shining
pool! Near one end a shabby mulberry tree cast a beneficent shadow, and
in season dropped its mussy fruit among the warring Zinnias and
valiantly coloured Portulaca. Within this small plot my love of
gardening was born — a lusty child — and it mattered not that there
were years of leanness when Chicory and Buttercups must needs come in
and hide neglect and failure; the child throve, until now, in its
maturity, it is a companion that never pails, a friend that never
fails, a never-ending source of refreshment, comfort, and entertainment. It
seems agreed that
a hobby, not overridden, is a wise possession for every one, and it has
grown on me,. during these gardening years, that no hobby is so safe
and sane for a woman as a garden. It centres about the home; the
children and other members of the family may have a part in it; friends
enjoy it, and the influence of its beauty and sweetness reaches far and
wide. In a book called “Rural Essays,” written some seventy years ago
by Charles Downing, the “father of landscape gardening in America,” he
asks: “What is the reason that American
ladies don’t love to work in their gardens?” He says they
like to “putter about” and sow a few China Aster seeds, and that a
bouquet upon the centre table is a necessity to them, but, beyond this,
they do not go; and then he draws very uncomplimentary comparisons
between us and our English cousins. But this was seventy years ago, and
I am sure, if Mr. Downing could return, he would admit that we have
begun to take a good deal more than a “puttering” interest in our
gardens, that we dare to go out of doors sensibly clad and dig in the
ground, wheel a barrow and plant and reap and exult after the manner of
our brothers and husbands, experiencing the delicious weariness caused
by exercise of the muscles in the open air which is in no way akin to
that heavy exhaustion which comes from much labour indoors.
I
frequently see, in
English gardening periodicals, advertisements by women desiring
positions as head or under gardeners, and there seems to me no reason
why this should not become one of the professions properly open to
women. As far as the under-gardener’s work is concerned, it certainly
requires no more physical strength and endurance than the work done by
many women in domestic service, as trained nurses or in factories,
besides having much to offer on the side of health. Of course to be a
head-gardener would require both training and experience, but this
would not, nowadays, be a difficult matter, and would become less so as
the demand for such training grew. I do not wish to encroach upon the
domain of man, but it would seem that many a woman, under the necessity
of earning her own living, might find health and renewed youth in such
an occupation, who now wears herself out and grows old before her time
doing work of a more confining or nerve-wearing nature.
There
is an ancient
superstition, still in force, though less strong of late years, that it
is not quite “nice” for a woman to be physically able to do manual
labour out of doors, and if she is, she should keep quiet about it.
When we first came to live in this neighbourhood, where there are many
small and not very flourishing farms, my activities in the garden were
looked upon decidedly askance by my neighbours, for in their world a
woman’s social position is more or less determined by whether she works
indoors or out. That a woman should, by choice, spend hours in outdoor
work in all kinds of weather was inconceivable, and finally a
neighbour, who discovered me weeding a bed of seedlings on a hot July
day, found herself unable to keep silent upon the subject and said: “There certainly
ain’t many ladies would work as hard for their men as you do, Mrs.
Wilder.” I tried to explain, but knew quite well that it was useless,
and that she was certain that coercion was at the root of my labours.
That was seven years ago and I am glad to say that the mystery has been
cleared up for her for others, and it is a delight to me to see that
more than one of these indoor workers is essaying a patch of flowers by
her door and many missionarying roots and seeds find their way from
here into this promising territory.
In
the old world
gardening is recognized not only as a science, but as a high art; here
it is still largely a pastime and not a very general one at that, as
any one may perceive who goes through any of our suburbs and notes the
number of places that boast no more than a few beds of Salvia or
Geraniums and a huddle of specimen shrubs in the corners of the lawns.
Our men are too busy to give much time to this art, and while many may
have the desire and willingly furnish the wherewithal to employ a
landscape architect to order and beautify their grounds and men to keep
them up, more than this is needed to endow a garden with enduring charm
and individuality. Just as we wish to feel personality in a room, so do
we want to feel it in a garden, and this is the reason why many a
simple cottage garden, personally tended by its owner, will be far
greater in its appeal than a handsome one possessing many attributes of
beauty but left entirely to paid care. And I feel that if our gardens
are to take their place beside those of the older countries it rests
with the American women to place them there. A number of women have
taken up landscape gardening as a profession, and this is hopeful, for
they will seek to interest other women in their art; but it is a
certainty that if every American
woman who has a piece of ground under her control would spend upon it a
small part of the taste, ability, and energy which she applies to the
ordering and beautifying of her home, we should have the most beautiful
gardens in the world. It seems to me, in my enthusiasm, that there
could be no more uplifting and refining influence, not only upon the
family life, but upon the nation at large.
It
was John Sedding
whose beautiful and appreciative book on “Garden Craft”1
I earnestly commend to all lovers of the subject, who speaks of the
garden as a “sweetener of human existence,” and says: “Apart from its
other uses, there is no spot like a garden for cultivating the kindly
social virtues. Its perfectness puts people upon their best behaviour.
Its nice refinement secures the mood for politeness. Its heightened
beauty produces the disposition that delights in what is beautiful in
form and colour. Its queenly graciousness of mien inspires the
reluctant loyalty of even the stoniest mind. Here, if anywhere, will
the human hedgehog unroll himself and deign to be companionable. Here,
friend Smith caught by its nameless charm, will drop his brassy gabble
and dare to be idealistic; and Jones, forgetful of the main chance and
‘bulls’ and ‘bears,’ will throw the rein of his sweeter self and reveal
that latent elevation of soul and tendency to romance known only to his
wife.” 1 "Garden Craft, Old and New.” |