in the solution of problems unknown to the ordinary garden. His highest capacities are called forth by the effort to domesticate in the different parts of his domain plants and flowers of the most different provenance; and the variety of foreign plants is always on the increase. The Elizabethan gardener boasted of the many strange herbs which were 'daily brought from the Indies, America, Taprobane, Canary Isles, and all parts of the world.' Read Bacon's modest list and then compare it with Loudon's; then carry the catalogue up to date, and we shall see the advantage at which we stand as to raw material. As England is an epitome of the world, so the Wild Garden is a miniature presentment of many lands. The unpremeditated art of Nature must be the workman's ideal; but, though no trace of the hand remain, it should bear the impress of man's mind. It is Nature's truce with man. She has condescended to heighten her beauty by a richer dress.

Beyond the fact that each is engaged in growing flowers, there is little in common between the horticulturist and the gardener-two terms which are often treated as synonymous. It is by the composition of the picture that the true artist is known. The eye of the artist and the mind of the poet must inspire the technical skill of the gardener if his work is to rise above the level of mediocrity. It is not the palette dotted over with patches of brilliant colour that we admire, but the ordered harmony of effects. Naturalisation, if we accept for awhile the limitation, is not the haphazard introduction of exotics among our native flora. As to technical knowledge, it necessitates an intimate acquaintance with every flower we handle, its preference for sunshine or shade, drought or moisture, its favourite soil, and its capacity for holding its own among indigenous rivals. This much may be acquired; but the æsthetic qualities which can weave a parti-coloured mass into harmonious union are gifts, and beyond the teaching of books.

To begin with, we must discard the dogmatic laws of the garden; but such rebellion need not lead us astray. The character and variety of the flora within our reach will be mainly determined by the configuration of the land and its geological formation. Where a hanging coppice or a low ridge of rock-preferably limestone-falls gently to a river or marsh, nooks will be found which the practised hand will people with congenial plant life. Each rill which adds its tribute to the river may have its own flora, while by the alluvial soil which it carries down it prepares a bed for another group. The various exposures to sun and wind, which a broken outline affords, give climates so various that the vegetation of many

There are

latitudes may be collected within a limited area. spots in our southern and western counties where, among bay, ilex, laurustinus, myrtle, and arbutus, no unworthy reminiscence may be obtained of the natural gardens which clothe the Mediterranean coast. Landor hated evergreens because they seemed to have no sympathy with Nature; but Emerson loved them for their snug seclusion. A holly glinting against the russet oak-leaves needs no apology. It is no disparagement of our English woodland to say that it has an unkempt look after the finished beauty of more southern lands. The patriarchal husbandry of the Moor leaves a plentiful crop of iris and other bulbs to gem his fields, while the rocky background is covered with cistus. The meadows and corn-fields of Greece and Asia Minor are ablaze with colour. The thistles of the South American pampas, taller than a man on horseback, spread a mass of bloom like a heathery moor. These and like effects may be ours in miniature. The northern latitudes of the American and our own continent will supply all that we need for the bleaker spots.

The traveller will turn with a wistful sigh from scenes which can live only in memory. No human hand can reproduce the gardens with which Nature decks her lordly domain-the gorgeous colour which lights up the sombre depths of a tropical forest, the modest beauty of the verbenas and fuchsias of a cooler latitude, the brilliant bulbs of the Cape, or the tender bloom of oleanders filling a Spanish valley-yet these scenes will supply a picture-lesson of the way in which Nature works. 'Ab uno disce omnes.' Let the wayfarer in one of the forest States of North America emerge from a 'pine barren' on to a cranberry moss. It is one of Nature's Water Gardens, laid out on a scale and with surroundings worthy of her. The yellow sand, redeemed from barrenness by the dark fir-trees, fringes the marsh. Beyond it, far as the eye can reach, stretches a waving sea of green-the stately heads of elm-trees and maples older than the Republic. The mass of vegetation which crowds every inch of the oozy soil is bewildering at first sight, but a detailed examination soon reveals many of our acclimatised favourites. It is from the marshy meadows and forest pools of the Eastern States and from the dank woods of the lake region that we have obtained the stately swamp lily and the golden club, the large yellow and the white water lily, pitcher plants, water arums, and varieties of lady's slipper-among them the lovely mocassin flower. Nowhere does the incomparable tint of the cardinal flower, beautiful alike in sunshine and shade, show to better effect than among the tussocks which fringe some wood

land stream-surroundings which are also only too well suited to the requirements of the rattlesnake.

The peat mosses and marshes of the northern and temperate latitudes have added much to our choice of subjects. Yet so rich is our native flora that, except for such exotics as the waterloving irises, we need not travel beyond our own border. There is often more difficulty in collecting on one spot our indigenous plants, scattered irregularly over the kingdom. Yet the result will repay the effort. It is not the paucity of plants, but the difficulty of selecting the worthiest, that embarrasses us. Among those which should find a place are the great water dock, the bullrush, cladium mariscus, and the equisetum known as giant horse-tail; some of the sedges, such as carex pendula, which are of a very graceful habit; the flowering rush, arrowhead, loosestrife, willow herb, monkshood, yarrow, meadowsweet, water lilies, with their dwarf likeness, villarsia; bog arum and bog bean; marsh marigold, that shines like fire in swamps and hollows grey'; water violet, our native globe flower, and water ranunculuses, especially the indigenous ranunculus lingua, with its large handsome yellow flowers and bold habit. A rich drapery of ferns, notably osmunda, and such distinct grasses as poa aquatica, will suffice to complete the picture.

To pause here, however, will be to fail in doing justice to our opportunities. We have amplified with some detail the characteristics of the Water Garden; but space will not permit to carry this principle into other portions of the garden. The secret of success lies in noting the native flora which abound in a locality and associating with them the exotics of the same species. With the meadow-sweets, for example, may be grouped the many beautiful varieties of herbaceous spiræas; with the yellow water-flag several of the foreign irises. Many of our garden plants would thrive much better in the cool soil which borders a lake or river. Some prefer the brink, while the water itself is the natural home of others. To meet their respective wants three zones should be provided-an arrangement which will promote the growth of individual plants and add to the general mass of bloom. The beautiful Nile lilycalla æthiopica-is hardy in the south of England; so, too, is the Cape pond weed. The saxifrage known as 'peltata,' from its shield-like leaves, and the pickerel weed of North America are noble plants. Gunnera, with its handsome rhubarb-like leaves, starwort, and many another plant will make an ample return for the consideration which gives them the opportunity they lack under the ordinary methods of cultivation.

It is inevitable that the lover of the picturesque should give his sympathies to the live fence, for which wire and iron railings are being so largely substituted. The enemies of the latter decry them, not unjustly, as forming a ladder to climb over, a lattice to look through, and as destitute of the prime essential of shelter. It is the disappointment due to the introduction into our hedges of such unsuitable shrubs as privet and elder, together with neglect in maintaining them, which has brought live fences into disrepute. But if properly formed in the first place of blackthorn, quick, or holly, they will justify the trouble by their utility, economy, and beauty. It is the infatuation of rabbits for the bark of the holly which has deterred many from planting this-the best and most ornamental of fencing plants. Our hedgerows and banks form a garden which may be rendered more attractive than any artificial fence. They afford, too, a shelter which is invaluable. Here there will be a congenial home for coloured primroses, polyanthus, cyclamens, Solomon's seal, the hardy gladioli, pyrola, narcissus, snowflakes, fritillary, and many another. The wild rose and the sweet brier flourish on the top, while our native climbers take possession of the bank. No training can ever give to them the artless grace with which they arrange their drapery when free from restraint. In the company of traveller's joy and honeysuckle we may place several varieties of clematis, honeysuckles of other hues but in sweetness equal to our own, jasmines, vines, roses, and Virginian creeper. The difference between their beauty in such a spot and that of their garden rivals may be tested by comparing a well-trained vineyard with an old vine wedded to an elm tree in primæval fashion.

A glimpse at a New England wood will show how we may enliven our own coppice. The ground is brightened in spring by dog's-tooth violets, hepaticas, Solomon's seal, blood-root, gold-thread-so named from its yellow roots-and the lovely wood-lily. If these plants can endure the climate of Massachusetts, what may not we accomplish? It is true that in their own country the heavy mantle of snow preserves them from the alternate coaxing and freezing which is the vice of an English winter: we must therefore remedy the drawback by allowing Nature to take care of her children in her own untidy way. Tidiness' is the bane of plant life. To remove the leaves from a bed at the approach of winter is to shear a sheep at Christmas. From the artistic point of view it may be doubted whether the bare soil, dotted over with frost-bitten plants, is a more cheerful sight than a carpet of dead leaves; but even if it be so, let consideration for the flowers, which need

our best help in their season of distress, incline the balance in their favour. There would be something ludicrous, were it not painful, in the annual digging-over to which shrubberies are subjected. The rough pruners' go before to clear the way, and the diggers follow. Behind them is a desolation like the track of a whirlwind. The wasted effort bestowed on this destruction should be given to encouraging the many dwarf and creeping things which cover the nakedness of the land.

Happily, in the Wild Garden we may defy conventionality unreproved. In our capricious climate cover is needed long after the calendar proclaims the advent of spring; and if March delays to sweep away the last of the litter, Nature will soon draw a mask of green over her untidiness. It is under these conditions, in the half-shade and shelter of a deciduous coppice, that the lilium auratum, the panther, with some of the other lilies, and not a few of the most beautiful irises, develope to perfection. Here, too, should it not be indigenous, we may naturalise the lily of the valley and Solomon's seal-seen at its best when lifting its graceful head out of a carpet of wild hyacinth.

Forest trees are beneficial to some flowers from the partial shade they afford; but, speaking generally, they are inimical to plant life. They exhaust the soil, and deprive it alike of sun and rain. The air, however, of antiquity which they lend should atone for these evils; the inconvenience should not be removed by cutting them down. Thank goodness it takes three centuries to grow an avenue of oaks,' was the consolation of the guests who drove home down the newly planted avenue of a plutocrat, who had entertained them at dinner, and had overdone the ostentation. Evelyn regrets that men are more prone to cut down than to plant, and relates with approval the anecdote of Ulysses, who, returning from his wanderings, found his father planting a tree. Being asked why he did so, at his age, the old man replied to his unknown visitor: I plant against the day when my son Ulysses comes home.' The author of Silva' might well turn his delightful pages with increased pleasure when he remembered the millions of trees which its advice had called into being.

Where planting is necessary, the configuration of the ground should be accentuated, not minimised. The taller trees should be placed on the high ground, and those of more moderate growth be reserved for the valleys. The contrary method is productive of tameness by equalising the level. It was the belief of Kent and Brown that the works of Nature were well executed, but in a bad taste.' Their mania was for levelling,