this nothing but the swing of fashion's pendulum. But there are epidemics of sentiment as well as of disease, which have to be reckoned with. The weariness of life, which is affected by many, is felt in all its reality by the few. Man carries with him a double nature: the civilization of centuries co-exists with primitive savagery. The stronger the character the greater the impulse towards reversion. Minds of a primitive type decline to be "lulled by the singer of an empty day;" the trim paths of life irritate them. Such men as Rousseau, Gautier, and Thoreau might well be credited with this "yearning towards wildness." But Cowley spoke for others besides himself when he desired that his garden should be

Painted o'er with Nature's hand, not Art's.

In the polished and decorous Addison we find an even more unexpected advocate:

"I have often," he says, "looked upon it as a piece of happiness that I have never fallen into any of these fantastical tastes, nor esteemed anything the more for its being uncommon and hard to be met with. For this reason I look upon the whole country in springtime as a spacious garden, and make as many visits to a spot of daisies, or a bank of violets, as a florist does to his borders or parterres."

This is, however, no disparagement of a garden. Burns took his walk to see the linnet's nest and the rosebud bending its thorny stalk. We would not outrage his artistic sense by turning his wild rose into a standard budded with different varieties of the flower; nor would we affront Addison's cultured taste by overlaying Nature with Art. Who would not sympathize with Juvenal's lament over Egeria's fountain "prisoned in marble," or with Byron's delight at seeing the flowers

and ivy once more asserting their claim? If Nature is at times coerced, she revenges herself with a sweet wilfulness. Many a ruin looks fairer in its decay than when it left the builder's hands. The Colosseum, before the archæologists intervened, harbored four hundred and twenty species of plants. Shelley tells us how he found the inspiration of "Prometheus Unbound" "among the flowering glades and thickets of odoriferous blossoming shrubs and trees" which had taken possession of the Baths of Caracalla. This is Nature's method, and man, if he is wise, will enter into partnership with her rather than competition.

Those who sigh for primitive wildness must seek it elsewhere than in cultivated England. The very aspect of our woods has changed. The forests among which our British ancestors wandered were of oak, birch, alder, and mountain-ash. The plane, elm, poplar and chestnut were unknown to them, and they never heard the bees drowsing among the lime blossom. Addison would have found the pleasure of his walk enhanced if, besides the cowslips and daffodils, which were the object of his quest, he had found the indigenous plants of some other country, or the flowers of another clime. The Scotchman in his exile loved his thistle, though it was not indigenous; and Cromwell was indebted to the American forest for his bergamots. Along the shores of the Mediterranean many a little clearing will be met with which recalls Virgil's exquisite picture of the wild garden and its lilies, under the rocky heights of balia. The twice flowering roses of Pæstum would not have bloomed among the violets unless some hand had placed them there. All that the fastidious eye demands is that nature should not be made ridiculous by the introduction of incongruous elements or by inharmonious juxtaposition. In her own domain she must

reign supreme, under condition that she finds room for the beauty of other lands.

It would be too much to assume that the Wild Garden is dictated by our present phase of ennui. We may seek its origin more reasonably in our leaning towards freedom, accentuated by a revulsion from the uniformity of the day. The creation of a wild garden is an undertaking which may satisfy the ambition of the most adventurous. Here there are no standing rules, no handbooks, which, carefully adhered to, will ensure success. With a very moderate amount of knowledge and skill many square feet of cuttings and seedlings may be counted on. They will come in their appointed season. There is no question to be settled as to finding room in a crowded bed, or ousting less worthy occupants. Your plants can go at once into the home prepared for them and provided with every comfort. He was a reverent man who said, "God Almighty is my gardener. I merely put the things in. He makes them grow." When we come into the august presence of Nature we instinctively put aside the lofty talk about "flowering" a plant and then transferring it to the rubbish heap. Nature must be reverently wooed if she is to be won. When we note the perfection of her picture, we may well turn pupil instead of teacher. A well furnished bed of bloom rising out of the stark earth has as sorry an appearance as a room without a carpet. It is in the setting of her flowers that Nature chiefly distances the art of man. To provide that delicate net work of fern and grass and herb is a task of infinite difficulty. Where possible the original growth may be left undisturbed. Many of the sturdier bulbs may be dibbled in the turf, and pæonies make a grand show in the tall grass; but too often the indigenous vegetation would starve or overrun the exotics. Before we lay our

favorites in Nature's lap, we must first ask Nature if she would care to grow them.

In our flower-beds each specimen is surrounded by its quota of bare earth; but in Nature's garden there should be no waste land-save under the deep shadow of an evergreen. The leafless season of the deciduous trees allows time for a crop of bulbs. Each spot should be a calendar of the seasons. By forecasting the blooming period it is possible to maintain an unbroken succession of blossom throughout the year. There will not be the brilliant outburst of the bedding-out system; but the result will please the fancy of those who subscribe to the old-world adage: "Use pleasure gently and it will last the longer."

Grouping is another "riddle of the painful earth," which must be studied thoughtfully. There are no unmeaning lines, no specimens dotted aimlessly here and there. Each species collects itself into a colony, whose form is dictated by the exigencies of the position. The colony is compact, but of irregular shape. The approach to it is often marked by outlying sentries-seeds carried by the wind or dropped by birds. But be the form what it may, it will be found worthy of imitation.

To attempt a catalogue of such plants as are suitable to the wild garden. would be less serviceable than to indicate the general conditions which must be borne in mind. Nature cultivates the hedgerow and the ditch, the coppice and the meadow, the brookside and the arid bank. What, then, are the limits of the wild garden? It begins where the last flower-bed spreads its trim beauty on the greensward, and it ends where the practised eye and the well-stored mind can find no further point of vantage whereon to place a flower. This will not be reached till many a year has slipped into oblivion. The time is gone, but the work remains,

It

and the world is thereby enriched. may be said that this is mere naturalization. But to admit the imputation is to cast no slur on an art which tests the gardener's skill 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 minlature 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 color that we admire, but the ordered harmony of effects. Naturalization, if we accept for a while 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 favorite soil, and its capacity for holding its own among indigenous rivals. This much may be acquired; but the æsthetic qualities which can weave а parti-colored mass into harmonious union are gifts, and beyond the teaching of books.

The

To begin with, we must discard the dogmatic laws of the garden; but such rebellion need not lead us astray. 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 rockpreferably 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 latitudes may be collected within a limited area. There are 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 color. 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 color 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 acclimatized favorites. 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 woodland 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 gray;" 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 lily -calla 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 colored primroses, polyanthus, cyclamens, Solomon's seal, the hardy gladioli, py

rola, narcissus, snowflakes, fritillary, and many another. The wild rose and the sweet briar 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 welltrained vineyard with an old vine wedded to an elm-tree in primeval 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 favor. There would be something ludicrous, were it not painful, in the annual digging-over to which shrubberies are subjected. The "rough