PROSE AND POETRY OF GARDENING.

By Mrs. HELEN V. AUSTIN, Johnstown, Cambria county, Pa.

To the President and Members of the State Horticultural Association of Pennsylvania: That I should come before this august body of horticulturists with an essay, and on a theme like this, seems almost like presumption. I am pleased to note that your association has so steadily maintained its importance and diffused its influence far beyond the geographical boundaries of the State, and I frankly confess that the more I contemplate my subject, in order to cull a few central ideas relating to it, the broader and wider and deeper it seems; and the more I endeavor to draw a line between prose and poetry, the more they seem to blend; so that if I merge them together it will be because they are inseparable. What a happy occupation that must be where toil and care and painstaking are softened and refined by the genius of beauty and harmony; where the spirit of poetry makes sweet the path of labor and dignifies the commonest things.

The very name of your society has a symphonious sound-Penn's sylvania. And it was according to the principle of the "fitness of things" that when Penn made the purchase of these "woods" that he held his treaty with the Indians under a spreading tree. Perhaps the red chiefs would have disdained to have held the treaty anywhere else, for the Indians reverence nature.

Horticulturists are prone to go back to the garden of Eden and speak of the first occupation of mankind and, according to Mr. Roe, it is a good thing to be "driven back to Eden." In the grand, old beginning, when mankind was sinless, before death came into our world and all our woe, the garden must have been perfection. It must have been all that our purest taste and finest imagination can picture, a garden of delights, a paradise indeed.

In contrast with the garden away back in the beginning we might place some that our eyes have beheld-the garden of the sluggard. I have not time now to describe it, if I had the heart. It is enough to convince the beholder of the fall of man, if there were no other evidences. This "total depravity of an inanimate thing," corresponds to the total depravity of the owner. But, no, we must not be too rash in judgment, for even the weeds in a neglected garden will have their beauties; will creep and twine and frolic; vines will swing in graceful festoons and arches, and cover up deformities, wild flowers and flowers run wild, will blossom and feed the bees, and the birds will build their nests in the briars, and songs and sweetness will flood the air. So with the owner, he cannot be totally depraved; he has some sweet spots, some kindly corner in his heart, some dreams of a perfect garden, otherwise, he would not have a garden at all.

But there is one image of a garden in the mind of every one of us that is more precious than our most vivid imaginations of the garden of Eden, because it is sacred to memory. It is the old-fashioned garden of the mothers of our horticulturists. Oh, the old-time flowers that grew in the garden when we were children! The long ribbons of many colors that extended through the middle of the vegetable garden, on either side of the broad walk. Such pinks and tulips and lilies as we had then! with all the rest of the procession of flora, from

the first quaint little things that came up at the early call of spring, to the latest lark-spur and chrysanthemums that only deepened their hues before they yielded to the icy breath of winter.

The old-fashioned mothers have left their impress on the age; their genius for gardening has descended to their sons, and wonderful things are now done in all departments of horticulture which well may astonish those of kindred taste in the old world. But here, pardon the strictures of one who cherishes the "love of life's young days" for the old-fashioned flowers. Professional florists, in their zeal to excel and to satisfy the demand for "something new," seem endeavoring to outdo nature. If it were not that nature is true to herself and will go back to first principles, if let alone, and cannot be out-witted-if she appears sometimes to be out-done-we would have but few old-fashioned flowers left; the real characteristics, distinctness and simplicity of many flowers is destroyed by the interruptions of scientific fingers. Science has come along in a prosy, cold-blooded way and taken the poetry out of them. Just think of what you have done to the oldfashioned "lady's slipper," or "touch-me not," ye flower menders! You have obliterated the form of the quaint little slipper, and as for the characteristics of the seed-pod, since you have changed the name, there is scarcely a child now who ever attempts to touch the pod and test the magical spring, and for a substitute for the name which had significance, you have given the flower the unmeaning name of Balsam. But you have a double flower which bears some resemblance to a rose, and is useful when making up "designs for some "big show" at funerals or elsewhere. From a commercial point of view, however, the balsam is a success name and all.

Then, there is the Petunia. The "single" petunia is chaste and graceful and a constant bloomer, the double petunia is a bulging, overgrown mass of bloom. And the double tiger lily-it may be something rare to possess, but it is a monstrosity. The "double" in the tiger lily is an intrusion and impertinence, and, who that ever really admired a pure tiger lily would stop to take a second look at one that was double.

But if science will only let the morning glories alone and the white lilies and not hybridise the golden rod and wild asters we will forgive about the touch-me-nots.

And then, too, for all of the new roses we are grateful, especially as we know that "a rose by any other name" would still be a rose. But who does not appreciate this sentiment of Oliver Wendell Holmes: "I love the damask rose best of all. The flowers our mothers and sisters used to love and cherish, those which grew beneath our eaves and by our doorsteps are the ones we always love best."

The spirit of poetry is demonstrated in that which is termed landscape or picturesque gardening. The inspiration which guides man in this art to-day is wafted down through the ages from the ancient Hanging Gardens of Babylon. What weariness and toil, what dull prose of labor entered into the construction of that triumph of horticultural art! and yet, a poetic fancy was the main spring which kept the wheels in motion; for the Queen pined for mountain scenery, mountain trees and vines and flowers, and so, this picturesque garden, this one of the seven wonders of the world, was to her a constant reminder of her childhood's home.

It is a matter of much satisfaction that the American taste in landscape gardening avoids that stiffness and regularity which once pre

vailed in Europe, when trees were cut in the shape of pyramids, haystacks, animals, etc. The essays on gardening contained in the Spectator make allusion to the fancy of the time, from which it may not be unprofitable to quote: "Our English gardens are not so entertaining to the fancy as those of France and Italy, where we see a large extent of ground covered over with an agreeable mixture of garden and forest which represents everywhere an artificial rudeness. much more charming than that neatness and elegance which we meet with in those of our own country. It might, indeed, be of ill consequence to the public, as well as unprofitable to private persons, to alienate so much ground from pasturage, and the plough in many parts of a country that is so well peopled, and cultivated to a far greater advantage. But why may not a whole estate be thrown into a kind of garden by frequent plantations that may turn as much to the profit as to the pleasure of the owner? A marsh overgrown with willows, or a mountain shaded with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more beneficial than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields of corn make a pleasant prospect, and if the walks were a little taken care of that lie between them, if the natural embroidery of the meadows were helped and improved by some small additions of art, and the several rows of hedges set off by trees and flowers, that the soil was capable of receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of his own possession.

"Writers who have given us an account of China, tell us the inhabitants of that country laugh at the plantations of our Europeans which are laid out by the rule and line; because they say, any one may place trees in equal rows and uniform figures. They chose rather to show a genius in works of this nature, and therefore always conceal the art by which they direct themselves. They have a word, it seems, in their language, by which they express the particular beauty of a plantation that thus strikes the imagination at first sight, without discovering what it is that has so agreeable an effect. Our British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humoring nature, love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our trees rise in cones, globes and pyramids. We see the marks of the scissors on every plant and bush. I do not know whether I am singular in my opinion; but for my own part I would rather look upon a tree in all its luxuriance and diffusion of boughs and branches, and when it is thus cut and trimmed into a mathematical figure, and cannot but fancy that an orchard in flower looks infinitely more delightful than all the little labyrinth of the most finished parterre."

And Pope, who put his theory into practice in the taste displayed in the garden of his villa at Twickenham spared not to sharply criticise the prevailing style of landscape gardening in his day:

"Something there is more needful than expense,
And something previous even to taste-'tis sense;
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven;
And, though no science, fairly worth the seven;
A light which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le N'otre have it not to give.
To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
To swell the terrace or to sink the grot,
In all, let nature never be forgot."

Gardening as an occupation for women is a subject which claims. attention most earnest, of all who feel the necessity for more out-door 2 HORT. Ass.

labor for women. We can only merely glance at this subject now. There are thousands of women in the over-crowded cities to-day, who are sinking into untimely graves, who could be happy and living comfortably if engaged in gardening. How pathetic is that strain in the wail of her who "sang the song of the shirt: "

"While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring."

Mrs. Martha Logan, of South Carolina, was a great florist, and wrote her Treatise on Gardening" at the age of seventy. And Mrs. J. C. Loudon, sharing in her husband's tastes and pursuits, has written much for woman. Among her books she has published "Practical Instruction in Gardening for Ladies," "The Lady's Flower Garden and "Philanthropic Economy or Philosophy of Happiness."

In contrast with the gardens of the "professionals," we are apt to ignore the more humble gardens, the little spot of ground where the vegetables for family use are grown and where the familiar flowers bloom. Every family should have a garden. Even in cit:es there should be room for each family to have at least a little spot for flowers. Plants and flowers are "object lessons" whereby children are taught of nature by nature itself.

And why should a well kept vegetable garden be esteemed an unsightly place and unpoetic spot? Beans (especially the vining sorts), peas, melon and cucumber vines, cabbage, asparagus, lettuce and carrots are all beautiful; and Indian corn, its very appearance upon the earth is enveloped in the poetry of a myth. Hiawatha, while fasting and praying to the "Master of Life," thus first beheld the Indian corn:

"And he saw a youth approaching,
Dressed in garments green and yellow,
Coming through the purple twilight,
Through the splendor of the sunset;
Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead,
And his hair was soft and golden.
Standing at the open doorway,
Long he looked at Hiawatha,
Looked with pity and compassion
On his wasted form and features,
And in accents like the sighing
Of the South wind in the tree tops,
Said he, 'O, my Hiawatha!

All your prayers are heard in Heaven,'

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Tall and beautiful he stood there,

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In his garments green and yellow;
To and fro his plumes above him
Waved and nodded with his breathing.

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"From the Master of Life descending,

I, the friend of man, Mondamin."

After Mondamin was buried, day by day did Hiawatha go to wait

Horticulture has been termed the poetry of agriculture, and may we not call Flora culture the "poetry of gardening?" Aside from commercial worth, who could estimate the value of flowers to the universal heart of humanity. Flowers give expression to the affections and emotions of the heart which words cannot express. "Heaven lies about us in our childhood." Therefore every child loves flowers. On every occasion, from the cradle to the grave, flowers are the symbols of our best affections and religious devotion and hope of eternal life. One of the most touching pictures I ever saw was entitled "The Last Token." It was a white rose, thrown from the gallery by a lover to the feet of a maiden, a Christian martyr in the arena, who was about to be devoured by a lion.

That which is termed the flower mission is a beautiful expression of human sympathy, and that love, without which, we are but "sounding brass and tinkling cymbal." It will surely be a benediction which shall continue as a star in a crown forever, when the Lord shall say, when we are summoned to his judgment seat: "I was sick and in prison and you comforted me; for inasmuch as you did it unto one of the least of these you have done it unto Me." The story of Picciola is more than fiction. By its own sweet life it taught the skeptical prisoner of immortality and faith in the Creator. Many a simple flower has had its mission whose history has not been recorded farther than in the mind of the recipient.

The human heart is ever craving for rest and peace, despite the restlessness and strife of the battle of life. There comes a time in most lives when the great world is of little consequence, and we draw nearer and nearer to the old nurse, Nature. Then, if never before, shall one's own vine and fig-tree yield grateful shade and fruit, and the birds sing in the branches. Prose and poetry shall blend together to remind us that we are still human and must bear a part in life and fill our hearts with music, and with the poet we will say:

"Ply, Vanity, thy winged feet!

Ambition, hew thy rocky stair;
Who envies him who feeds on air
The icy splendors of his seat?
Let such as love the eagles scream
Divide with him his home of ice;
For me shall gentler notes suffice,-
The valley song of bird and stream.
The pastoral bleat, the drone of bees,
The flail-beat chiming far away,
The cattle low at shut of day,
'The voice of God in leaf and breeze!

Then lend thy hand, my wiser friend,
And help me to the vales below,

(In truth, have not far to go,)

Where sweet with flowers the fields extend."

THE "HATCH" BILL.

The Chairman read the list of topics and asked for information concerning the "Hatch" bill.

Mr. VAN DEMAN. This bill is being very thoroughly discussed in Congress, especially in the House, and it is supposed, will pass. If the members of this Society approve the bill, and wish to see it pass, it would be well to have it read.

On motion of Mr. COMFORT the bill was read by the Secretary.