Chapter 05 - Net Present Value and Other Investment Criteria

Solution Manual for Principles of Corporate Finance 11th

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CHAPTER 5
Net Present Value and Other Investment Criteria

Answers to Problem Sets

1. a. A = 3 years, B = 2 years, C = 3 years.

b. B

c. A, B, and C

d. B and C (NPVB = $3,378; NPVC = $2,405)

e. True. The payback rule ignores all cash flows after the cutoff date,
meaning that future years’ cash inflows are not considered. In addition, the
payback rule ignores the timing of cash inflows. For example, for a
payback rule set at two years, a project with a payback period of one year
is given equal weight as a project with a payback period of two years.

f. It will accept no negative-NPV projects, but will turn down some with
positive NPVs. A project can have positive NPV if all future cash flows are
considered but still do not meet the stated cutoff period.

Est. time: 6 – 10

2. Given the cash flows C0, C1, . . . , CT, IRR is defined by:

It is calculated by trial and error, by financial calculators, or by spreadsheet

programs.

Est. time: 1 – 5

5-1
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Chapter 05 - Net Present Value and Other Investment Criteria

3. a. $15,750; $4,250; $0

b. 100%
Est. time: 1 – 5

4. No (you are effectively “borrowing” at a rate of interest higher than the

opportunity cost of capital).

Est. time: 1 – 5

5 a. Two. There are multiple internal rates of return for a project when there
are changes in the sign of the cash flows.

b. −50% and +50%. The NPV for the project using both of these IRRs is 0.

c. Yes, NPV = +14.6.

Est. time: 1 – 5

6. The incremental flows from investing in Alpha rather than Beta are −200,000;
+110,000; and 121,000. The IRR on the incremental cash flow is 10% (i.e., −200
+ 110/1.10 + 121/1.102 = 0). The IRR on Beta exceeds the cost of capital and so
does the IRR on the incremental investment in Alpha. Choose Alpha.

Est. time: 1 – 5

7. 1, 2, 4, and 6

The profitability index for each project is shown below:

Project NPV Investment Profitability Index (NPV/Investment)

1 5,000 10,000 5,000/10,000 = 0.5

2 5,000 5,000 5,000/5,000 = 1

3 10,000 90,000 10,000/90,000 = 0.11

4 15,000 60,000 15,000/60,000 = 0.25

5 15,000 75,000 15,000/75,000 = 0.2

6 3,000 15,000 3,000/15,000 = 0.2

Start with the project with the highest profitability index and go from there. Project
2 has the highest profitability index and has an initial investment of $5,000. The
next highest profitability index is for Project 1, which has an initial investment of

5-2
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Chapter 05 - Net Present Value and Other Investment Criteria

$10,000. The next highest is Project 4, which will cost $60,000 up front. So far we
have spent $75,000. Projects 5 and 6 both have profitability indexes of .2, but we
only have $15,000 left to spend, so we will add Project 6 to our list. This gives us
Projects 1, 2, 4, and 6.
Est. time: 1 – 5

$1000
8. a. NPVA   $1000   $90.91
(1.10)
$1000 $1000 $4000 $1000 $1000
NPVB   $2000       $4,044.73
(1.10) (1.10) 2 (1.10) 3 (1.10) 4 (1.10) 5

$1000 $1000 $1000 $1000

NPVC   $3000   2
   $39.47
(1.10) (1.10) (1.10) 4 (1.10) 5

Projects B and C have positive NPVs.

b. Payback A = one year

Payback B = two years
Payback C = four years

c. A and B

$1000
d. PVA   $909.09
(1.10) 1
The present value of the cash inflows for Project A never recovers the initial
outlay for the project, which is always the case for a negative NPV project.
The present values of the cash inflows for Project B are shown in the third
row of the table below, and the cumulative net present values are shown
in the fourth row:
C0 C1 C2 C3 C4 C5
-2,000.00 +1,000.00 +1,000.00 +4,000.00 +1,000.00 +1,000.00
-2,000.00 909.09 826.45 3,005.26 683.01 620.92
-1,090.91 -264.46 2,740.80 3,423.81 4,044.73
Since the cumulative NPV turns positive between year 2 and year 3, the
discounted payback period is:
264.46
2  2.09 years
3,005.26

The present values of the cash inflows for Project C are shown in the third row of the
table below, and the cumulative net present values are shown in the fourth row:

5-3
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Chapter 05 - Net Present Value and Other Investment Criteria

C0 C1 C2 C3 C4 C5
-3,000.00 +1,000.00 +1,000.00 0.00 +1,000.00 +1,000.00
-3,000.00 909.09 826.45 0.00 683.01 620.92
-2,090.91 -1,264.46 -1,264.46 -581.45 39.47
Since the cumulative NPV turns positive between year 4 and year 5, the
discounted payback period is:
581.45
4  4.94 years
620.92

e. Using the discounted payback period rule with a cutoff of three years, the
firm would accept only Project B.

Est. time: 11– 15

9. a. When using the IRR rule, the firm must still compare the IRR with the
opportunity cost of capital. Thus, even with the IRR method, one must
specify the appropriate discount rate.

b. Risky cash flows should be discounted at a higher rate than the rate used
to discount less risky cash flows. Using the payback rule is equivalent to
using the NPV rule with a zero discount rate for cash flows before the
payback period and an infinite discount rate for cash flows thereafter.
Est. time: 1 – 5

10.
r = -17.44% 0.00% 10.00% 15.00% 20.00% 25.00% 45.27%
Year 0 -3,000.00 -3,000.00 -3,000.00 -3,000.00 -3,000.00 -3,000.00 -3,000.00 -3,000.00
Year 1 3,500.00 4,239.34 3,500.00 3,181.82 3,043.48 2,916.67 2,800.00 2,409.31
Year 2 4,000.00 5,868.41 4,000.00 3,305.79 3,024.57 2,777.78 2,560.00 1,895.43
Year 3 -4,000.00 -7,108.06 -4,000.00 -3,005.26 -2,630.06 -2,314.81 -2,048.00 -1,304.76
PV = -0.31 500.00 482.35 437.99 379.64 312.00 -0.02
The two IRRs for this project are (approximately): –17.44% and 45.27%.
Between these two discount rates, the NPV is positive.

Est. time: 06 - 10

11. a. The figure on the next page was drawn from the following points:
Discount Rate
0% 10% 20%
NPVA +20.00 +4.13 -8.33
NPVB +40.00 +5.18 -18.98

b. From the graph, we can estimate the IRR of each project from the point
where its line crosses the horizontal axis:

5-4
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Chapter 05 - Net Present Value and Other Investment Criteria

IRRA = 13.1% and IRRB = 11.9%

This can be checked by calculating the NPV for each project at their
respective IRRs, which give an approximate NPV of 0.

c. The company should accept Project A if its NPV is positive and higher
than that of Project B; that is, the company should accept Project A if the
discount rate is greater than 10.7% (the intersection of NPVA and NPVB on
the graph below) and less than 13.1% (the internal rate of return).

d. The cash flows for (B – A) are:

C0 = $ 0
C1 = –$60
C2 = –$60
C3 = +$140
Therefore:
Discount Rate
0% 10% 20%
NPVB − A +20.00 +1.05 -10.65
IRRB − A = 10.7%
The company should accept Project A if the discount rate is greater than
10.7% and less than 13.1%. As shown in the graph, for these discount
rates, the IRR for the incremental investment is less than the opportunity
cost of capital.

50.00
40.00
30.00
20.00 Project A
NPV

10.00 Project B

0.00 Increment

-10.00
-20.00
-30.00
0% 10% 20%
Rate of Interest

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random and unrelated content:
bright, with an irregular bordering of white and pink Phlox Nelsoni—a
Cheiranthus, or a deep blue Gentian, here and there. The little low-
growing Phlox comes in exquisite patches of colour all over the garden.
When in flower, the plant itself—which is straggling and rather ugly—is
completely hid by a flat mass of close-set bloom. In these “gardens on a
level” I am always wishing for rockeries and little low terraces, which
should be all draped with Convolvulus Mauristiana, Phlox Nelsoni,
Aubretia, and wild Ivy and Alyssum, or something yellow. I should not
much care for many rare Alpine plants, I think; though a surprise of the
kind here and there would be charming. Colour I must have, and plenty
of it, to rejoice the eye and make glad the heart.
A tract of wild, savage scenery, six square yards in extent, is in
contemplation at the afforested end of the Fantaisie. Already one or two
large pieces of a sort of conglomerate have been conveyed here, and are
frowning in an open space amongst the wild Bluebells. There is a
background of dark Arbor Vitæ, and beyond, the pleasant fields are seen,
with the cows and Elms and an Oak tree. There exists a certain necessity
for feature in this flattest of all places! The Yew hedges and pyramids
have done much to give character to the flower garden, and now there
must be rocks for variety.
A heap of fragments of an old headless statue lies near the rocky waste;
part of a sitting figure—a hand and a foot—and lumps of heavy drapery,
overlaid in beautiful green velvet of moss. Very forlorn the broken stones
look, and I cannot decide to make them into rockwork. None now know
whom the statue in its day was meant to represent—probably a garden
goddess, Flora or Pomona—but its history is rather quaint, if not
touching. It was beloved by a lady who lived here once, and hated by her
sister, and according as each for the time reigned in the other’s absence,
it was set up in a niche of the garden wall, or cast down with ignominy.
At last the sister who loved the statue died, and then it was broken to
pieces, and flung down a well. It was fished up again long after, before
our time. Tradition tells of another statue, an image of Old Time, that
stood or sat at one end of the pond in “the park,” but of this there
remains no trace.
I am happy in the possession of two long-desired flowers, which seem
now to be settling down in their new abode. One is the pale-blue Star
Anemone Apennina, common in the Ilex woods of Frascati; the other,
the lovely purplish-brown Fritillary (Meleagris), found wild in river
meadows near us. Fritillary is no easy word for poetry, yet it is named by
at least one poet. Matthew Arnold, in his “Thyrsis,” says—

“I know what white, what purple fritillaries

The grassy harvest of the river-fields,
Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields.”

I think no other flower of any kind can compare with it in finish and
exquisite grace of form. The purplish, dove-like colour I believe to be the
same described in old French as “colombette.”
May 15.—To-day, amid the brilliant green of new leaves and the singing
and twittering of a thousand birds in the sun’s warm glow, one keeps
saying to oneself—

“Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king,”

or some such old snatch of songs that seem to wander upon the soft
sweet air. Ah, yes, “the year’s pleasant king”! and yet our spring is a
beautiful spirit, and she has been hovering about us; but now, to-day, she
has set her feet upon the earth, and there is a great triumph of verdure on
the trees and on the grass; and Apple trees meet her in fulness of bloom,
and May-buds are swelling on the Thorns to make up for lost time; and
all the edges of meadow-grass are jewelled with little gems of purple,
and blue, and red, and the broad fields shine in silver and gold.
The short reign of Narcissus Poeticus has begun; our large old clumps
down one side of the Broad Walk are not so fine as usual; frosts and cold
heavy rains laid the leaves of some of them, and sometimes turned them
yellow; but within the walled garden the clumps are as beautiful as ever
—throngs of long-stalked silvery flowers, stiff and firm, with the
stiffness and strength of perfect health. Narcissus Poeticus is lovely; and
we need not trouble to know if it be the very flower named by
Theocritus, Virgil, and Ovid. The east border, though not much varied as
yet, is gay and full of promise. There are double pale yellow Ranunculus
(the Swiss meadow kind), and bunches of Heartsease, violet and brown
Auriculas, sheets of double white Anemones, and the Riviera double
scarlet—which, however, never with us comes scarlet, but only dull red;
Tulips, Stonecrops, Kingspear, Phlox Nelsoni, double King’s-cups, and
Bachelors’ Buttons, a patch of Gentians at the south angle of the wall,
with yellow Corydalis Lutea peering out of chinks in the old bricks
above. Crowds of Lilies are springing up in the background, with purple
Iris and Pæonies in bud. Solomon’s Seal (Lady’s Signet) in many nooks
and corners unfolds its curious club-shaped leaf-buds, and all its bells
will soon be hung. Pansies, under the south wall, make a bright display;
there are three large oblong beds—lilac, yellow, and deep royal purple;
also a round bed of semi-double Anemones, whose scarlet colour, about
mid-day, is actually dazzling; and one of Ranunculus not yet opened.
Behind these beds, against the wall, are white Irises, almost ready to
bloom, and several clusters of the garden Star of Bethlehem—valuable in
its way, but not nearly so pretty as the wild sort, and most precise in its
daily system of early closing and late opening.
Between the tennis-court and the little lawn belonging to the Firs and
Cedar, the walk winds along beside a close of chosen trees—Plane,
Silver Birch, pink Thorns, variegated Maple, etc., all in their pleasant
time of youth, having been planted only a little over eleven years.
Portugal Laurel and Box mingle with them in deeper shades. Next the
walk are Sweet Briar and well-berried Aucubas; one Aucuba is still
covered with scarlet fruit and golden leaves. There is yellow Spanish
Broom, and tall trees of white Broom wave long white plumes, leaning
over the path. White Broom, they say, is “the Juniper tree” that Elijah sat
down under. If so, the shade must have been but scanty! Soon the path
turns past a Yew-tree, and becomes the Primrose Walk, along under the
line of Elms.
On the left are the Allée Verte, and the dovecote, and small orchard,
bounded by Beech and Yew, and crossed by flower-bordered smooth-
shaven grassy ways, all leading to the Broad Walk; on the right a little
hidden path passes on to the oft-named Fantaisie. Just before coming to
the Yew tree, on warm days ever since the beginning of the month, one is
met and surrounded by a wonderful cloud of fragrance! One looks round
in vain for some bed of flowers whence should proceed so powerful a
scent. It is like the finest Jasmine and Citron, and I know not what of
sweetest unknown incense. It is the greeting sent out from a dense mass
of Spurge Laurel (Daphne pontifia), with unobtrusive green flowers in
full bloom. It grows over a bit of the Iris bank, and its great luxuriance
proves how it loves a southern aspect.
In our garden the birds have divided the kingdom amongst them, and in
this half is the portion that fell to the reed sparrow. He keeps the Silver
Birch alive with his busy note. Landmarks, known only to themselves,
divide the territory of the reed sparrow from the realm of the nightingale.
The fiery-hearted nightingale! He sings all day, and his song makes the
night glorious. The north-east region of the garden he keeps for himself
alone. There, on still evenings, long after sunset, is heard the faint
barking of distant watch-dogs, or the sound of horses’ hoofs on the road.
There is his favourite tree—the grand old Thorn—where, as he sings, he
may press a thousand thorns into his breast! There, across the hedge, he
sees the meadow with a shimmering yellow of Cowslips all over it—if
Cowslips be his desire, as is said. There, not too far off, is the straight
long railroad—and he loves the thunder of the train, and the red, fire-
spitting engine; but late in the night, when there is dark and death-like
silence among the trees, then the nightingale claims possession of the
whole, and all the garden is his own. I know not if the nightingale’s song
be melancholy or joyous. His voice has all the pathos of the finest things,
and in the broken notes we feel that not all nor half his soul is uttered,
and in each splendid fragment there is the sense of endless possibilities;
this, I think, is the secret of the nightingale’s incomparable charm.
I have omitted to mention amongst our Pansies, a very choice kind. It is a
curious burnt-brown colour, like the once fashionable “Paris brûlé.” We
name it Highcliff, after the place from whence we had it first. Two large
pink Oleanders in the greenhouse will soon be blossoming all over. We
tried them last year in the open air, but they did not do, and had to return
to their glass. A lovely face gazes at me all the time I write, and will not
suffer itself to be neglected! It is a choice white Cactus of great size,
with warm lemon colouring in the outer leaves. The stamens are so
delicately set, they tremble at the slightest touch, and the starry pointal is
itself a flower!
 JUNE.
A Mosaic of Nectared Sweets.

IX.

JUNE.
Of Pink May—Swallows in the Porch—Flowers de Luce—Poppies—A Little Scotch
Rose, and “Clutie.”

June 6.—It is difficult to know what to say about the garden in June. There is
so much to say, I can hardly tell how to begin. The leafy month earns well its
title, so grandly full-leafed are the trees; in finer leaf, I think, than they have
been for many a year. The Elms stand out against the sky in rounded blocks of
green, and in the Lime avenue the broad leaves meeting overhead are round
and pure in outline, untouched as yet by destroying worms, untorn by tempests.
The young Horse Chestnuts along the little watercourse are nearly twice the
size they were last summer, when cruel winds had left them only a few ragged
discoloured leaves. The flower-spikes of a Chestnut within the garden measure
near a foot in length. The great red Horse Chestnut (Pavias rubra) is red all
over; it is a mass of blossom almost from the ground upwards to the very top.
The tree is a fine sight, and if it were not so common one scarcely should tire
of admiring it. The season makes a great difference in the colouring of the
blossoms. Sometimes they come out almost yellow, from too little sun and too
much rain; but in the rich floraison of to-day their colour is almost crimson.
Then the Thorns are in great perfection; the branches of double Pink May can
be compared to nothing else but bars of pink velvet. The double scarlet
varieties are finer than usual, and under the hot sun their vivid colour is quite
dazzling. We find this sort rather capricious; some years there is more green
than red, and when the trees were younger the red was finer. A little single
Thorn draped itself down to the very grass in scarlet bloom; but it lasts so brief
a time that every petal now has fallen. It is a picturesque, delightful tendency in
all trees to bend and stretch out to meet each other; their branches love to touch
and interlace. So, at this time, across many of our green garden walks the
flowering May makes beautiful red-garlanded arches. Pink May and Laburnum
interweave their branches, and in another place a Cherry and a Thorn have
succeeded in meeting. A little further on, an Apple reaches out long arms
above the turf to touch a copper Beech. Here, in this corner, there is also
Laurel; and Brake Fern, springing of itself, will soon be tall enough to reach
almost the Apple branches. The Beeches, on either side the Allée Verte,
embower the walk, while along the outmost line their slender drooping shoots
stretch themselves to meet and embrace more staid and slow young Elm
branchlets, spreading from the great old trees. The nightingale’s old White
Thorn shone white like a great snow mountain for about ten days, surpassing
all the rest in beauty; and not far from it, deep in a thorny thicket of Dewberry
mixed with Ivy and Nettles, we found the nightingale’s nest. I often visited her,
and she would lie close, with head laid back, and bright, black, watchful eye
fixed full upon me; but I never saw her strange, smoked eggs, because she
would never stir from the nest. Massive gleams—if such an anomaly can be
said—of yellow Spanish and English Broom are shining between green trees,
in contrast with paler gold of overhanging Laburnum. I wonder if the Riviera
Broom would live in this climate. I mean the Broom that grows something like
a Rush, with the flowers set all round its polished stem.[5] In the orchard border
an immense luxuriantly rounded bush of Weigela replaces the Pyrus of last
month, the lovely pink of its blossom set off by the tender green around it.
These are all beautiful bits of colour, and yet they are only samples, as it were,
of what I wish and may partly hope for some day; for a Laburnum colonnade is
in contemplation, and lilac closes, and golden cloisters of Genista, some day,
there must be! Something also should be made of the pale hanging clusters of
Wistaria—a pergola ceiled in with its lilac pendants, or small bushes standing
alone, in some grassy place. Our Rhododendrons and Azaleas are in great
beauty, and since last year, are grown and filled out; the season seems in some
way to have pleased them well. We do not attempt fine sorts, though there is
just a sprinkling of crimson and white and a few others, amongst the showy old
pinkish-lilac sort. The broad border by the side of the walk along the Holly
hedge is filled with Rhododendrons and Azaleas; as yet only the common—yet
always beautiful—yellow and creamy-white Azalea, filling all the air with its
peculiar scent. The success of this border is especially pleasant, for the young
Americans made one rather nervous at times during the early spring—on days
when the weather did not exactly suit them they would look so pitiable and
dejected, with their leaves hanging straight down. Into this border were moved
most of the aged drawn-up Rhododendrons, that used to crowd the shrubberies.
Here, with more room, they have begun to bush out healthily. Yet there is at
present no peat or made-up bed, and the ground is flooded every winter. We
think of giving them a few cartloads of peat next autumn, just by way of
encouragement. In another year this walk will deserve to be called “the
Rhododendron Walk.” At the back of the border two double scarlet May trees
are now radiant with blossom. About three years ago they were removed here
out of the garden, where for some reason they had become sickly and had
ceased to bloom. Change of air and scene has worked wonders: they have
increased greatly in size, and the move is apparently forgotten. Beyond these is
the new orchard, deep in growing grass, and then the Larch Walk; and—and
then—palings, if the truth must out! Beyond the Holly hedge, in the shrubbery,
wherein we stuff everything that has nowhere else to go, there is at this
moment a white glory of snow-balled Gueldres Rose. In my ideal garden there
shall be large single trees of Gueldres Rose standing alone; not, as they
generally are grown, “smored up” with crowded shrubs.
[5] Spartium junceum.

But we have wandered far away from the beloved garden. Over the south porch
is the Lady’s Bower—the chamber always so called in old English houses—
with Vine-wreathed windows. Swallows are building in the garden porch. It is
the chimney swallow, with the red throat. Their confidence and tameness, the
perpetual darting in and out of blue-black wings (like tenderly domesticated
trout! as Mr. Ruskin says), and the conversational cheery twitter that goes on
all day long, are a continual feast. South, north, and east are the three porches
of the house, and swallows in all three. At the north they are more bold, but
somehow less familiar. Darting shoals of swallows dash in and out, through the
open doors into the house, and two nests are now nearly built. The family
motto, “God’s providence is my inheritance,” written round the porch walls,
suits well such a place of birds; while the footless martin—sign of the seventh
son—borne on the stone shield over the door among the Roses and Ivy, our
swallows may also feel to be not wholly inappropriate. Under the east porch,
which is now green with Virginian Creeper and Vine—and which will be in its
season purple with Clematis, a pair of swallows are arranging a settlement.
Here also, though not quite so welcome, no one dreams of denying them. After
the sun has turned the corner of the house, this porch is cool and shady. On the
threshold is set the legend, “Nos et meditemur in horto,” taken from a sun-dial
in the nuns’ garden at Polesworth, near Tamworth. The invitation, I think, is
generally disregarded. Many cross that threshold to walk in the garden and
admire the flowers, or to play tennis, or perhaps—to smoke. But I do not think
people often meditate much in the garden in these days. Dogs do sometimes, as
they sit in the sun. But I wonder how it is done!
From the south front a lot of Everlasting Pea has wound itself round between
the wall and the Yew buttress, taking up fully one half of the porch. It is well
named Everlasting! One has nothing to do but to dig it up, and cut and hack it
away, and the next year it will appear strong and hearty and in double quantity.
It takes no hint that there may be too much of a good thing! And yet, when it
looks so fresh and handsome, with its large bright flowers, it would be cruel to
wish it away. So let it be, to teach its lesson and to smother as it will. The white
Irises are nearly over, and Wood Strawberries begin to redden under the
windows. An old Maiden’s Blush Rose, covered with buds, peeps in at the
dining-room window on one side, and on the other is the lovely pink of a most
perfect Moss Rose. The parterr in front of the window is bedded out, of course.
I know that it soon will be a blaze of well-chosen colour; but excepting the
golden mount of Stonecrop in the centre, I do not take much personal interest
in its summer phase. It is fortunate for the garden’s character that this should be
so; for as the invention of new combinations of plants and colours would be to
me impossible, this is left always in our Gardener’s hands, with full confidence
that the result will be as perfect as such things can be. From the dining-room
window we can also see, between the Sumac and a Box tree, near where a
Pæony showers crimson on the daisies, a tiny mound of turf. It has been there
since the end of last month; and under it lies the dear little favourite of nine
summers—Clutie, the little black Skye terrier. She always loved the dining-
room!... We can now almost walk all round the garden in deep cool shade, such
growth the trees have made! The Broad Walk must always be exposed to the
sun; but from the west of it, across the lawn where the old bowling-green once
was, the distance from shade to shade lessens year by year as the trees grow on.
There is a charming well-shaded welt along the grass, of purple Pansies and
white Pinks, in two thick lines; and on the sunny side a very bright dash of
Limnanthes Douglasii has made a self-sown edging. As if it enjoyed the
pleasant coolness of a north-west border, one lovely double Narcissus still
lingers on in her early freshness. When hot sunbeams pierce the shade, every
day I think must be her last. The Spurge Laurel has relapsed into the plain
dulness of its summer state, but the Iris bank upon which it grows is as lovely
as heart can desire. Cedar and Copper Beech and one or two Firs cast light
shadows upon the company of Irises, and help them not to wither up too
quickly. The prevailing hue is lilac, with stronger tones, and yellows
intermixed. Each one in turn seems loveliest, but one chief beauty (Iris pallida)
has broad petals of soft grey, most delicately flushed with pink. Then there are
lilacs marked with deeper lines and white with lilac edges (Iris aphylla), finely
pencilled; Enchantress, and several other yellow Variegatas, with lines of red or
brown; pale yellow, with the three outer petals intense velvety-purple; and one
pale bluish, with deep blue-purple velvet outside, and bright yellow brush, well
marked. These two are much better than gay Darius, or the handsome sullen
Versailles. The sober old Marquise (Iris lurida), too—who is, however, more
like Mrs. Delany in dove-coloured mode silk hood!—after long delay, is there
amongst the best. Does any plant exist that loves not a corner or an edge? I
think not one; so a little corner here, where a narrow grass path crosses the Iris
bank into the Beechen close, is made especially lovely by the undesigned
grouping of three Irises, enriched by a background of green Ferns and Beech.
The centre of the group is a deep red-purple Iris (from Vesuvius), a finely
coloured yellow and purple, and between them a pure white. These grow tall
and stately from out their straight stiff leaves, while a little Welsh Poppy,
established there by chance, brings in its crumpled lemon-gold with the
happiest effect. Colour effects, wherever they appear in our garden, are seldom
planned. Somehow it does not come naturally to think, “Here there shall be
blue Larkspur and white Lilies,” or there red Poppies and something else. But
it is quite an exquisite delight to find the most beautiful accidents of colour in
unexpected places all about the garden. Then these chances may give hints,
which we can take or not. At a corner behind the dovecote there is a grand
crimson Pæony, mixed up with brilliant orange Marigolds, some of them black-
eyed; red and yellow are splendid, if well used. Against the dark brown of a
Cryptomeria Elegans stands a tall Tulip, like white china painted and streaked
blood-red; at least it is over now, but I see it all the same. Then there is a patch
of Welsh Poppy, growing just as one finds a patch of Gentian or white Crocus
on the Alps—and with it London Pride, a mass of feathery red, growing in the
same way. Under the trees, one meets a pallid Columbine, looking like a ghost,
and just by chance in the lilac Iris bed occurs one rich carmine Rose. I do not
even think the delicately refined colour combination of dwarf-growing Gloire
de Dijon Roses and bronze Heartsease was quite intentional; they mix,
however, strangely well. And the bed of pink Roses—Prevost and Jules
Margottin—with the white Pink “Mrs. Sinkins,” promises to be an equal
success.
One would fain stay for awhile the steps of the summer flowers in the garden;
but these bright daughters of the year, in long procession, flit by more swiftly
as each new day arises. They are in such a hurry now to come and to be gone,
alas! Even at this very moment there are signs of the quick approach of some
of our latest loves. For in the east border, among crimson Pæonies and
lingering purple Iris, appears already a single Dahlia! In such a multitude one
hardly knows which flowers to note, they are all so fair. But in the Fantaisie, I
think I could almost let the Roses go which are bursting into bloom as bushes
and as pillar Roses, just to keep it a little longer as it is now, with the hosts of
White Foxgloves, with double white Rockets, yellow Day Lilies, and puce-
purple Columbines; Irises and white stars of Nicotiana rising over an edging of
pink and white Phlox Nelsoni—all these and many more, set off by Cupressus
and Fir, interspersed among the flowers beyond; and flaring across the grass
walk, a great fiery scarlet Oriental Poppy. With the morning shining through it,
this flower seems made up of fire from the sun itself—the very purest possible
essence of scarlet. Several magnificent Poppies light up the garden at different
points. Their scarlet is a fast colour; neither wind nor sun will scorch or change
it in the least, and in this quality it is superior to so many flowers whose
colours fly directly—some more easily than others. The brown Heartsease
cannot stand the sun, while the large purple is unmoved. The crimson of the
Pæony flies; and the rose-red double Pyrethrum scorches quickly. Lilac
(excepting in Wistaria) seems one of the fastest colours in the garden!—though
rain-drops standing all night in a half-faded lilac Iris become a most beautiful
colour! Although it seems that scarlet, yellows, and colours in which blue is
mixed stand best. Besides the great scarlet Poppies, the annual Poppies are
coming on, in all their varied pinks, and reds, and whites; their large crumpled
petals have the shape and all the transparent delicacy of rare sea shells. There is
also a charming uncertainty as to the colours or amount of doubleness to be
expected. Amongst the best are bright reds with a clear white eye, and pink-
hemmed whites. But whenever anything approaching a common field Poppy
makes its appearance amongst them—as often happens, they have such a
strong tendency to run back—it has to be pulled up immediately. Our
Columbines are not so fine as they were last summer; their flowers are smaller
and not so free in form. The Californian scarlet and yellow is so small as to be
a miniature of itself. There is, however, one fine plant with flowers pale violet
and primrose, and the various tints of “crushed strawberry” are very lovely,
especially in the double Columbines.

* * * * *
June 15.—Here is the middle of the month, and the garden is more bewildering
than ever! Rosebuds in countless multitudes are blooming everywhere, in every
part. And as the fashion is to call her so, we must allow the Rose to be queen of
flowers; and since it is most true that Roses are—

“Not royal in their smells alone, but in their hue,”

so, though my beloved Iris has not yet faded from the garden, the Rose now
must be worshipped. One by one we have already greeted many of our old best
favourites. Amongst them Boursault came first, climbing the south gables of
the house; then Souvenir d’un Ami, large and full flushed, at the very top of the
long bare old stem of a climber, any age; then Gloire de Dijon, which, though
even more profuse in its bloom than usual, has a something not quite right
about it this year—a sort of old expression. After that, Maiden’s Blush and
Moss Rose. A great wild blush of Boursault Rose grows at the north end of the
garden—the flowers are lovely, recalling a little in their colour and irregular
shape what I remember as “the Musk Rose,” in the gardens of former days.
Coupe d’Hébé, on the wall of the gardener’s cottage, is perfect in scent and
shape and in true rose-colour. The yellow Briar is finer than usual, and Damask
Roses are opening fast. La France, too—the Rose whose scent is made of the
finest attar—has delighted us with half-a-dozen beautiful blooms; Blairii No. 2
begins to crest the wire arches (one never hears of No. 1!). But among the Rose
joys which abound already, or that we still expect in endless succession, none
are so dear to me as one little ragged bush, covered now with small white
Scotch Roses of exquisite perfume. This little Rose bush is forty-eight years
old, to my certain knowledge. It was planted by my father, and it has been mine
for the last twenty years. Last year it showed some signs of feebleness, so we
moved it from the over-crowded place where it had been for eleven years, into
a newly made bed with a south aspect. There, with a companion of the same
kind, it promises to take a new lease of life. Strange that such a little Rose
should thus live on for well-nigh half a century, calmly putting forth its leaf
and bloom summer after summer, whilst so many of the men and women who
knew it once have passed away! It somehow makes one think of the old monk
pointing to the frescoes on his convent walls, and saying, “These are the
realities; we are the shadows.”
A word of praise must be said for the blue and green of Anchusa Italica at the
southern end of the Broad Walk, and the beds of white Pinks (these are the old-
fashioned “maiden pinks of odour faint”), mixing their perfume deliciously
with Musk. The beds and large patches of beautiful “Mrs. Sinkins” are very
good this season. They are, as Bacon would say, “fast flowers of their smell,”
in flavour like Clove Carnations.
 JULY.
“As the last taste of sweet is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things
long past.”—S .

X.

MIDSUMMER AND JULY.

Of Pæonies—Iris Sibirica—Green Peas—Fennel—Strawberries—Lilies—The Vine.

June 24.—“Ere the parting hour go by, quick, thy tablets, Memory.” In less
than a week July will be here, and June will fade away into the past and be
forgotten, while more than half its loveliness is still unnoted and untold. So
here on Midsummer night, when the spirits of earth and air have power, let me
call back for a moment the dear-worth vision of flowers that were my delight in
the gone sweet days of early June. I would try also to fix the remembrance of a
few, out of the thousand glories of the day, doomed to die before ever the story
of next month begins. And first the Pæonies, which I have as yet scarcely
named. Earliest of all came the crimson-pink single Pæony (Pæonia
peregrina), with yellow stamens and bluish leaves, like a giant Rose of Sharon
(the single red Scotch Rose); then the pale pink double; then the heavy
crimson, that pales so quick in sun or rain; then, most beautiful of all, the pure,
cold, white Pæony, with a faint tinge of colour on its outer petals. Last of all
the large rose-red—rose-coloured, with an evanescent perfume like a dream of
the smell of a wild Rose, yet in substance so staunch a flower that I have
known rose Pæonies retain their beauty for two full weeks in a glass of water.
All these, excepting one or two who here and there outstay the rest, are gone
by.
And then the Elder! The hedgerows have been white with it; and there were
days when all the air was scented with it, and the country smelt of Elder! The
path under our one tree is now a milky way, covered with a myriad little fallen
stars. They remind one of the far-away Olives’ starry blossoms, when they fall
softly among Lady Tulips and Gladioli in May. Syringa (Philadelphus, or
Mock Orange) has come and almost gone; three varieties—the old small one,
the large-flowered, and the half-double sort. I like most the first, and this has
also the most powerful scent. A large old bush of it grows in the grass, just
without the glass door in the wall opening into the greenhouse. Dear Syringa!
best hated and best loved of flowers. The lovers of it hail its blooming with
enthusiasm, and break off sprigs to wear as they pass the bush, whilst others
will go the other way round to avoid passing near. And now it suffers still
further insult by being denied its own old name, Syringa! Even in 1597, in
Gerarde’s time, there began to arise some confusion between it and the Lilac,
or “Blew Pipe Tree.”
And now, at this very time, has come a new burst of Irises—the narrow-leaved
kinds. Not the real Spanish Irises; their time is not yet. We have a few old
plants whose flowers are deep bronze, flame-centred, in yellow gold, and a
stronger, commoner kind, of full lilac colour. One little plant, growing in a pet
corner by the iron gate in the south wall, has a delicate primrose and lilac-
tipped bloom. And there is the great white Flag Iris, whose grand leaves stand
four feet high. The right place has not yet been found for this fine plant. For
three years past he has just borne with us, and no more; I fear he dislikes us—
and he shows it. By the watercourse the yellow Flags are as yellow as possible,
in rich contrast with their dark green leaves; and in the Fantaisie, where the
China Tulip stood last month, showing bright against the dusky Cryptomeria
Elegans, is now a fine root of Iris (Sibirica alba). The blue Sibirica is good, but
this white variety is most lovely. One could not pass it by without remarking
the peculiar whiteness of its small shapely flowers, set on such long slender
stalks. How wonderful are the contrasts of white in flowers! Of those now in
bloom together, one hardly knows which to call the whitest of them all. This
little Iris retains through its whiteness a dim remembrance, as it were, of blue.
There is the kitchen garden, too! The fresh and brilliant beauty that just now it
holds within its walls will soon be past, giving place to richer, more sober
colours. Looking through the old ironwork of the gate, up the straight middle
walk, there is such a splendour of brightly blended colour in the flowers on
either side! As yet, they are in their prime; the key-note of colour is white—
double Rockets, double white Pyrethrums, and white Pinks. Then, bending
down over the walk, mixing in with the whiteness, glowing through leaf and
branch in brilliant intervals of colour, are Roses—pink, crimson, blush; Annual
Poppies, tender or dazzling in their hue; clouds of pale blue Delphinium, with
spires of deepening blue over-topping all the rest. Just midway between the
pink and crimson Roses, a Briar, wreathed about with small yellow blooms,
hangs over the cross walks at the corner. Masses of low blue Campanula fill in
below or between the larger flowers. Right at the end, another iron gate lets in
the glimmering of cool shades beyond. A little wren’s nest is there, ensconced
snugly in a bowery Clematis, half-way up the pillar; the nest cannot be seen so
far off, but I know well how the small entrance hole is quite filled up with
greedy little yellow beaks and gaping mouths! The little mother is hard at work
for them, somewhere near—hunting the bark of an Elm, most likely. The
golden wrens have brought out their families—two nestfuls. We found the
nests hanging in the Yews, and now the garden seems to be full of little elfin
scissors’ grinders, busy all day long.

The Parterr.

I have a fancy to open the gate and go all round the kitchen garden quite
prosaically. The other garden will seem still sweeter, after. Here, on the left, is
a breadth of wonderful Lettuces, round and close like small round Cabbages,
with milk-white middles; and beyond, some taller and tied-up—more like
Salad. Near the Lettuces are tall ranks of Peas, hung all over with well-filled
pods. I think I like these beautiful green Peas, growing here, as much as when
served up in a dish for dinner. There seems always to be something attractive to
Art of all kinds in pea pods; from the pods sculptured on the great bronze gates
of the cathedral at Pisa, or the raised needlework of the sixteenth century, to the
ornaments in the jewellers’ shops of Paris or the portraits of Marrowfats or
Telegraph Peas in the advertisement-sheets of gardening papers—these last
being really pictures, though not meant so. I remember once being shown a
white satin spencer of Queen Elizabeth’s, embroidered in butterflies and Green
Pea pods half-open, to show the rows of peas within.
I think there is Beetroot, and a fine lot of young Cabbages, beyond the Peas—
in which no one can feel any particular interest; and oh! such a sweet patch of
seedling Mrs. Sinkins white Pink. I wish that Pink did possess a more poetical
name—Arethusa or Boule de Neige! but the thing is done, and to the end of
time Mrs. Sinkins will be herself. Next comes a little square of Japanese Iris,
the tall stems tipped with swelling buds whose grand unfolding I long to see.
Rows of young Sage plants grow near, quite unlike sage-green, so-called, in
colour; and a nice little plantation of healthy-looking Fennel. That is for broiled
mackerel; but there is to me another interest connected with Fennel, that lies in
a lurking hope, always unfulfilled, of finding upon it a caterpillar of the rare
Papilio regina. Caterpillars of another sort are only too multitudinous on the
Currants growing up the walls. The increase of them, and of the sawflies
belonging to them, is not short of miraculous. One may stamp out whole
families and clear the bushes, and next morning they will be beginning again.
Yet invariably in the act of destroying there creeps in a sort of questioning,
whether the caterpillars have not full as good a right to the Currants as we have
—except, indeed, that we, and not they, planted them. But the sawflies would
seem to have at least a right to live—a greater right, perhaps, than we to have
tarts; yet they are spared none the more for such-like uncomfortable reflections.
On the south wall the fruit trees seem to be more or less flourishing. An old
Nectarine is covered with fruit. Then comes Apricot tree No. 1, on which I find
no Apricots; Nos. 2 and 3 the same, 4 dead, and 5 with “a good few” on it.
Then we come to Peaches, plenty of them; then a beautiful dark-leafed Fig tree;
and then the Cherries, well fruited and well netted. And so on round the walls.
Near the wren’s nest there is another large patch of Pinks, commoner and better
than any, with the neatest lacing of purple-madder or lake. And here a powerful
fragrance stops one short; it is the strawberries, smelling deliciously. They are
littered down with clean straw, and netted close, for the discomfiture of
blackbirds. The scent takes me back a very long way—back to an
inconceivable time, when this old smell of Strawberries, borne across the
hedge in the hot noontide of some summer holiday, was reason enough to set
us wild vagrants of the garden scrambling through the thorns to seize the
exquisite delight of spoiling our neighbour’s Strawberries—a joy that was
never marred, for we were never found out. Sun and rain have both been kind,
and this is our second week of immense red Presidents, one of the oldest and
best of strawberries—the older Caroline being now quite forgotten. The
espaliers are showing plenty of Apples and Pears. Three Pear trees, standing at
the four cross-ways, are curiously in bloom; the blossoms are all sickly-looking
and undersized, but the trees are covered with them up to the very top, while
fruit is set at the same time. I dislike this unnatural blooming, for the mind will
persist in reverting to foolish sayings and superstitions connected with trees
bearing fruit and flower at the same time.
Among the pleasant sights of this mid-summertide, perhaps the pleasantest of
all is the great thicket of wild Roses growing within the wire network that
bounds the tennis-lawn on the garden side. The east, shining full upon it every
morning, brings forth hundreds of new-blown Roses. Very often, as you pass
into their sweet presence from under the Plane trees, the air is redolent of a
subtle perfume—not always, though, nor every day, for Roses are capricious of
their scent. The yellow-stamened centre of each flower glows like a tiny lamp
of gold, and the soft petals surrounding it are rose-pink of the tenderest dye.
Were these the canker-blooms of Shakespeare? If so, and if in his day they
could be said to “live unwooed, and unrespected die,” surely now the tide has
turned, for the wild Rose is beloved of all; while we must confess that garden
Roses now-a-days do not always “die sweet deaths.”

* * * * *
July 22.—

“It is not growing like a tree

In bulk that makes man better be.
The Lily of a day
Is fairer far in May:
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.”
Ben Jonson.

Once more our favourite old Ben! Roses are gone, and the memory of them is
as of something too beautiful for words. And Lilies, too, are over; the fairest of
them, the tall white Lily, with her shining head—nil candidius—pure as the
shining robe of saints in heaven—better than Solomon in his glory. She, too, is
past; nothing of her remains but long dismal stems, with down-hanging
shrivelled leaves and melancholy pointals undrest of beauty—to tell of her
former pride.
 East Gate.

The character and features of the Lily would seem to be well marked enough;
and yet, sometimes, the popular idea of it is certainly a mixed one. In former
days flower-hawkers in the streets of London may be remembered crying,
“Lilies, fine white Lilies!” with their barrow-loads of white Thorn, or May
blossom, from the country. Some botanical reason there must have been for the
Lilies in Ferrari’s “De Florum Cultura” (1633) being named Narcissus! I have
been studying an odd volume of this curious old book, and the unmistakable
Lilies represented in the plates are all “Narcissus Indicus.” Even the Water-lily-
like Blood Flower is a Narcissus. Very likely these remarks may only show my
ignorance.
July must be all retrospect, for all is over—or so it seems to me. After an
absence of a few days, on returning to the garden, I find there is a change—an
almost autumnal feeling in the air, and withered leaves are blown across the
lawn. Faint perfumes linger still about the Limes, and though no song birds are
there, the sound of bees is heard in the green depths above. But we no longer
would breakfast under the Limes, as we did so short a while since, in summer
days departed. Wind and rain have done their worst amongst the flowers, and
yet there is consolation in all that remains. The best are passed away, but
beautiful new things are coming on. The Evening Primrose (Ænothera) already
lights up the garden ways. Variegated Maples, with their foliage white as ivory,
look their best against the darkening Elms.[6] The hedge of Sweet Peas is for
the moment in beauty. Sweet Peas go off too quickly in our light warm soil, so
we try to prolong their blooming to the latest limit by cutting off their pods as
fast as they appear.
[6] A small branchlet in one of these white Maples has returned to the
original green, and this is also the sole bit of the tree that bears a bunch of
keys.

Purple draperies of Clematis (Virgin’s Bower), in many shades, from the

deepest violet softening into grey, make the old brick walls beautiful; or the
same Clematis droops from trellises, or clambers up the trees in many parts of
the garden. Almost always it so happens that the tender green of Vines mingles
with the purple. There is something almost unpleasing in the arrangement of
the four petals of Clematis Jackmanni! but much must be forgiven for the sake
of such grand colouring. No climbing plant comes near the Vine, perhaps, in
perfect grace and beauty of line. The fruitful Vine gives delight to the eye in far
larger measure than Virginia Creeper, or any other of our green hangings upon
the walls of a house. The Vine is more obedient and yet more free, and its
intelligence is greater. Thinking of the Vine as of a person, one would say that
her foliage shows all the variety of genius. Scarcely will you find two leaves
alike, in shape, or size, or colour. The youngest leaves are half-transparent and
golden-green, or reddened by the sun; on some the light lies cold and grey. If
the Vine is trained round the window, the leaves seen from within outspread
against the light glow like green fires. The very shadiest recesses of the Vine
are full of light. And then the tenderness and strength of her slender beautiful
tendrils! How they reach out like sentient hands! and when they have found,
how strong and firm their clasp! Then, who does not know and love the curious
aroma of her small green flowers, bringing back to memory the smell of a
Southern vineyard? Very soon, now, autumn suns will swell the clustered fruit,
and purple bloom will begin to show between the leaves. A Vine is one of the
only plants whose every leaf, well nigh, may be painted with care in a picture,
and yet not seem too much made out. Yet rarely indeed can human hand give
the fine thinness and yielding texture of a Vine leaf!
We are never without Portulaca and Mesembryanthemum (how far more
simple is the old name—Fig Marigold) about this time, and the two beds of
them now flowering are especially brilliant. Cool colours tell beside the scarlet
and orange that mostly prevail, and in this way nothing could be more
refreshing than the dwarf Ageratum and blue Lobelia, mixed with honey-
scented Koniga Maritima Variegata, near the Carnations and Portulaca. The
deep blue, with bronze foliage, of the Lobelia beds in the parterr is almost hot
beside the cooler blues beyond. The Sumac this year is not in beauty—not as if
a sunset cloud had settled down upon it. The multitude of new green shoots
would seem to overpower the crimsoned fluff.
 AUGUST.
The Garden is a mute Gospel.
The Garden is a perpetual Gala.

XI.

AUGUST.
“My Sunflower”—Of a Garden Sunday—Of Ghosts in the Twilight—Magnolia
Grandiflora.

August 6.—The Lime avenue is pleasanter than ever now, on these bright
afternoons when the low sun strikes amber shafts through the branches, and
light shadows lie on the parquet of brown and yellow leaves beneath. With
every breeze hundreds of the winged sea-vessels, like queer little teetotums,
come twirling down. The wrens are busy with their second or third nests—
without counting the cock-nests at the beginning of the season; the porch
swallows are thinking of a second brood, and scatter straws of hay and patches
of wet mud untidily upon the stones underneath their nests; thrushes go about
the lawn followed by two or three great awkward young ones (their third
family this season), too foolish to pick up worms for themselves. As for the
sparrows, they are hard at work with probably the sixth or seventh nest of their
series. Roses are coming on in their second bloom; low bushes and standards of
La France show large buds and attar-scented blossoms; while crimson Roses of
many names glow in richest bloom here and there all over the garden. Precious
as are these late Roses, the chord of colour has changed so much since Roses
were in their prime, that fresh pink or crimson seem almost misplaced among
the fiery reds and scarlet. White Roses are seldom so beautiful as one feels they
ought to be; but a small plant of the Japanese Rosa Rugosa, in its first season
with us, has been a great pet this summer, with its large white petals; the
Macartney also is welcome, flowering as it has for the first time in its life here.
The buds have hitherto always fallen off, without an attempt at unclosing, and
it has only kept its place on the wall for the sake of the lovely evergreen leaves
and yearly promise of abundant bloom. But the only perfect white Rose, the
White Moss, remains still for me a dream and nothing more. There are tall old
bluish-pink Roses at the back of the Beechen close which have been blooming
in almost rank luxuriance. They, with a few Cabbage Roses and Maiden’s
Blush, and a yellow Banksia, were all of Roses the garden had when first we
came here, eleven years ago. At that time they were thought too ugly almost to
live, and were banished to the outskirts. But time has brought them round to the
front again; and now these relics of a bygone Rose age are beloved for their
redundant and perfumed bloom, and for their most uncommon colour, the red
in them being so largely mixed with cold blue. The York and Lancaster Rose—
long lost and long coveted—will, I hope, ere next season be established with
us. For the other day in Somersetshire we found one growing near a ghostly
house in a deserted garden, and from this plant we have some healthy suckers. I
cannot keep pace with the new Roses; they are mostly too large and heavy.
They seem to run too far from the flatness of a really typical Rose type.
We have not made pot pourri this summer; but the Lavender harvest is
gathered in, with spikes unusually fine. I am not sure that they smell much the
sweeter for their great size. It is a pleasant time when the Lavender is laid out
in trays, and the house is full of the sweetness of it. On these bright windy
mornings the Broad Walk looks its best. Looking up from south to north, the
end of the walk, framed in with trees, is bounded by a low Quickset hedge,
beyond which lies meadow-land, with glimpses of yellow corn-fields. Beyond
all is the soft blue of distant wood. Along the Yew hedge, on one side, are long
borders in the turf of single Dahlias, in succession to Sweet-williams (Bearded
pink); and the other side under the wall is enriched with scarlet, the scarlet of
those tall Lychnis which the children call “Summer Lightning” (Lychnis
chalcedonia, flower of Bristow and Constantinople). And there are sheaves of
finely dyed rose-red Phloxes, pyramids of blue and white Campanula, and
clumps of dark blue Salvia; grey and feathery Gypsophila Paniculata also—
priceless for the setting off of delicate Poppies and other refined and frail kinds
when cut. Yet the mass of colour would be far more brilliant but for the bulbs
which lie hidden under the earth. They must not be disturbed by planting in
amongst them, so all that is in the border has its place there perennially.
Spaces in the wall behind—where the ancient Pear trees may have perished
from old age—are sometimes dressed in spreading Vines. Last month a tall
blue Larkspur, near one of these Vines, was caught by the wandering tendrils,
and so they grew together, the Larkspur upheld by her friend the Vine with a
strong and tender grasp. Green streamers of this Vine also wreathe the head of
an iron gate empurpled with intermingling Clematis. Here also, close to the old
wall, at regular intervals, are our Sunflowers; some of them grow to nearly ten
feet in height. After many trials of other spots, we think they seem to do best
planted thus. The shelter saves them all conflict with wind and rain, and they
are tall, and straight, and full, having no cares of weather to divert their gradual
growth to beauty. There was a time when I did not love Sunflowers. Their
constant repetition as a kind of æsthetic badge can scarcely fail to tire. In those
days they had no place in the garden, or only in some out-of-the-way obscure
corner. But once I found a little song of William Blake’s, and ever since, for the
music of it, the Sunflower has been beloved, with the feeling that to know her
is to give her your heart.

“Ah, Sunflower! weary of time,

Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden prime
Where the traveller’s journey is done,
Where the youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin, shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go.”

Perhaps there is not much of common sense in the words! but they surely are
most musical. How grand these Sunflowers are! and there is a sweet and
gracious look in the Sunflower’s open face. With all her grand mien and stately
stature, she never stares up direct at her god; the golden head half bends down;
downward also point the symmetrically set broad leaves, delicately shaped en
cœur. The whole aspect is one of contemplation, or at least one fancies it to be
so. There is also a sort of majesty in the one strong single stem, from which
proceeds so fine a show of buds, and flowers, and leaves. Yet I have never been
happy enough to see her act the part of the poet’s Sunflower—the real
Sunflower of our earthly gardens could never turn her head so fast; all that I
know she does is to bloom on whichever side of her the sun rises. Poets,
nevertheless, are the true seers, and without doubt they know what they say.
The French name, “Tournesol,” would seem to imply a popular belief that the
flower follows the sun.
The silly Dahlia would turn her face to the wall or any way. Brilliant as are
these single Dahlias, they are rather trying in their ways; so much rank leaf and
stalk, and so little flower; the plants sometimes too large and bushy, sometimes
too thin; and then it is so irritating when their backs are turned as one passes
along the walk! The so-called Cactus Dahlia is not at all tiresome; it is
beautiful both in form and colour.

* * * * *
Aug. 26. Sunday Morning.—After a hundred years, if the Seven Sleepers
awoke on an English Sunday morning, they would certainly at once know what
day it was. There is nothing else like it for the feeling of intense repose. No
other stillness can compare with the deep calm of a Sunday morning such as
this. No leaf stirs; there is no cloud moving about in the hot hazy blue; the
clatter of the iron road has ceased; the very birds are still. Swallows alone are
ever on the wing, and the silence is so profound that the beat of their wings can
be heard as they dart by in rapid course. The busy corn-fields lie empty in a
golden rest. Only here and there, where the harvest is not yet gathered in, the
sheaves, like praying hands, stand together on the field. In the green pastures
the grazing cattle seem to tread with hushed and silent step. And there is a
sound of church bells on the air, coming clear yet faint across the level country.
There will be no church for the tired harvestmen whom we saw yesterday lying
on the dusty grass by the roadside. They are too tired, and too ragged and dirty;
but we may hope for them also some restful influences from the quiet of the
day, under such a blue sky.
The early morning is always the time of all others for the garden, while the
flowers are refreshed with the dew and darkness and cool of night, and are
rejoicing yet in the light of a new sun. Soon they will begin to flag in the dry
weary round of burning hours. To one who only knows the garden after 8
o’clock a.m., a walk round it between 7 or 8, or earlier, would be a revelation.
On this special morning the flowers in the east border seem penetrated through
and through with the rapture of existence. Each Sunflower stands with half-
transparent shadow sharp out upon the wall behind it, its petals fresh gilt, its
centre sparkling with dew; rose-red Phlox and flaming Sword Lilies (Corn-
flag), blue Salvia intermixed with many-coloured stars of Dahlias, and an
indescribable mob of smaller, more insignificant things. Round the corner a
great mass of common white Clematis fills the air with fragrance. It is all
whiteness and sweetness; it is a summer cloud, a white cumulus of surpassing
beauty. One of the stone vases of the gate pillars is completely hidden under
the white foam. But this matters not; nothing matters but that we should have
the Clematis there, in its loveliness! The Tigridias in the entrance court are
wide open, and none would guess how brief their hours were to be. There are a
few perfect Roses—morning glories (Convolvulus major), and orange
Tropœolums (“Lark-heels trim”) with bluish leaves. The dew lies upon all, and
one may say in the garden the Psalmist’s words about the valleys thick with
corn, for the flowers all seem to laugh and sing with joy. Ten glorious days of
almost uninterrupted sunshine have made us very dry. Daily waterings help to
keep things alive, but the grass is a little brown in some parts of the lawns, and
there are yellow leaves on the Elms and the older Laburnums. The dead dry
leaves rustle so thick under foot in the Lime Avenue, that one looks up to see if
any green is left.
Most of the German seed Grasses are already gathered, though a few have still
to ripen. We always sow a good variety; they look so fresh while growing, and
afterwards are dried for the winter. There is the pretty Tussock Grass, with soft
downy tufts, and the long feathery kind, like waving hair; and one, most
delicate and spray-like, is a sort of miniature Bulrush, with a green curved
head; and then there is a little forest of our English Bashaw Grass (Bromus
aspen). This is very handsome and gigantic in size, and came up of itself in one
of the wild bits of the garden. The handsomest of all our Grasses this year is a
fine blue Grass (Lyme Grass, Elymus arenarius), from the dunes of Holland.
The colour amongst other greens is absolutely blue. It grows so strong, and the
leaves so long, that it might almost be mistaken for an Iris. It is strange that this
Grass should thrive apparently as well, or better, in a Buckinghamshire garden,
than in its native sands! Near the old Syringa (Philadelphus), on the turf at the
greenhouse door, two large pots of white Campanula are stood out for change
of air. They are so tall that as one passes by in the gloaming, one is startled by
these tall white people suddenly appearing out of the dusk. Others of the same
pyramidal Campanulas remain in the house. They are pale pinkish blue and
white. Hundreds of blossoms cover up and hide the whole plant, and nothing is
seen but the mass of wide open flowerets. So cleverly are the flowers arranged,
there is no sign of over-crowding—and one asks how this is, for they seem to
be set quite close and even. “To questions such as these Nature answers, ‘I
grow.’” The Auratum Lilies had vainly promised to open for so long that I
almost lost patience. The dry weather may have caused them to delay. Constant
watering seems now to have begun to take effect, and there are two or three
superb blooms. The bulbs are not taken up for the autumn; they are only
covered over with fine ashes or cocoanut fibre. If a plant will consent to live in
its own place winter and summer, it seems so much more real, somehow. I
wished to try the plan with our Spanish Irises, but in their case it proved a
complete failure. Our large roots of Salvia Patens are seven years old; they are
yearly cut down and covered with ashes.
The parterr is at this time in its full perfection. In other gardens I observe the
blue Lobelia has done flowering, but our seedling that we raised, with bronze
foliage, is as fine as it was two months ago. I cannot say the blue is so cool as
the others, but the staying power of this special kind is of real importance, and
the beds are most luminous. I am greatly enjoying a beautiful large blue
Agapanthus in a green tub, placed on the grass near a trimmed Box tree, with a
black Irish Yew for background. The scarlet Pelargoniums (must that long
name be always said?) glow so hotly, they seem to want as much blue and
green as we can give them. Never has our Magnolia Grandiflora flowered so
well; I have counted nine great blossoms on the two trees at the same time. The
texture of no other flower comes near to the beauty of the Magnolia. I
remember long ago a white-chested beautiful boy, whose mother called him in
play her Magnolia boy. That little child was the only flower I ever saw that
could compare with the Magnolia!
 SEPTEMBER.
“Time will not run back to fetch the age of gold.”—M .
“In graceful succession, in equal fulness, in balanced beauty, the dance of the
hours goes forward still.”—E .

XII.

SEPTEMBER.
Of Psyche—Of an Old Garden—Nil Desperandum—Of Branches bearing
Beauteous Fruit.

September 17.—That is not to-day! Time has since been sliding on faster
and further away from summer into autumn. Yet I have a fancy to mark
the date of as sweet a September day as ever shone upon this garden. I
believe the people who got most enjoyment out of the sunshine of that
marvellous day were the butterflies. There was a real butterflies’ ball
held in the long border of single Dahlias! An hour before noon the
flowers, beautiful in all the brilliance of their rainbow dyes, were visited
by a dancing throng of Atalanta butterflies. Yellow, red, orange, lilac,
white—every flower had its Atalanta or two. They were the finest
butterflies of the kind I ever saw. Strong on the wing, and faultless in the
perfection of their white-edged black velvet and scarlet suits, they were
the very embodiment of joyousness. Not a jot did they care, in their pride
and joy of life, though a hundred deaths surrounded them. They knew
nothing at all about that, indeed. Life in the balmy air with the sunshine
and the flowers was all in all to them. A few shabby Gamma moths, and
hosts of humble bees, combining business with amusement, mixed in
with the butterflies. By noon the whole gay company dispersed. Later in
the day I found those fickle Atalantas disporting themselves upon some
yellow Everlastings in another part of the garden. Butterfly life varies in
our garden year by year, but I never saw so many Atalantas. This
summer we have seen few Peacocks or Tortoiseshells. Orange-tips
(Euchlæ cardamines) were unusually plentiful in the spring, as were also
our White Cabbages throughout the summer. So much fair weather as
there has been required a good supply! since two white butterflies in the
morning are the sure sign of a fine day—and this summer they had
always to be about in pairs. Often, a large brimstone has floated calmly
by. The chalkhill blue (Polyommatus Corydon), for many past seasons
noted as appearing about the Yew hedges in March, has failed us this
year; there have been no humming-bird sphinxes, and the far-scented
Auratum Lilies, where often on warm evenings I have sought great
Hawkmoths, seem to have attracted nothing but scores of very inferior-
looking Gammas. It is an intense pleasure to watch these various most
beautiful beings, in all the freedom of their wayward wildness. No
inducement would to me seem powerful enough—now that the barbarity
of youth is past—to cause their capture and death, were they never so
rare as specimens.
And now the rain and the falling leaves recall but too vividly the true
date (Sept. 28), reminding me that I have to tell of the garden’s autumnal
desolation; yet if the days would only keep fair and bright, enough still is
left there to make one happy. The single Dahlias have won their way
quite since last I wrote, and now I love them dearly. They are alone
sufficient to light up half the garden. Our chief border is made up of
seedlings, an exquisite variety of colours, mauve or rose-lilac coming
least often, and a yellow with reddened or burnt-sienna tipped petals by
far the loveliest. Named varieties are along with the Sunflowers opposite.
White Queen I like the best—such large pure flowers. A White Queen
with an Atalanta butterfly settling on it is a perfect little bit of contrasted
colour. I am schooling myself to say Dah-lia, but habit is strong, and
Daylia will persist in coming out. In Curtis’s Botanical Magazine of
1803, vol. xix., p. 762, “Dahlia Coccinea, scarlet-flowered Dahlia,” is
figured. There is a note—“So named in honour of Andrew Dahl, a
Swedish botanist; ... not to be confounded with Dalea, a plant named
after Dale, the friend of Ray.” The pronunciation settled, the magazine
goes on to say the Dahlia is “a native of South America, and may be
considered as a hardy greenhouse herbaceous perennial.” These beautiful
flowers are especially valuable, since rain has no effect on them, though
rough winds so easily break the brittle stems. The double Dahlia is
unknown in our garden; it has never been admitted. Fine as it is in form
and colour, the dislike to it seems, perhaps, unreasonable, yet through
some far-off association, I can never disconnect the double Dahlia from a
sort of mixture of earwigs and pen-wipers! The clumps of Japanese
Anemones, both white and rosy-grey, are full of an unfailing charm. We
try to prolong their existence by snipping off the round seed-heads. One
might as easily make ropes of sand.... The same service done to Dahlias
is just within human possibility. The dark red-mauve variety shows an
individuality which gives it great value in the autumn borders. The
irregularly shaped flowers, whose narrow petals manifest an inclination
to double, last longer than those of the other two kinds. Rain and wind
have destroyed the beauty of Salvia Patens; it will bloom out again,
however. The rich blue of this well-loved Salvia contrasts well with
white Anemones when mixed in the flower-glasses. As for cut flowers,
they are always a doubtful pleasure. I gather them with a pang, and
would rather enjoy them blooming their full time out in the garden. And
yet what other ornament is there—even of finest porcelain—to compare
with fresh-cut flowers? Nor are pictures, nor rich satins of Italy,
sufficient without flowers to make your room look bright and habitable.
Even that best decoration, walls well lined with books, is the better for a
few flowers on the table. So that I am not yet prepared to follow the
example of the old lady who never allowed one flower in her garden to
be cut, and filled her glasses with artificial Roses! Sunflowers are
sprouting round their strong stems, and surrounded thus by constellations
of smaller suns, are perhaps even handsomer than before. We have two
curiosities of Sunflower at this moment—curious as demonstrating a
resolve to exist and flower under any circumstances whatever. One is a
large thick-stemmed plant, which must have met at some time with some
violent discouragement; it lies curled round flat on the earth, looking
almost like a poor starved cat with a large head; for, though quite
overgrown with summer Phloxes and Roses, etc., one large flower at the
end of its stalk tries to look up, while two or three of smaller size,
growing along the stalk, do the same. In contrast to the deformity below
it, a miniature Sunflower, slenderly graceful, with blossom no larger than
a florin, springs out of the mortar between two bricks high up on the
wall. There is no visible crevice, but some tiny nail-hole there must be
where somehow a seed had lodged.
Though many borders have now begun to look forlorn, we feel the
garden has done well. It is still quite full of flowers, in some parts gay,
even, as it could never have been with the dulness of the most brilliant
“bedding out.” The entrance court is bright with Nicotiana, scarlet
Pelargoniums, Zinnias, double white Petunia, and blue Lobelias. The
long-desired pink China Roses, intended for these beds once, could not
be found anywhere. Such simple loveliness is out of fashion, it seems!
Torch plants (Tritoma) are alight in all the edges of distant shrubberies.
There are Japan Anemones and Œnothera everywhere. The Sweet Pea
hedge by the tennis-court is out again in bloom. Marigolds take care of
themselves. They keep going off and coming on again, shining out in the
dark where least expected. Our Marigolds are of the deepest orange-gold.
The seed was brought from Cannes, where their colour is always fine.
They incline to turn pale with us, so we have to weed out pale faces in
order to keep the stock black-eyed and fiery. Golden Rod is plentiful and
useful, and I like it for the sake of old remembrance. Eighty years ago, as
I used to hear, the gardens at Hampton Court knew no other flowers at
all.[7] The great square beds were simply filled with Golden Rod. Those
must have been happier days at Hampton Court, before carpet bedding
was known—when the Yews were in all their beauty, and the fountain
sent up its single lofty jet, and children played upon the mimic harp
wrought in the beautiful iron gate of the Pavilion Walk, or peeped
through the bars at the browsing deer.
[7] In the royal private gardens, however, at Hampton Court, rare
plants were cultivated so far back as 1691; such as the Green-
flowered Knowltonia Vesicatoria, etc.

Amongst what may be called the ruck of flowers throughout the garden,
are deep crimson Snapdragon, Zinnias, of all shades of colour; Verbenas,
pink, white, red, and striped purple; low Phloxes, flesh-coloured and
crimson—more beautiful than they ever were in their proper season;
Musk, Michaelmas Daisies, Euphea Platycentra, Mignonette, Lobelias—
the bronze-leaved Lobelia Cardinalis; lilac and white and pink
Everlastings, white Marguerites and red Pyrethrums, Princes’ Feather,
yellow Heartsease, and Mrs. Sinkins Pink in a grand dash of second
bloom—an endless variety, all making the effort to put forth their best,
now that the last times draw so near. We might gather baskets of flowers
and fill the house with them, were we so minded, and still hardly miss
them from the garden. And yet has it not been said, “Bright tints that
shine are but a sign that summer’s past”? And full well I know the
garden’s pleasure is even now growing towards the end. Roses, it need
scarcely be said, abound; even Charles Lawson is red with a second
bloom. A few Damask Roses are coming out by mistake. They look very
strange, putting one in mind of a long-forgotten Rose, the Rose des
Quatre Saisons. I see it clearly now, as I knew it in other days—pink all
over with its October blossoming—in a garden whose loveliness lives
only in the past. “Quarter Sessions” Rose, the ancient guardian of the
place not unnaturally used to say! Shall I try to paint that garden? for
surely none such exist any more. It was like Shelley’s poem of the
“Sensitive Plant,” full of the poetry of trees, and grass, and flowers.... A
nearly level space cut in the depths of a hanging wood; no enclosing
boundary to be seen, save here and there, between the Rhododendrons,
hints of a mossy low stone wall, or the Sweet Briar hedge at one end
fencing off a stretch of Cedarn turf. On the upper edge of the gently
sloping lawn a grand old Beech tree with silvered bole caught the rays of
the morning sun. There was a giant Larch, all bearded with long grey
lichens; a Tulip tree, a standard Magnolia. Here also was the orangery;
up its columns were twined trumpet Honeysuckles and Passion-flowers.
In front, a sunny plot—oblong beds, with narrow walks between—was
devoted to Carnations, Ranunculus, and many choicest favourites. A
walk wound round the lawn, and upon the smooth grass were beds full of
lovely old-fashioned flowers. Large tree-Roses, yellow Briars, and
Scotch Roses (white and red), and the old Queen of Sweden, and tall
poles covered with climbing Roses, loose-petalled and cherry-coloured
—Noisettes, and Souvenir de Malmaison grew also on the turf, with
arches of Honeysuckle and thickets of incense-breathing Spice plants.
On the lower shady side the walk went on between bosquets of Kalmia
and Azalea. Here also great heaped-up limestone rock formed a sort of
natural wall between the garden and the wood. Every cranny was filled
with rare and delicate Ferns and all shade-loving Alpine plants, while
double white and blue Periwinkles streamed down everywhere. Alpine
Roses, too, flourished here luxuriantly. On the lower side, at one corner,
a vista was cut through the trees, so that over the Rhododendrons, here
kept quite low, one looked through a frame of Beeches far away across
the wide sunlit valley, across the corn and pastures, hedgerows, coppice,
and farm roofs, to the long range of wooded hills, and the grey tower
cresting the distant headland. A little wire gate, hid behind the rocks,
gave access to the garden from the house by a narrow pathway in the
wood. I never knew that garden in its prime. When I remember it the
sweetest flowers grew amid long weeds and grasses, and it had all the
wild grace of a deserted garden; for those who loved it were gone, and
the old gardener could scarce hobble round to tend his “Quarter
Sessions” Roses; and now he too is long dead, and the place is—
modernized....