The Six of Spades. By the Rev. S. Reynolds Hole.
(Blackwood.)— A delightful book this, as those who read Mr. Hole's "Book about Roses" will have expected. The Six of Spades is the title of a small club of gardeners, which meets in winter evenings to discuss certain matters connected with their profession. The author himself is the president, and he draws the portrait of each of his fellow-clubmen. There is Mr. Oldacre, gardener at the castle to the Duko of —, with acres of glass under his control, a man of fourscore, but with not a little both of the activity and of the receptivity of youth; Mr. Chiswick, gardener at the Hall, less magnificently furnished with the apparatus of his occupation, but in possession of all its newest lights; Mr. Evans, who is the president's own particular master ; Mr. Grandy, who manages the modest domain of the maiden ladies at the Grange, and does not disdain, as the author puts it, to look after the horse as well as the horse-radish ; and lastly, the Curate, who is his own gardener. Each member makes his contribution, the president discoursing on what we may call his conversion to the worship of flowers, this conversion having been wrought by the magic influence of a rose. Mr. Oldacre tells the story of a daughter of the great house. Then Mr. Chiswick discourses sensibly on "bedding out," and Mr. Evans on "shows and showing." Mr. Grundy sings a song, which is the only thing in the volume which we are inclined to spare, and the curate enlarges "On the Happiness of a Garden." The book reminds us of one which may be road with pleasure by those who know nothing of "rotation of crops," and "thin sowing," and other mysteries of agriculture, "The Chronicles of a Clay Faint." It is the work of a man profoundly acquainted with his subject, and enthusiasti- cally fond of it ; but it is not technical, it is rarely didactic, though, indeed, one learns no little from it, and learns the more, we fancy, the more one knows ; it is simply a delightful book, a work of no small literary skill, which happy owners of gardens will read with groat delight, and the gardonless with a delight scarcely inferior.
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