BACKS AND BACK GARDENS.
THERE is a certain indication of character to be found in back yards and gardens for those who take the trouble to look for it. Even the short railway run from the suburbs to the City will provide ample food for reflection on this score. And what a motley array of backs it is! Long backs, short backs, full backs, empty backs, ugly backs, lovely backs, and some that are no backs at all ; that is, backs of ground. There are brick and mortar backs ; but even these tell their own tale of existence of character—the triumph of mind over matter which is apparent sometimes in the most unlikely places, and upon which we will touch later. We mat put on one aide
altogether the back of the modern, flashy villa, the garden of which betrays only the character of a jobbing gardener, if it can be called any character at all. Nothing in heaven or upon earth will persuade that worthy that anything more suitable for summer gardening can be found than the orthodox, red-hot, glaring glory of the red geranium, blended with the blazing yellow of the calceolaria or the dazzling whiteness of the pyrethrum. The modest blue lobelia, which is the only refreshing part of the arrangement, seems to be trying to keep cool, in spite of its close proximity to such emblems of fire and heat. The only deductions to be made from backs like these is that the owners have money, and perhaps those many other interests in life which money and leisure can procure. They like a garden to sit in on Sundays, as a drying ground on Mondays, and to invite their friends to tea in on other days in the week. They give the gardener carte blanche to put in " the usual things "—dozens of plantlings composed of a few leaves with one stilted head standing stiffly erect on each. Then they are placed in straight rows, like toy soldiers, ready to shoot fiery darts at every pair of tired eyes that fain would look and linger on a more soothing scene.
We pass several gardens like these, entirely summer gardens, and the chances are that only fair-weather friends would be found there. But here and there we find the garden of the man who rides one particular hobby. It may be fruit, and everything else has to make way for his numerous trees. But they are beautiful in spring, cool and shady in summer, both useful and beautiful in autumn, while winter shows that care and thought are being bestowed on bare branches, in preparation for the next year's harvest. A benign character must dwell beyond that back garden— a man of fine intelligence and self-denying habits, and yet a generous soul who loves to cultivate such a garden not so much for what he can get as for what he can give out of it. Next, we pass the garden of the rose-fancier —a truly lovely vision, but all too fleeting. Here are ramblers in rich profusion over everything, standards in every shade of beauteous colour, bushes in every sunny corner. And here, we would imagine, lived the man of sunny nature, he who looks always on the bright side of life, although the thorns are there, as in his garden, tucked away under bowers of bloom. If you could see his front door, as well as his back, you might find him sallying forth laden with bunches of his sweetest-scented specimens wherewith to brighten the gloom of a sick friend's room. Quite an opposite sort of character might be found there certainly—that of the man who begrudged even one spray picked for his own table. But we prefer not to think of that one, and pass on to the next back. This one, perhaps, is the all-grass-and-evergreen back, cool and refreshing to look at, but slightly uninteresting. It is possibly the garden of the people who "have no time" for gardening. The straggling, unclipt laurels and indifferently cut grass tell the story of the poor lodging-house keeper's struggle for existence ; or it may be the garden of the woman with a "cause," whose home and everything surrounding it are left to take care of themselves.
Now we come upon a garden bearing a totally different aspect from all the rest. It is the garden of the ambitious man or woman, for women do a good deal of the gardening that is done nowadays. Here conventional orthodoxy is conspicuous by its absence, and Nature, just assisted, does her best to produce a most harmonious result. Here we see evidences of that constant care and watchfulness which only a woman "on the spot" can give. And it would seem as though it were as much for the garden as for the man that the Almighty made the woman. He would plant, she would water, and God would give the increase. No matter at what season of the year that we pass, that garden will glow with patches of colour, for the ambitious one tries to coax everything to grow, and does not mind making experi- ments even though they may occasionally fail. There are various creepers on house and walls, ramblers over trellis- work, lilacs, and syringas, and perhaps one or two apple or pear trees serving the threefold purpose of flower, fruit, and shade. Every inch of ground is occupied—paeonies, pansies, pinks, and columbines, roses dotted here and there. The green of the coming chrysanthemums is enlivened by ruddy, gorgon- headed geraniums. There are no hard-and-fast lines. The colours blend and the seasons blend so that one hardly knows when spring ends or summer begins. Even in winter such a
garden is not devoid of beauty, for so long as flower will remain on stalk it is permitted. There is no waste in Natare, nor in the hand of Nature's lover. The jobbing gardener may laugh, and itch to alter it all, but the lady gardener has flowers when he has empty beds. The character behind such a smiling scene as this is easily read. Patience, perseverance, hope, thoroughness, love of art and beauty, all are there :— "A garden is not made
By saying, 0, how lovely I'
And sitting in the shade."
Then we come to the utility garden, where nearly every spot is given up to edibles—beans, peas, cabbages, parsley, radishes, mint, and lettuce, all refreshing in their various shades of green. Here dwell they of whom small-holders are made—careful, thrifty souls, turning every penny and every plant to account. Good tenants too, we may be sure, not here to-day and gone to-morrow. Not for frequent ""fittings" are those cabbages planted in the autumn to provide food in the following spring. The garden of the " flitter " may possibly be next door. The contrast is too evident to need comment.
What domestic tragedies lie behind that utterly bare, baked, trampled back. It may be ill-health, drink, or extreme poverty crushing out every interest in life but that of getting the mere daily bread. Circumstance more than character is evident here, for it needs a strong backbone and some leisure to till even the smallest patch of ground. There is another kind of utility " back," and that is the back devoted to fowl, and pigeons. Sheds of all sizes, shapes, and colours adorn the space which in others is devoted to flowers, and this may truly be called the ugliest back of all. Happy-go-lucky characters dwell here, hard-working people perhaps, but devoid of any artistic sense whatsoever.
As we draw nearer to the City backs grow smaller and smaller. Workshops, wharves, and stables have filled them up. But just here and there we get a peep at a miniature garden in a square ten feet of yard. Tubs and boxes full of blooms and evergreen shrubs betray the undaunted spirit whose craving for some semblance of the home of man's first revealed existence must be satisfied at any cost. Then we have the most pathetic sight of all in the flat-dweller's window-sill, whose only " garden" consists of four or five pots of various sizes, each containing some precious memory of a fleeting visit to the country, or a treasured cutting from a relative's cottage garden. Here are found the souls who " won't be done," who cherish the hope, so seldom fulfilled, of a "home in the country some day." Or, possibly, those scrubby plants may take the place, in the life of a woman past her prime, of the babies she at one time daily washed and dressed, and who are now scattered over the globe. She must tend something, and though the plants cannot caress her, they have a way of showing gratitude which gives untold pleasure to those who care for them. They may be the one solace and pleasure of some invalid or crippled man or woman. But whichever surmise is right, we are pleased to see them there, and we feel that when the Lord God planted a garden and put man therein, He knew what was best for him and what he most needed. And it is doubtful whether, with all our magnificent parks and open spaces, man derives as much pleasure and benefit from them as he does from his own few feet of " back," which depend entirely on his own forethought and labour for their beauty and useful- ness. One cheering thought which stands out above all others in our review of "back gardens" is that the gardens which are tended really outnumber those that are neglected. Truly a hopeful sign in what some are pleased to tell us is a "decadent" age. Perhaps if we realized how much of our back views were visible, we might take pains farther to improve them.
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