The Master of the House—he has admitted it himself somewhere in these pages—understands little if anything of gardener’s art: that is, of the art of rearing flowers in their proper seasons, in suitable ground and so forth. But he complacently believes that he has an aptitude for what, on a larger theatre of operations than the few acres of Villino Loki, would be called Landscape Gardening! He imagines that, had fate provided him with an “estate,” he would have been great at devising vistas, grouping trees, laying out pleasing curves of approach, and all that sort of thing.

At the Villino this imaginary special competency could only find an opening in clearance work. And when we first bought this strip of hill-side, clearance was indeed no small matter.

With the exception of the terraces immediately round the House and of the kitchen yards about the Cottage, the whole place was a congeries of almost impenetrable thickets, interspersed with patches of heather and furze. There were but two paths, running down, in purely utilitarian lines, from the higher level to that of the cottage potager.

What has been achieved since then in the matter of path-cutting can be made patent by a glance at Mr. Robinson’s perspective map of the Villino grounds.

So thick and strenuous was the growth of underwood—self-sown infant Hollies, adolescent Larches and Pines, young Ashes, Oaks and Chestnuts in their nonage, all interlocked, entwined in Brambles and Honeysuckle, that hardly anywhere could the trunks of the full-grown trees be distinguished.

Now it is obvious that the beauty of wooded grounds depends essentially upon light effects under the foliage and between the boles; upon distant peeps. In no direction ought the view ever to be solidly stopped—unless, of course, where it is desired to hide some unpleasing prospect. It may therefore be erected into a maxim that, if trees are to be enjoyed, underwoods must be sacrificed wholesale.

At first, with that reverence for things which, if they may be laid low at one blow or two of the billhook, require many years for their growth, one feels inclined to hesitate. One’s heart rebels at the thought of cutting off in the flower of its youth the sapling that in the spring is of so tender green, the bush of name unknown but engaging enough—if there were not “so many of him.” But it soon becomes evident that you must harden your heart and ruthlessly slash away the bulk of undergrowths, for good and all.

And this has been the province of the padrone. And although on many an occasion at first the padrona bewailed bitterly, almost tearfully, that he was making the place “simply scald,” it is now generally admitted that the result has proved a matter for congratulation.

There have been a few mistakes, no doubt. It was not easy, for instance, in the case of Holly, and perhaps also of Rowan, for the beginner to distinguish which clump was likely to bear the decorative winter coral and which not. Seeing what some of our Hollies in a good season can be that which closes the prospect at the north end of our Hemicycle, for example, what a glory of pure scarlet it displays when all bright colours have disappeared from the garden! we regret not to have spared a few more. Nevertheless, it is a wise decision, in grounds overgrown by underwood, that delendum est Ilex Aquifolium—that Common Holly must go.

In the first place, nothing will grow under the shade of its dark leathery, spinous leaves, which, even when shed, are more indestructible and noxious to grass than pine needles themselves. And, secondly, Holly is a very bully and brigand among growing trees. Its vitality and pushfulness over-masters everything. Your young Holly will thrust aside the sturdiest neighbouring branches; will conquer its “place under the sun” to the detriment of the equally fair claims of Oak, or Ash, or anything that strives upward.

No—the right place of Holly is in the close-set hedge, for which its forbidding, never-failing foliage and its vigorous growth pre-eminently fit it. Or, again, in a dignified isolation where it can, without truculent self-assertion, develop on all sides its regular, shapely growth, look beautiful at all times in its evergreen sheen; and, if of the fruit-bearing sex, relieve with its scarlet the browns of autumn and the white of a winter landscape.

The first spot to be assailed was the area now called the Blue-bell Glade, the interior of which was then terra incognita. It had to be tackled like a fortress—by regular sap. Nothing was spared but the full-grown trees. Terrible was the destruction, and gigantic the accumulation of small firewood for future use. But great was the landscape result: it gave us our first far-reaching perspective along our own ground. We had, of course, fine and wide views over the tree-tops from the highest terrace. But now we obtained, in one direction at least, a middle-distance prospect of green fields between the boles under overhanging branches. And the effect was singularly satisfying.

And so the war on undergrowth was carried-on, with system, until the present pleasing condition was reached, when in every direction the eye is able to find, up hill or down, either some far view of moor or valley, or some corner of the grounds themselves, now grass-grown or bright with flower-beds.

Grass—that was what Villino Loki most wanted! And the extirpation of the greatest enemies to grass—Brushwood, Heather, Gorse, and Bracken—has been the hardest achievement of all: one which Grandpa is fond of letting every one know is more especially his own.

The Great Clearance took place in what may be called the pre-Adamite age of this little Earthly Paradise. Adam in a kind of fateful way only appeared upon the scene after the rougher work had been dealt with of letting in the air and light of heaven wherever it had hitherto failed. He arrived, of his own initiative, to offer his services in the matter of gardening, on the very day when his predecessor—one Grinder, whom on benevolence intent we had allowed to assume the duties of “gardener,” save the mark!—had had at last to be dismissed.

The late Grinder, whatever his disqualifications for the honourable title thrust upon him may have been, was undoubtedly a lusty worker. But the Great Clearance was too great a task for one man. It was thus, by the way, that Caliban likewise now “the late” was introduced as labouring assistant, and, from the nature of his labours, known as the Woodman.

The elimination of underwoods, however, was by no means the most arduous task. Let once the good light of day and the free airs penetrate to the ground hitherto obscured and choked, and in a given time grass will make its appearance. And it will spread healthily if the lower branches of all standing trees are lopped, up to a suitable height. But we wanted grass not only in the glades, but, if possible, upon every stretch of soil not devoted to flowering beds or ornamental bush. And, to that end, the Heather and the Gorse had likewise to be banished in perpetuity. With miles of Heather and Gorse-clad moors about one, Ericas of any kind, and certainly Ulex, however delightful in themselves and in their native habitat, are distinctly de trop in the garden.

Seen in wide masses, and whether in the brown, green, or purple stage, Heather, as we know, is an ever beautiful cloak to the earth. But except at the height of its flowering richness, when it occurs in scattered patches, its effect is apt to be rusty and unkempt. As for the Gorse—gorgeous as it undoubtedly be at its full golden time when seen in clumps on down or roadside—it has, at close quarters, a ragged, dusty, almost leprous appearance which quite unfits it for cultivation. It would seem as though all its vital beauty were driven out to the flowering tops: its inner and lower portions are always dried up, and scabby as from some withering sickness. Such, at least, is always the case with the full-grown plant; though, when very young, or when springing anew from a shorn stump, it remains for some time pleasingly green all over.

To the uninitiated it may appear simple enough to pluck up the Heather; but how soon will he be brought face to face with the dismal fact that, for grass-growing purposes, this superficial treatment is of no avail whatsoever! The peaty soil, product of untold generations of Heather, spongy to a depth of many inches, matted with the fibrils of roots, is absolutely antagonistic to grass of any description. The roots of the Furze, on their side, deep-reaching, far-spreading and tenacious, are simply rejuvenated and rejoiced by the lopping of the plant above ground. You may think you have done with it: behold! within a very few weeks saucy spriglets of brightest green Gorse will merrily make their appearance and claim the land again as their own!

Any seed sown on such a bed is merely so much food offered to the fowls of the air. The Master of the House had to learn that lesson practically, and lost a couple of seasons in so doing. As may plainly be seen, he was a thoroughgoing ignoramus in that quarter; and he was not likely to be set right by Mr. Grinder! It was only when Adam supervened and pointed out the necessity of trenching the ground, ridding it of its centuries-old tangle of fibre, overturning and pressing it, that the desired green result could at length be obtained. But the overturning demanded the combined work of pickaxe, fork, and cutting spade. It produced an incredible amount of underground wood, tough, sappy, and seemingly incombustible; and it kept Caliban occupied for many a long week.

We have now many promising verdant roods, destined in time to be improved into lawns, where hitherto Heath and Whin held their sway. But the spaces lately freed from underwoods, which we so fondly hoped would turn of themselves into grassy glades and dells, provided us with new Heraclean labours.

Have I named Bracken?—Bracken! an everlasting problem on such a piece of land as ours, which less than a century back was undoubtedly part of the wild moorland itself. Nothing, it seems, but thorough overturning will really and finally rid the soil of the unconscionable Bracken—the ubiquitous, the imperishable, the exasperating Pteris Aquilina!

This knowledge has been impressed on us by the experience of successive years. Our first inkling of it was when, returning to the Villino after a few months’ absence and fondly anticipating to find our precious glades which, after the Great Clearance, had been generously sown with grass covered with a tender-green, thickly-piled carpet, we were confronted with waving fields of lusty Brake already breast high.

In itself the sight was not displeasing; the young verdure was cool to the eye and did not greatly impede the view. But what we wanted was Grass. Grass which, in course of time and at their proper seasons, Crocus Vernus, Primrose, Blue-bell and Daffodil, Foxglove, and Colchicum Autumnale would star and illumine with colour.

Now, where the Brake thrives, it takes unto itself the whole bounty of the sun, and stifles all plant-life of lesser height than itself.

We disconsolately took advice from presumably competent persons.

“Oh,” said Everybody, with confidence, “you can get rid of Bracken if you cut it twice in the same year.”

“Can you?”—and here the Master of Villino Loki, in a state of inveteracy and resentment foreign to his usually placid character, feels he must again speak in the first person—“Can you?” this is sarcastic “I tell you, sir, that for the last three years I have cut that infernal Bracken, not twice in the twelvemonth, but four times and more—and look at it!”

You may imagine me pointing, with an indignation difficult to repress, to some corner of the cleared ground that does not happen to have been visited quite lately by the spud or the furze-cutter.

“This,” I say with emphasis, “I myself purged of all visible Bracken only last month!”

Now, as a matter of fact, the space in question, if not actually covered with the pertinacious fronds, is dotted with scores, nay hundreds, of forceful shoots; some still cosily curled up in their “crosier” stage, others impudently stretching themselves under the sun and persisting, in spite of all edicts, in screening its rays from the hard-struggling grass. What chance has humble grass against a thing that will sprout three inches in one night? And, if you look closer, you perceive a host of baby offshoots cheerfully pushing from some deep-burrowing ancient subterranean body, its innumerable little bald heads between the sorely tried, recently established grass settlements.

Twice cut, forsooth!—Why, to this day, in the very middle of paths made three years ago “Three—years-ago—sir!”, you will discover here, there, and there again, a healthy shoot, sappy and erect, balancing its bright green plume right in the way, as if in defiance of all extermination.

No—the most that can be claimed as a result of the war which is still being waged upon the Brake is that, perhaps, this pertinacious growth is beginning to betray some signs of discouragement. The ranks of the legions, as they make their periodical reappearance with an obstinacy worthy of a better cause, grow a trifle thinner year by year.

“If you only cut them young,” says Adam, consolingly but with cruel imagery, “they say the roots will bleed to death.”

This—Corporal Nym would hint—is as may be. As in the case of our wonderful forbears, bloodletting in the Spring, if not really conducive to better health, seems to interfere little with their thriving. Meanwhile, happily, as no scion of Pteris Aquilina if it cannot really be prevented from cropping up where it chooses is now allowed ever to reach its baleful maturity, the desired and much-petted grass is gradually establishing itself. And, with that eager optimism in gardening matters which is a characteristic of the family at Villino Loki, we look forward, in a few years, to the prospect of a succession of grassy carpets from crest to foot on our hillside.

But this consummation, much desired, can, we are aware, only be secured by unremitting labour. Sometimes the Master of the House who, having rashly vowed to achieve the task, considers himself bound to see it through himself is assailed by something very like misdoubt as he rests awhile upon his spud, blunted by some two hours’ punching at sporadic croziers, and computes the remaining roods, nay, the acres, still to be dealt with ...

Rock of Sisyphus!—Cask of the Danaides!—Hydra of Argolis, with the unquenchable heads!—these and others are similes that fatally drift into his meditations.

When engaged upon work of protracted and futile iteration—such as “Bracken-chivvying”—tags of inane rhymes are apt to invade the hypnotized brain: of the kind that sometimes rise in accompaniment to the steady bumping of railway wheels on certain slow journeys. A particularly haunting one—to be conjured off if possible—is the “Nightmare” jingle, Mark Twain’s, I believe:

and so on relentlessly.

If these are not the exact horrid words, this is the way they come back to me, giving a lilt to vindictive spud work.

At another time, the apparent futility of all efforts to come even with the task at hand will evoke some such iterative lines as Cyrano’s dying vision of eternally resurging enemies:

This sort of absolutely incongruous haunting is an instance of what Hoffmann would have fondly called the ZusammeverhÄngniss der Dinge or “fatally-concatenated-mutual-interdependency” of things! Mythological images rising vaguely from the clouds of school memories; the lilt of that Walrus and Carpenter verse parodied a thousand times; an American jingle never recalled since it was first casually read and dismissed on a railway journey; and the magniloquent panache lines of Rostand—all dropping in irrelevantly from some distant and forgotten corner of the past into this garden, all À propos of spud work and linking itself with it!

For instance, to-day one of the three longest in the year, for, in the coming morn, about five o’clock, our summer solstice will have taken place, as I spudded away at the fern, thirstily and perspiringly, my haunting iteration was alternately of images wide as the poles asunder. One was of those puzzling lines, in Boileau’s heroicomic poem Le Lutrin, anent the barber who

The other was of Gadshill boast: “We steal as in a castle, cock-sure: we have the receipt of fern-seed”—which irresistibly, by concatenation, brought in the image of my dear if disreputable old friend Falstaff and how he would have “larded the lean earth” as he spudded along. Now it occurs to me that if the receipt of fern-seed as handed down by tradition is in any way correct, this is the last day when this fern massacre can be of any use, as far as Villino Loki is concerned, to prevent its propagation for this year. Is not to-morrow St. John’s Eve; and is not that the date upon which the invisible seed—which once successfully gathered will confer upon the gatherer the power of invisibility—drops upon the soil?

The harvest, it seems, must be made “in the dark of the moon,” at the exact turning of midnight, and received in a pewter plate; without regard to the beguiling pranks of fairy or goblin, who, naturally enough, are jealous of the acquisition by mere mortals of this essential attribute of their order. The receipt does not state how the pewter-harvested seed, being invisible, is to be bottled up or otherwise preserved for use when required.

This, by the way, is a fairly typical instance of the manner in which our mediÆval superstitions were shrouded in cryptic conditions, the failure of any one of which in the smallest particular would plausibly explain away the failure of the whole charm.—We can easily understand the paucity of invisible mortals at all times.

Well, I for one have no desire for such a charm. The temptation to use it would be distracting. And conceive the endless trouble, picture to yourself the misconceptions, you would raise into your own mind if you possessed the power at any moment of prying, invisible, into the innermost life of your best friends, or your enemies ... and of hearing what they might happen to say about you!

No. Yet I would some power gave me the gift to gather all the invisible seed at Villino Loki: I would burn it once and for all.

One cannot help wondering that so little use should be made of all this vegetable wealth. There it is, covering square leagues of common land, to be harvested by whosoever list. In former days, indeed, it was gathered in and burnt for “potashes”—chiefly for glass-making. And therein lies the explanation of the wine “laughing in the fougÈre”; ash of fougÈre, or Bracken, had in the “grand Roy’s” days become synonymous with glass itself. Again, in its dry condition, Brake was once extensively used for thatching and for litter; in some parts of the country the young plant was given as fodder to cattle and horses. Now, however, county councils forbid the building of thatch, our up-to-date cattle and horses are too fastidious as to litter and fodder, and we import our potashes. Meanwhile, Bracken threatens everywhere to stifle the Heather on our moors.

If I remember right, in some parts of France the poorer people make use of young Brake as food. And this reminds me that, some years ago, I heard the last Japanese Ambassador remark at dinner—À propos of the Asparagus that was just going round—that he wondered we should not make use in the kitchen of the Bracken he had noticed growing in such enormous and neglected quantities in England. In his country, he assured us, they eat the young shoots, when still in their folded “crozier” stage, precisely as we over here eat Asparagus, and consider them not only as delicacies, but as particularly wholesome and nutritious.

The recipe for cooking them is simple. The croziers, cut just short of the roots, are to be parboiled in strongly salted water; the first water, which extracts some unpleasantly bitter principle, is to be quickly poured off; then the shoots, thoroughly drained of this first water, are boiled in a large quantity of fresh water, drained again carefully and served with oil or butter, very much like our Sprue.

I must some day make the experiment. I wonder if the joy, now, of eating tender young Bracken would be like that of the savage devouring his declared enemy?

Meanwhile, for the sake of the desired grass, the hecatomb must be repeated daily.