Others again, amongst whom I number myself, love not only the lore of
flowers, and the sight of them, and the fragrance of them, and the
growing of them, and the picking of them, and the arranging of them,
but also inherit from Father Adam a natural relish for tilling the
ground from whence they were taken and to which they shall return.
With little persons in little gardens, having also little strength and
little leisure, this husbandry may not exceed the small uses of fork
and trowel, but the earth-love is there, all the same. I remember
once, coming among some family papers upon an old letter from my
grandmother to my grandfather. She was a clever girl (she did not
outlive youth), and the letter was natural and full of energy and
point. My grandfather seems to have apologized to his bride for the
disorderly state of the garden to which she was about to-go home, and
in reply she quaintly and vehemently congratulates herself upon this
unpromising fact. For--"I do so dearly love _grubbing_." This touches
another point. She was a botanist, and painted a little. So were most
of the lady gardeners of her youth. The education of women was, as a
rule, poor enough in those days; but a study of "the Linnean system"
was among the elegant accomplishments held to "become a young woman";
and one may feel pretty sure that even a smattering of botanical
knowledge, and the observation needed for third or fourth-rate
flower-painting, would tend to a love of variety in beds and borders
which Ribbon-gardening would by no means satisfy.
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