Part 3
“We have observed,” says Addison, “that there is generally in nature something more grand and august than what we meet with in the curiosities of art. When, therefore, we see this imitated in any measure, it gives us a nobler and more exalted kind of pleasure than what we receive from the nicer and more accurate productions of art. On this account our English gardens are not so entertaining to the fancy as those in France and Italy, where we see a large extent of ground covered over with an agreeable mixture of garden and forest, which represent everywhere an artificial rudeness, much more charming than that neatness and elegancy which we meet with in those of our own country. It might indeed be of ill consequence to the public, as well as unprofitable to private persons, to alienate so much ground from pasturage and the plough, in many parts of a country that is so well peopled, and cultivated to a far greater advantage. But why may not a whole estate be thrown into a kind of garden by frequent plantations, that may turn as much to the profit as the pleasure of the owner? A marsh overgrown with willows, or a mountain shaded with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields of corn make a pleasant prospect; and if the walks were a little taken care of that lie between them, if the natural embroidery of the meadows were helped and improved by some small additions of art and the several rows of edges set off by trees and flowers that the soil was capable of receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of his own possessions.”
Continuing, the Essayist adds: “Writers who have given us an account of China tell us the inhabitants of that country laugh at the plantations of our Europeans, which are laid out by the rule and line; because they say, anyone may place trees in equal rows and uniform figures. They choose rather to show a genius in works of this nature, and therefore always conceal the art by which they direct themselves. They have a word, it seems, in their language, by which they express the particular beauty of a plantation that thus strikes the imagination at first sight, without discovering what it is that has so agreeable an effect. Our British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humouring nature, love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our trees rise in cones, globes, and pyramids. We see the marks of the scissors upon every plant and bush. I do not know whether I am singular in my opinion, but for my own part, I would rather look upon a tree in all its luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs and branches, than when it is thus cut and trimmed into a mathematical figure; and cannot but fancy that an orchard in flower looks infinitely more delightful than all the little labyrinths of the most finished parterre. But, as our great modellers of gardens have their magazines of plants to dispose of, it is very natural for them to tear up all the beautiful plantations of fruit trees, and contrive a plan that may most turn to their own profit, in taking off their evergreens, and the like movable plants, with which their shops are plentifully stocked.”
It will be perfectly obvious that when Addison found it necessary to draw comparisons between a free and natural style of gardening, and the artificial methods carried out with mathematical precision in his time, to the distinct advantage of the former system, that geometric gardening, coupled with the excessive use of Topiary work, had made English gardens dreadfully monotonous. Essays were fashionable in the early years of the eighteenth century, and, remembering that their publication was extended over a considerable period, it must be presumed that they were freely read and discussed, and thus exerted a very considerable influence upon public opinion, just as a well thought out and carefully written leading article does in our own time. We may take it, then, that the gardeners of his time were considerably impressed by Addison’s quiet denunciation of the existing style, and no doubt a revolution had already commenced in the minds, if not in the gardens, of the wealthy, when, a little more than a year later, Pope published in the _Guardian_ (Tuesday, September 29, 1713), his famous essay on “Verdant Sculpture.”
Not so subtle in his irony nor so engaging in his literary style as Addison, Pope was however the more forcibly satirical, maliciously spiteful, and elfishly humorous. His keen wit seized upon the proper psychological moment for following up Addison’s comparatively mild exposure with an attack that did as much as, or more than, anything else to bring about that rapid decline of Topiarian art that quickly followed. Pope had evidently the genius of a great soldier, who delivers his fiercest attack when the enemy is wavering.
As Pope’s essay is not by any means well known, neither is it especially easy of access, I need not apologise for quoting freely from it. Pope, however, believed with Dryden that satire was—
“The boldest way, if not the best, To tell men freely of their foulest faults, To laugh at their vain deeds and vainer thoughts,”
and in the course of his essay he allowed his sarcastic mockery to find expression here and there in a manner common enough in his time but which would be likely to offend the ears of modern polite folk, consequently I have in a few instances forestalled the editorial blue-pencil.
“I lately,” writes Pope, “took a particular friend of mine to my house in the country, not without some apprehension that it could afford little entertainment to a man of his polite taste, particularly in architecture and gardening, who had so long been conversant with all that is beautiful and great in either. But it was a pleasant surprise to me, to hear him often declare, he had found in my little retirement that beauty which he always thought wanting in most of the celebrated seats, or, if you will, villas, of the nation. This he described to me in those verses, with which Martial begins one of his epigrams:
“‘Our friend Faustinus’ country seat I’ve seen: No myrtles, placed in rows, and idly green, No widow’d plantain, nor clipp’d box-tree, there The useless soil unprofitably share; But simple nature’s hand, with nobler grace, Diffuses artless beauties o’er the place.’
“There is certainly something in the amiable simplicity of unadorned nature, that spreads over the mind a more noble sort of tranquillity, and a loftier sensation of pleasure, than can be raised from the nicer scenes of art.”
After a reference to Homer’s account of the Garden of Alcinous, and Sir William Temple’s remarks upon it, Pope proceeds: “How contrary to this simplicity is the modern practice of gardening! We seem to make it our study to recede from Nature, not only in the various tonsure of greens into the most regular and formal shapes, but even in monstrous attempts beyond the reach of the art itself. We run into sculpture, and are yet better pleased to have our trees in the most awkward figures of men and animals, than in the most regular of their own.
“‘Here interwoven branches form a wall, And from the living fence green turrets rise; There ships of myrtle sail in seas of box; A green encampment yonder meets the eye, And loaded citrons bearing shields and spears.’
“I believe it is no wrong observation, that persons of genius, and those who are most capable of Art, are always most fond of Nature: as such are chiefly sensible, that all art consists in the imitation and study of nature. On the contrary, people of the common level of understanding are principally delighted with the little niceties and fantastical operations of Art, and constantly think that finest which is the least natural. A citizen is no sooner proprietor of a couple of yews, but he entertains thoughts of erecting them into giants, like those of the Guildhall. I know an eminent cook, who beautified his country seat with a coronation dinner in greens; where you see the champion flourishing on horseback at one end of the table, and the queen in perpetual youth at the other.”
“For the benefit of all my loving countrymen of this curious taste, I shall here publish a catalogue of greens to be disposed of by an eminent town gardener, who has lately applied to me upon this head. He represents, that for the advancement of a polite sort of ornament in the villas and gardens adjacent to this great city, and in order to distinguish those places from the mere barbarous countries of gross Nature, the world stands much in need of a virtuoso gardener who has a turn to sculpture, and is thereby capable of improving upon the ancients of his profession in the imagery of evergreens. My correspondent is arrived to such perfection, that he cuts family-pieces of men, women, or children. Any ladies that please may have their own effigies in myrtle, or their husband’s in horn-beam. He is a puritan wag, and never fails when he shows his garden, to repeat that passage in the Psalms, “Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine, and thy children as olive-branches round thy table.” I shall proceed to his catalogue, as he sent it for my recommendation.
“Adam and Eve in yew; Adam a little shattered by the fall of the tree of knowledge in the great storm: Eve and the serpent very flourishing.”
“The tower of Babel, not yet finished.”
“St George in box; his arm scarce long enough, but will be in condition to stick the dragon by next April.”
“A green dragon of the same, with a tail of ground-ivy for the present. _N.B._ These two not to be sold separately.”
“Edward the Black Prince in cypress.”
“A laurestine bear in blossom, with a juniper hunter in berries.”
“A pair of giants, stunted, to be sold cheap.”
“A Queen Elizabeth in phylyrea, a little inclining to the green sickness, but of full growth.”
“A topping Ben Jonson in laurel.”
“Divers eminent modern poets in bays, somewhat blighted, to be disposed of, a pennyworth.”
“A quickset hog, shot up into a porcupine, by its being forgot a week in rainy weather.”
“A lavender pig, with sage growing in his belly.”
“Noah’s ark in holly, standing on the mount; the ribs a little damaged for want of water.”
Such was the crusade against Topiary; in its train came swift destruction. Bridgeman and Kent were the landscape gardeners who, influenced by the writings of their time and desirous of instituting a new order of things, brought about the great change in garden design. They not only cleared away the sculptured trees but destroyed splendid, close hedges as well, throwing open to all eyes, and to all the winds, gardens that had hitherto been delightfully enclosed and secluded. Of Bridgeman there is very little information forthcoming, but Loudon tells us “He banished verdant sculpture and introduced morsels of a forest appearance in the gardens at Richmond.” Kent was a versatile Yorkshireman, who was successively painter, architect and landscape gardener; Claremont, Esher, laid out about 1725–1735, was one of his designs. He was the friend of Lord Burlington and, even more than Bridgeman, he carried into effect the ideas of Pope. The great successor to Kent was Brown, who was head gardener at Stowe till 1750, and subsequently, after being employed by the Duke of Grafton, he was head gardener at Hampton Court and Windsor. At this time he became very much in request as a landscape gardener, and so continued well on towards the end of the eighteenth century. His sympathy with Topiary may be gathered from the remark made by Sir Wm. Chambers in 1772, that “unless the mania were not checked, in a few years longer there would not be found three trees in a line from Land’s End to the Tweed.” In the course of about fifty years, from 1740 to 1790, the gardens of England, with a few exceptions, were completely altered, and the style that had been in vogue for full one hundred and fifty years was almost wholly obliterated. Later designers added many improvements, and a more graceful style succeeded that of Kent and Brown, but Topiary as a part of garden design was practically non-existent for about a hundred years. Then commenced the modern revival of the Art.
REVIVAL OF THE ART
“There is a tendency to restore some of the screens which formed so characteristic a feature of the Dutch style, with a view to obtain a greater degree of privacy, and more shelter for both visitors and plants. With this restoration of sheltering hedges and verdant belts has evidently come a desire for examples of Topiary art, and already there are several modern gardens where they are to be found firmly established.”—_George Gordon, V.M.H._
“Topiary Work fell into disrepute in the nineteenth century, owing to the persistence with which the more natural styles of gardening came to the front, but even now this phase of ‘gardening’ exercises a considerable fascination upon a large section of the public; witness the interest excited of late years by the exhibits of trimmed trees which have appeared at the London shows.”—_Walter P. Wright._
Notwithstanding the wonderful alteration and improvement that have taken place in British gardens since Kent began to make a clearance of Topiary work, several notable collections survived the general slaughter and these are to-day among the most interesting of the varied forms of gardening seen in the country. The gardens at Levens Hall and at Elvaston Castle may be especially particularised in this connection, but for the moment we will deal with the revival rather than the survival of the art.
During the past twenty years the practice of including at least a few specimens of clipped trees in any new garden of pretensions has been steadily growing, and within the last ten years several Topiary gardens of considerable extent have been laid out and planted. These are chiefly in the large establishments of the wealthy patrons of horticulture, and they are so situated that they are in harmony with formal surroundings, or disposed where they form a distinct item of horticultural interest and do not in any way mar the more natural beauties of adjacent subjects.
Precisely why there has been a revival of this old art I am not prepared to say. It must suffice that there is such a revival, and a very distinct one, as any one who visits gardens and exhibitions and nurseries frequently will readily discover. At the leading London and provincial exhibitions two old established firms of nurserymen have frequently and extensively exhibited examples of Topiary; these are Messrs Wm. Cutbush & Son, Highgate, N., and Messrs J. Cheal & Sons, Crawley, Sussex; and it may be safely asserted that if there were no taste or demand for clipped trees the respective proprietors would not incur the necessarily heavy expense of displaying this particular line of goods.
In the revival of Topiary in England no single person has taken a deeper interest than Mr Herbert J. Cutbush, and though his interest is confessedly a business one it is none the less worthy of mention. For many years Mr H. J. Cutbush has frequently visited Holland and he has travelled through and through the little country until he knows it, horticulturally, far better than even many eminent Dutch nurserymen do. He discovered that some of the best trained and best furnished specimens of sculptured yew and box were to be found in the farmhouse gardens, in small, almost unknown villages, far from the usual routes of tourists and business-men, and this led to still further explorations. During the first years of the revival Mr H. J. Cutbush crossed over to Holland nearly every week end making himself acquainted with the farmers, and with the few growers who regularly supplied the Dutch nursery trade. He got to know where examples were being steadily developed, securing options on these and purchasing all that were well advanced. As already hinted, the Dutch “Boomkmeckers,” or nurserymen who cultivate clipped trees as a special business, are by no means a numerous class, they chiefly reside in the Boskoop district.
Churches of box and peacocks of yew are not imported without the expenditure of a good deal of time and money, and obviously there is some risk in removing large examples. One big tree that for sixty years had been the chief ornament of a Dutch blacksmith’s garden was only purchased after a whole day spent in persuasion and the consumption of much Schiedam, and after the purchase was made another week was spent in lifting and packing and removing the tree to the London steamer.
There is a great variety of form in the Dutch clipped trees, but spires surmounted with birds seem to be among the most common and are as easy to produce as most. For these, and for the peacocks and the spiral or serpentine columns, yew is almost invariably used. Tables, with tops either circular, oval or square, may be had in box or yew, and the leg of the table may be plain or ornamented according to taste. The arm-chairs in box have quite a comfortable and inviting appearance. Sitting hens, geese, and ducks are common designs, and to protect the verdant poultry one may obtain equally verdant dogs, with or without kennels, but though the mastiff may be of quite ferocious mien he can be warranted not to bite; moreover he will require very little in the way of food and the noise he makes will disturb no one.
Churches are quite common designs among topiarists, but it is interesting to notice that seldom is there a doorway provided, and obviously if there is no congregation there will be no collection taken. The churchyard is also provided for, inasmuch as verdant tombstones and Latin crosses are grown in considerable numbers, and some of these would be vast improvements upon many of the ugly head-stones and other memorials of a more solid character that crowd our graveyards. Pyramids, mop-heads, and blunt cones are among the commonest designs; they do not call for the exercise of much ingenuity, but when these pyramidal trees are cut into several regular and well graded tiers their cost increases considerably. Another form of tree that naturally suggests itself to the Dutch grower, who all his life is used to water and boats, is that of a sailing ship, or barge; but these are not so easy to evolve from either box or yew, and they call for a good deal of training in addition to the cutting and clipping necessary to keep them shapely. Thin wires and a few light bamboo rods usually complete the training outfit necessary, but taking the whole range of topiarian design, training, in the sense of tying out, is not much practised.
Compared with the designs enumerated in the catalogue that Pope’s fancy created, the modern list of verdant sculptures is a very modest one. True we may have Jugs and Beakers, Wreaths as well as Crosses, and Swans as well as Peacocks, varying in price from three guineas to ten guineas each, but the moderns do not attempt to pourtray Adam and Eve, nor do they caricature the poets and statesmen of the age, in living box and yew.
Prices are governed chiefly by the size and age (height and density), and the design of the specimen. The yew tree being of slower growth than the box is, size for size, the most expensive of the two, and well furnished examples that have not exceeded marketable size vary in age from twenty to sixty years. Even when designed in box the birds are about ten or twelve years old, dogs twelve to fourteen years, and taller designs from fifteen to eighteen years. Some of the finer examples found in the country districts of Holland need to have their root system cut around one year, so that they may be safely lifted, transported to this country and transplanted in the following season.
It may very reasonably be asked, Where are to be seen the signs of this modern revival of Topiary, apart from horticultural exhibitions? To that I make answer by pointing to some establishments famous throughout the land for their gardens. At Ascott, Mr Leopold de Rothschild has a thoroughly well furnished and quite modern Topiary Garden, and those who are disposed to severely criticize the modern revival of an old garden art must bear in mind that Mr Rothschild’s gardens at Gunnersbury and Ascott have been and are still being referred to as fine examples of the most advanced and tasteful style of natural and adapted gardening. Another example is to be found at Friar Park, Henley-on-Thames, the residence of Mr Frank Crisp. This is a comparatively new garden but it contains much that is beautiful and a very great deal that is interesting, and its collection of clipped trees is not the least interesting feature of an establishment that also contains one of the best collections of alpine plants in the Southern Counties.
If these are not sufficient answer to the question, I hasten to add Witley Court, Stourport, the residence of Lady Dudley; and Danesfield, Marlow, the home of Mr R. W. Hudson. Besides these there are numerous other gardens throughout the land where Topiary, as a modern development, occupies no mean position, the extent of the collections of clipped trees being determined chiefly by the space at disposal.
THE FORMATION OF A TOPIARY GARDEN
The Topiary, Dutch, or Formal Garden, as it is sometimes called, belongs to a period long since gone by. It is uncertain who was the first person to introduce the formal garden into England, and it is doubtful whether this style of gardening had its origin in Holland or in France.
The present Gardens of Levens Hall were laid out between the years 1701 and 1704; but it is pretty certain that the art of Topiary gardening was practised in England before the gardens at Levens were remodelled in that style.
Before the year 1704, Monsieur Beaumont, who had been already employed by King James II. to lay out the gardens of Hampton Court Palace, was engaged by Colonel James Graham, at that time Treasurer to James II., to introduce the art of Topiary work into his gardens at Levens, and it is probable that these two places were the first in this country in which the genuine art was practised. Beaumont, it may be mentioned, was a pupil of the famous Le Notre.
The laying out of any garden in which clipped trees are intended to be the principal feature, is open to a serious objection—the only objection, as I think, that can reasonably be entertained against Topiary work. I allude to the very great length of time it takes to bring the Topiary Garden to perfection. It is certain that the individual who takes both trouble and pains to lay out his garden can never expect to see his work perfected; for, even in its natural state, the yew is an extremely slow-growing tree, and when it is subjected to continual clipping and pruning year after year, its growth is considerably impeded.
But, even after allowing for this objection, I think it is a style of gardening that should be more encouraged, and, if possible, made more popular than it is at the present time. I am fully aware that there are many authorities in the gardening world who condemn the Formal Garden as unnatural; but I am certain that there is a charm and a beauty of its own in Topiary work not to be met with in the modern garden. No doubt it would be a pity were every person’s tastes to be alike, and fortunately opinions differ in gardening as in other matters.