using its materials to build two little sheds against the back fence;
dug up the potato-garden--made _tabula rasa_, in fact; dismissed my
labourers, and considered. I meant to be my own gardener. But already,
sixteen years ago, I had a dislike of stooping. To kneel was almost as
wearisome. Therefore I adopted the system of raised beds--common enough.
Returning home, however, after a year's absence, I found my oak posts
decaying--unseasoned, doubtless, when put in. To prevent trouble of this
sort in future, I substituted drain-pipes set on end; the first of those
ideas which have won commendation from great authorities. Drain-pipes do
not encourage insects. Filled with earth, each bears a showy
plant--lobelia, pyrethrum, saxifrage, or what not, with the utmost
neatness, making a border; and they last eternally. But there was still
much stooping, of course, whilst I became more impatient of it. One day
a remedy flashed through my mind: that happy thought which became the
essence or principle of my gardening, and makes this account thereof
worth attention perhaps. Why not raise to a comfortable level all parts
of the area over which I had need to bend? Though no horticulturist,
perhaps, ever had such a thought before, expense was the sole objection
visible. Called away just then for another long absence, I gave orders
that no "dust" should leave the house; and found a monstrous heap on my
return. The road-contractors supplied "sweepings" at a shilling a load.
Beginning at the outskirts of my property, I raised a mound three feet
high and three feet broad, replanted the shrubs on the back edge, and
left a handsome border for flowers. So well this succeeded, so admirably
every plant throve in that compost, naturally drained and lifted to the
sunlight, that I enlarged my views.

The soil is gravel, peculiarly bad for roses; and at no distant day my
garden was a swamp, not unchronicled had we room to dwell on such
matters. The bit of lawn looked decent only at midsummer. I first