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OLD APPLE TREES.

“At Horton, in Buckinghamshire, where Milton spent some of his earlier years, there is an apple tree still growing, of which the oldest people remember to have heard it said that the poet was accustomed to sit under it.  And upon the low leads of the church at Romsey, in Hampshire, there is an apple tree still bearing fruit, which is said to be two hundred years old.”

The Fig and the Fine are equally interesting, and in connexion with the latter we notice the editor’s mention of the fine vineyard at Arundel Castle.  Aubrey describes a similar vineyard at Chart Park, near Dorking, another seat of the Howards.  “Here was a vineyard, supposed to have been planted by the Hon. Charles Howard, who, it is said, erected his residence, as it were, in the vineyard.”  Again, “the vineyard flourished for some time, and tolerably good wine was made from the produce; but after the death of the noble planter, in 1713, it was much neglected, and nothing remained but the name.  On taking down the house, a stone resembling a millstone, was found, by which the grapes were pressed."[5] We were on the spot at the time, and saw the stone in question.  Vines are still very abundant at Dorking, the soil being very congenial to their growth.  “Hence, almost every house in this part has its vine; and some of the plants are very productive.  The cottages of the labouring poor are not without this ornament, and the produce is usually sold by them to their wealthier neighbours, for the manufacture of wine.  The price per bushel is from 4s. to 16s.; but the variableness of the season frequently disappoints them in the crops, the produce of which is sometimes laid up as a setoff to the rent."[6]

We have heard too of attempts in England to train the vine on the sides of hills, and a few years since an individual lost a considerable sum of money in making the experiment in the Isle of Wight.

At page 257, observes the editor,

A VINEYARD

“Associated as it is with all our ideas of beauty and plenty, is, in general, a disappointing object.  The hop plantations of our own country are far more picturesque.  In France, the vines are trained upon poles, seldom more than three or four feet in height; and ’the pole-clipt vineyard’ of poetry is not the most inviting of real objects.  In Spain, poles for supporting vines are not used; but cuttings are planted, which are not permitted to grow very high, but gradually form thick and stout stocks.  In Switzerland, and in the German provinces, the vineyards are as formal as those of France.  But in Italy is found the true vine of poetry, ’surrounding the stone cottage with its girdle, flinging its pliant and luxuriant branches over the rustic veranda, or twining its long garland from tree to tree.’[7] It was the luxuriance and the beauty of her vines and her olives that tempted the rude people of the north to pour down upon her fertile fields:—­