filthy air;" how often these experiments are
given up in despair, or have languished from
ill-success. One case in particular, of this
sort, led to a remedy; and to this remedy it is
the purpose of this paper to draw more particular
attention than it has already attracted;
especially among the humbler orders.

Some five-and-twenty years ago, a surgeon
living in the densest part of Eastern London,
had converted a space at the back of his
house into the semblance of a garden. He
contrived banks of rock-work, and
endeavoured, in the face of opposing influences,
to cultivate flowers with all the patience
of a Chinese. His efforts, however, were
constantly thwarted; his favourite plants
would sicken and die, in spite of his utmost
vigilance and care. Much as he loved flowers,
he was doomed to endless vexation and
disappointment; for every sort of ingenious
shelter was adopted, in vain.

On returning home from a botanical excursion
in the summer of 1829, he buried the
chrysalis of a moth in some mould contained in a
glass bottle, and covered the bottle with a lid
to prevent the escape of the insect when
developed. "In watching the bottle from
day to day," he says, "I observed that the
moisture which during the heat of the day
arose from the mould, became condensed on
the internal surface of the glass, and returned
whence it came, thus keeping the mould
always in the same degree of humidity.
About a week prior to the first change of the
insect, a seedling fern and a grass made their
appearance on the surface of the mould. I
could not but be struck with the circumstance
of one of that very tribe of plants, which I
had for years fruitlessly attempted to cultivate,
coming up spontaneously in such a situation;
and asked myself seriously what were the
conditions for its growth."* Reflecting upon
the matter, he found that while the conditions
essential to the existence of plants were fully
realised, all prejudicial influences were
effectually excluded. The fern and grass flourished;
he now tested the value of the discovery in
various ways, and with the most satisfactory
results. Every window of his house soon had
its occupant; here a tasteful case filled with
flowers of various hue; there, another with
graceful ferns and diminutive palms; in one
place some peat of difficult growth, favoured
with special protective covering, and here and
there, quaint-looking bottles with quainter
occupants of the aloe and cactus tribe.

* "On the Growth of Plants in closely-glazed Cases."
By H. B. Ward. Van Voorst.

A view of dead walls and unsightly specimens
of domestic architecture, from one of
the back windows, was soon excluded, and the
eye and taste were gratified by the ruins of a
miniature ivy-clad abbey, around whose walls
the ferns and wild flowers grew in rich
profusion. The highest attainable "ground"—
the roof of the house—was made available for
an Alpine case, where the plants lived on in
the delusion that they were still enjoying
their native mountain air. The rock-work
already noticed soon received a glass investment,
and a closed case on a larger scale made
its appearance, its dimensions being increased
at intervals, until nearly the whole space
behind the house was enclosed, and in the
midst of smoke-evolving sugar-houses and
factories, one might enjoy the luxuriance and
seclusion of a tropical jungle. The success of
the plan was now triumphantly demonstrated.
The only wonder was, that some observing
naturalist should not sooner have hit upon a
method, at once so simple and so beautifully
adapted to the necessities of the plants
destined to grow in crowded towns. Mr. Ward
himself honestly admits, that but for the
incident narrated above, the suggestion might
never have occurred to him. "The simple
circumstance," he adds, "which set me to
work, must have been presented to the eyes
of horticulturists thousands of times, but has
passed unheeded, in consequence of their
disused closed frames being filled up with weeds
instead of cucumbers and melons; and I am
quite ready to confess, that if some groundsel
or chickweed had sprung up in my bottle
instead of the fern, it would have made no
impression on me."

Such is the history of those miniature
conservatories occasionally displayed in the
windows of middle-class dwellings, known as
"Ward's cases."

The most fanciful notions have been
entertained respecting the construction and mode
of action of these cases,—some supposing that
they were air-tight, or hermetically sealed;
others, that plants enjoyed in them a perennial
blossom; and one intelligent lady fancied that
if budding flowers were placed in them, their
further development would be arrested, and
they would remain in bud for ever. Possibly,
too, our fair friend might regret that some
such bloom-preserving medium could not be
devised for frail mortality. Nothing, however,
can be more simple than the principle and
mode of construction of these cases. The first
thing to be done is to procure a zinc case, or
wooden box, japanned or tarred within, with
an aperture in the bottom for drainage of
superfluous water. Supposing the case to be
six inches deep, we fill it for an inch or two
with pieces of brick or stone; over this place
the mould, and then, if we please, any tasteful
arrangement of rock-work on the surface.
The plants, whether bulbs, flowering plants,
or ferns, are now inserted, and over the whole
a closely-fitting bell-glass, or glazed framework
of varied form, is accurately placed. The only
material novelty, in fact, about the arrangement,
consists in the presence of the glass
covering. In the first place, it is quite clear
that this interferes in no way with the
transmission of the vital stimulus, light. Again, if
the case be allowed to remain undisturbed for
a day or two, either outside the window, or
against it within the room, we shall discover