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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

OTHER BEAUTIFUL BOOKS
ON FLOWERS AND GARDENS

Each containing full-page illustrations in
colour similar to those in this volume

ALPINE FLOWERS AND GARDENS
BritIsH FLORAL DECORATION
FLOWERS AND GARDENS OF JAPAN
FLOWERS AND GARDENS OF MADEIRA
THe GARDEN THAT I LovE
GARDENS OF ENGLAND

GARDENS OF THE GREAT MUGHALS
Tue HERB GARDEN

HicgHways AND HEDGES

PLANT LIFE

Royat PALACES AND GARDENS

A. & C. BLACK, LTD.
4 5 & 6 Sowo Square, Lonpon, W. x

Peete
of Gals

THE LAKE GARDEN, AYSCOUGH FEE HALL, SPALDING.
Frontispiece,

THE

CHARM OF GARDENS
DION ee CALTHROP

WITH THIRTY-TWO FULL-PAGE
ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR

4 SOHO SQUARE
LONDON , Wt

PUBLISHED BY. .
A. & C. BLACK, LTD.

First published in October, 1910
Reprinted in 1911 and 1917

@1 5716

pyar?

AGENTS

AMERICA. . . THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
AUSTRALASIA, OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

205 FLINDERS LANE, MELBOURNE
GANADA ., » » THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.

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INDIA . « »« MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD.

MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY

309 BOW BAZAAR STRERT, CALCUTTA

TO ,
F. M. MARSDEN

WITHOUT WHOSE HELP THIS BOOK COULD
NEVER HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
FROM
HER AFFECTIONATE
SON-IN-LAW

‘ONINUOG UVAIN ‘MNYd ASOUNIYd ¥

ESeghy ee eee

fs i aay a as

“The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth ;
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth,”

Dorotuy Frances Gurney.

CONTENTS

PART I
A VIEW OF ENGLAND

PAGE
I. Tue Spirit or Garvens 3

II. Taz Garpen or Eneuanp: Tue Parcuwork
QuILT 10
III. A Country Lane: A Memory rrom Asproap 18
IV. Fiexps 23
V. Erisope or THE CoNTENTED TaILon 27
VI. Tue Biuesett Woop anp THE Catm Stone Doo 35
VII. Tue Tattor’s Sister’s Tombstone 42
VUI. Tue Corrace GarpENn ; 5A
IX. A Feast or Witpv STRAWBERRIES 64
X. Tue Praises or a Country Lire 71

PART II
GARDENS AND HISTORY

I. Tat Roman Garven in ENGLAND 5

II, Sr. Fiacrz, Patron Saint or GARDENERS AND
Cas-Drivers 88
III. Everyn’s “Syiva” 96

XII.
XII

CONTENTS
PART III

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

PART IV

GARDEN MOODS

. Town GARDENS

. Tur Errecr.or Trees
. A Lover or GarveENns
. Or THE Crown oF THoRNs

Or APPLES

. Or tHE First GarDENER
. Or Tue First Roses

. Or tHe Agpey GarpENn
. Tae Otympran AsPEcT

. Eventne Rep anp Mornine Grey

. GarpvEeN PromisEs

Garpen Patus
. Tue Garpens oF THE Dean

PAGE

108

151
163
182
185
187
189
191
198
198
£94
218
220
233

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Tue Lake Garpen, Ayscoven Fre Hatt, SpaLpine Frontispiece

Facing page

2. A Primrose Bank near Dorkina vi

8. Sir Watter’s SunpiIAL, ABBOTSFORD 9
4, Tue Weatp or Kent, sHowiNG THE CouNTRY LIKE A

Patcuwork QuiLt 16

5. Porrizs in SurREY 25
6. PorcHEs GROWN ovER wiTH HontysucKLE AND Rosks

aT Broapway IN THE CoTSwoLps 382

7. BLUEBELLS IN SURREY 41

8. A Corrace GarpDEN 48

9. A Surrey Corrace 57

10. Parcues or Heatuer 64

11. A Percora in aN EnctiisH GARDEN 73
12. Entrance To THE Garpens, AyscouecH Frz Hatt,

Spa.pina 80

18. A Cas-Driver in PiccapILiy 89

14, A Woop at Worron, THe Home or Joun Evetyn 06

15. Tuuips iN rue “ GaRpEN oF Peace” 105

16, AppLe TREES 112

ILLUSTRATIONS

Facing page
17, Darropits 1In a Mippiesex Garpen 121
18, A Port’s Orcuarp in Kent 128
19. A Kentish Garpin in AuTUMN 137
20. A Hampsteap Garpen IN WINTER 144
21. Azatzas In Broom, Rotten Row 153
22. In Hype Park 160
23, Tue SEaT BENEATH THE Oak IN THE Poet Launeatr’s
GarDEN ; 169
24. In tHe Borantc Garpen, Oxrorp 176
25. Tue Prive or Sprine, Surrey : 185
26, A Rose GarpeN IN BerksHIRE 192
27. A SHEPHERD oF ConisToN 201
28. A DovecoTEe IN A Sussex GARDEN 208
29. A NorTHAMPTONSHIRE GARDEN 217
30. A Pato in a Rose Garpen 224
31. A CuurRCHYARD IN THE CoTswoLps 235

32. AurumN Cotour at Boncnurcu Op Cuurcu NEAR
VENTNOR 238

The illustrations in this volume have been selected
from volumes in Black's Series of Beautiful Books

PART I
A VIEW OF ENGLAND

I
THE SPIRIT OF GARDENS

OncE, I remember well, when I was hungering for a
breath of country air, a woman, brown with the caresses
of the wind and sun, brought the Spring to my door and
sold it to me for a penny. The husky rough scent of
those Primroses gave me news of England that I longed
to hear. When I had placed my flowers in a bowl and
put them on the table where I worked, they told me
stories of the lanes and woods, how thrushes sang, and
the wild Cherry Blossom flared delicately across the
purpling trees.

A flower often will reclaim a mood when nothing else
will bring it back. :

To garden, to garner up the seasons in a little space,
is part of every wise man’s philosophy. To sow the
seeds, to watch the tender shoots come out and brave
the light and rain, to see the buds lift up their heads,
and then to catch one’s breath as the flowers open and
display their precious. colours, living, breathing jewels,
is enough to live for. But there is more than that. A
man may choose the feast to spread before his eyes,
may sow old memories and see them grow, and feel the
answering colours in his heart. This Rose he used to
pass on his way to school; it nodded to him over the
high red wall, while next to it a Purple Clematis clung,
arching over, so that, by standing on his pile of school-
books, he could reach the flowers. This patch of Golden

3

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Marigolds reminds him of a long border in the garden
where he spent his boyhood (they used to grow behind
the bee skeps, had a little place to themselves next to
the Horseradish and the early Lettuces). There’s a
hedge of Lavender full of association, he may remember
how he was allowed (or was it set him for a task ?) to
cut great sheaves of it and take them to the Apple-room,
and hang them up to dry over old newspapers. To
look at Lavender brings back the curious musty smell of
that store-room, where Apples wintered on long shelves ;
where the lawn-mower stood, and the brooms, and the
scythe (to cut the orchard grass), and untidy bundles
of bass hung with string and coils of wire. What a
wonderful place that store-room was, with the broken
door and the rusty lock that creaked as the big key
turned to let him in: to reach the latch he had to stand
on tip-toe, and to turn the key seemed quite a grown-up
task. There was all a garden needs stored in that room.
It had been a dining-room once, a hundred years ago,
a room where the members of a bowling club con-
vivially met and fought old games; bias, twist, jack,
all the terms ring in his ears, even the click of the bowls,
sharp on the summer air, comes back ; and the plastered
ornamental ceiling had sagged and dropped away here
and there, showing the laths. There was a big dusty
window, across which the twisted arms of a Wisteria
stretched, and a broken window seat in it that opened
like a box to hold the bowls. Just the hedge of Lavender
brings back the picture of the boy whose cherished
dreams hung about those four walls; who, having
strung his bunches, neatly tied, on wooden pegs along
the walls, and spread his papers underneath to catch
the falling seeds, sat, book in hand, and travelled into
foreign lands with Mungo Park. There, on his left,
and facing him as well, shelves lined the walls, and Pears,
4

THE SPIRIT OF GARDENS

Apples and Medlars were arranged in rows, while by
his side, placed on the window ledge to catch the sun,
were fallen Nectarines, Peaches and big yellow Plums
set to ripen.

What curious things a garden store-room holds!
The tins, slopped over, of weed-killer, of patent plant
foods, of fine white sand. The twisted string, criss-
crossed upon a peg of wood, covered with whitewash,
the string that serves to guide the marker for the tennis-
court. Then an array of nets to cover Currant bushes,
and bid birds beware of Gooseberries, Cherries and ripe
Strawberries. A barrow, full of odds and ends, baskets,
queer little bags of seeds, a heap of Groundsel gathered
for a bird and lying there forgotten. Like a Dutch
picture, half in gloom with bright lights on-the shears,
and along the edge of the scythe, and on the curved
wire mesh made to guard young seedlings. Empty seed
packets on the floor, bright coloured pictures of the
flowers on the outsides, a little soiled by the earth and
the gardener’s thumb.

Plant memories, indeed! A man may plant a host
of them and never then recapture all his joys. There’s
his first love garnishing a rustic arch, a deep yellow Rose,
beautiful in the bud—William Allen Richardson: she
wore them in her sash. He can laugh now and see the
long yellow hair floating in a cloud behind her as she
ran, and the twinkling black legs, and the merry pretty
face looking down on him from between the leaves of
the Apple-tree she climbed. He grows that Apple in his
orchard now, and toasts her memory when the first ripe
fruit of it shines on the dish before him at dessert.

The Clove Carnation with its spice-like scent he bought
from a barrow in a London slum, brought with care—
wrapped in paper on the rack of the railway carriage—
and planted it here. This Picotee he hailed with joy

5

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

in the flower-market at Saint Malo and carried it across
the sea, each bloom tied up to a friendly length of cane.
His neighbours marvel at his pains, but it recalls many
a happy day to him.

There, in a corner under a nut-tree, is a grass bank
thick with Primrose plants—another memory. A picture
comes to him from the Primroses very clear, very dis-
tinct, a picture of the world gone black, of a day when a
boy thought heaven and earth purposeless, cruel; when
he ran from a garden to the woods and threw himself on
a bank, covered with Primroses, sobbing and weeping
till the world was blotted out with his tears, because
his dog had died. It had been the first thing he had
learnt to love, the first thing he had had to care for,
to look after. All his childish ideas were whispered into
the big retriever’s silky coat. They had secret under-
standings, a different language, ideas in common, and
the dog’s death was his first hint of death in the world.
Years after, when he planted this garden, he gave a
place to Don, and planted the Primroses himself. The
earth was kindly and the flowers flourished. The earth
is kindly, even your cynic knows that and marks the
spot where he hopes to lie, and thinks, not sourly, of
the Daisies over his head.

There is something more than memory in a garden.
There is that urgent need man has to be part of growing
life. He must have open spaces, he takes health from
the sight of a tree in bud, from the sight of a newly
ploughed field, from a plant or so in a window-box, a
flower in his button-hole. Men, who by a thousand ties
are held at desks in cities, look up and hear a caged
thrush sing, and their thoughts fly out to fields and the
common wayside flowers, and, for a moment, the offices
are filled with the perfume—indescribable—of the open
road,

g

THE SPIRIT OF GARDENS

There is that in the hum and business of a garden that
makes for peace; the senses are softly stirred even as
the heart finds wings. No greeting is as sweet as the
drowsy murmur of bees, in garden, lane or open heath.
No day so good as that which breaks to song of birds.
No sight so happy as the elegant confusion of flower-
border still wet and glistening with the morning dew.

I heard a man once deliver a learned lecture on the
Persian character, full of history, romance and thought-
ful ideas. Towards the end of his discourse I began to
feel that he, indeed, knew the Persian inside out, but
that I could catch but a fleeting and momentary glimpse
of his knowledge. Then, by way of background to an
anecdote, he mirrored, with loving care and wealth of
detail, Oriental in its imagery and elaboration, the
gardens in a palace. There was a stream of clear water
running through the garden, and the owner had paved
the bed of the stream with exquisite old tiles; white
Irises bloomed along the banks, white Roses, growing
thickly, dropped scented petals in the stream. I have
as good as lived in that garden; I saw it so well, and
what little I know of the Persian I know from that
description. Omar is more than a dead poet to me now ;
I can smell the Roses blooming over his grave.

There should be a sundial in every garden to mark
the true beginning and the end of day; some noise of
water somewhere; bees; good trees to give shade to
us and shelter to the birds; a garden-house with proper
amount of flower-lore on shelves within; a walk for
scent alone, flowers grown perfume-wise; a solitary
place, if possible, where should be a nest of owls; a
spread of lawn to rest the eyes, no cut beds in it to
spoil the symmetry, and at least one border for herbaceous
plants. If this is greedy of good things leave out the
owls—that’s but a fanciful thought. Do you know

7

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

what a small space this requires ? Those who might be
free and yet choose to live in towns might have it all
for the price of the rent of the ground their kitchen
covers.

There are those aching spirits to whom no land is
home, whose feet go wandering over the world; gipsy-
spirits searching one must suppose for peace of mind
in constant new sights. For them the well-ordered
garden with its high walls, its neat lawn, its fair carriage-
drive, is but a dull prison-house, and even if in the course
of their wanderings they stray into such a place their
talk is all of other lands; of scarlet twisted flowers in
Cashmere; of fields of Arum Lilies near Table Mountain ;
of the sad-grey Olives and the gorgeous Orange groves
of Spain; the Poppy fields of China, or the brightly
painted Tulips growing orderly in Holland. We with
our ancestral rookery near by, our talk of last year’s
nests, or overweening pride in the soft snows of Mrs.
Simpkin’s Pinks, seem to these folk like prisoners, who
having tamed a mouse proclaim it chief of all the
animal world. But ask of the Garden of England and
the flowers it affords and see their eyes take on a far-
away look as the road calls to them, and hear them at
their own lore of roadside flowers, praising and loving
Traveller’s Joy, the gilt array of Buttercups, the dusty
pink of Ragged Robin, and the like sweet joys the vaga-
bond holds dear. This one can whistle like a blackbird ;
that one has boiled the roots of Dandelions (Dent de Lion,
a charming name) and has been cured by their juices.
He knows that if he sees the delicate parachutes of
Dandelion, Coltsfoot, or of Thistle-fly when there is not
a breath of wind, then there will be rain. They read
the skies, hear voices in the wind, take courses from the
stars, and know the time of day from flowers. These
men, having none of the spirit that inspires your gar-

8

be ‘i

7 Abbelsyora “Jo ds
Deru

SIR WALTER’S SUNDIAL, ABBOTSFORD.

THE SPIRIT OF GARDENS

dener, see the results of the work and smile pleasantly,
ask, perhaps, the name of some flower, to please you,
know something of soils, praise your Mulberries, and
admire your collection of Violas, but soon they are off
and away, breathing more freely for leaving the sheltered
peace of your well-kept place, and vanish to Spitzbergen
or the Chinese desert in search of what their souls crave.
We are different; we sit in the cool of the evening,
overlooking our sweet-scented borders, gaining joy
from the gathering night that paints out the detail of
our world, and hope quietly for a soft, gentle rain in
the night to stiffen the flowers’ drooping heads. We
English are gardeners by nature: perhaps the greyness
of our skies accounts for our desire to make our gardens
blaze with colours.

We have our memories, our desire for peace, our love
of colour, and, at the back of all, something infinitely
more grand.

““No lily muffled hum of a summer bee

But finds some coupling with the spinning stars ;
No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere;
. . . Earth’s crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who knows takes off his shoes."

II

THE GARDEN OF ENGLAND: THE
PATCHWORK QUILT

EvEN your most unadventurous fellow can hardly look
on a fair prospect of fields and meadows, woods, villages
with smoking chimneys, a river, and a road, without a
certain feeling rising in him that he would like to tread
the road that winds so dapperly through the country,
and discover for himself where it leads.

To those who love their country the road is but a
garden path running between borders of fair flowers
whose names and virtues should be known to every
child.

A poet can weave a story from the speck of mud on a
fellow traveller’s boot—the red soil of a Devonshire lane
calls up such pictures of fern-covered banks, such
rushing streams, as make a poem in themselves.

It strikes one from the very first how neatly most
of England is kept. The dip and rise of softly swelling
hills across which the curling ribbon of the road winds
leisurely between neat hedges, the fields in patches,
coloured brown and green, golden with Corn, scarlet
with Poppies, yellow with Buttercups; thé circular
bunches of trees under whose shade fat cattle stand
lazily switching their tails at flies ; the woods, hangers,
shaws and coppices, glades, dells, dingles and combes,
all set out so orderly and precise that, from a hill, the
country has the appearance of a patchwork quilt set in

THE GARDEN OF ENGLAND

a pleasant irregularity, studded with straggling farms,
and little sleepy villages where the resonant note of the
church clock checks off the drowsy hours. The road
that runs through this quilt land seems like a thread
on which villages and market towns are strung, beads
of endless variety, some huddled in a bunch upon a hill,
some long and straggling, some thatched and warm, °
red-bricked and creeper-covered, others white with roofs
of purple slate, others of grey stone, others of warm
yellow. All alive with birds and flowers and village
children, butterflies and trees; fed by broad rivers,
or hanging over singing streams or deep in the lush grass
of water meadows gay with kingcups.

This garden is for us who care to know it. We can
take the road, our garden path, and pluck, as we will,
flowers of all kinds from our borders ; sleep in our garden
on beds of bracken pulled and piled high under trees ;
or on soft heaps of heather heaped under sheltering
stones. If we know our garden well enough it will give
us food—salads, fruits and nuts; it will cure us of our
ills by its herbs; feed our imagination by the quaint
names of flower and herb. WHere’s a small list that will
sing a man to sleep, dreaming of England.

Poet’s Asphodel. Celandine.
Shepherd’s Purse. . Columbine.

Our Lady’s Bedstraw. Adder’s Tonguc.
Water Soldier. Speedwell.
Rowan. Thorn Apple.
Hound’s Tongue. Virgin Bower.
Gipsy Rose. Whin.

Fool’s Parsley.

These alone of hundreds give a lift to the day : there’s
a story to each of them.
Take our England as a garden and let the eye roam
oyer the land. Here’s the flat country of the Fens,
1]

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

long, long vistas of fields, with spires and towers sticking
up against the sky. Plenty of rare flowers there for
your gardener, marsh flowers, water plants galore.
That’s the place to see the sky, to watch a summer
storm across the plain, to see the Poplars bending in an
angry wind, and the white windmills glare against
purple rain clouds. Few hedges here but plenty of
banks and dykes, and canals they call drains. Here you
may find Marsh Valerian, Water Crowsfoot, Frogbit,
pink Cuckoo-flowers, Bog Bean, Sundews, Sea Lavender,
and Bladder-worts. The Sundews alone will give you an
hour’s pleasure with their glistening red glands tricked
out to catch unwary flies and midges.

Then there’s a wild garden waiting you by stone
walls in the dales of Derbyshire, or in the Yorkshire
wolds, or the Lancashire fells. On the open heaths,
where the grey roads wind through warm carpets of
ling and heather, you can fill your nostrils with the
sweet scent of Gorse and Thyme.

I was sitting one hot afternoon, drawing the twisted
bole of a Beechtree. All the wood in which I sat was
stirring with life ; the dingle below me a mist of flowers,
Primroses, Wind-flowers, Hyacinths whose bells made
the air softly fragrant. Above me the sky showed
through a trellis-work of young leaves, the distance of
the wood was purple with opening buds, and the floor
was a swaying sea of Bluebells dancing in a gentle
breeze. Squirrels chattered in the trees ; now and then
a wood pigeon flopped out of a tree, and a blackbird
whistled in some hidden place.

All absorbed in my work, following the grotesquely
beautiful curves of the beech roots, I heard no sound
of approaching footsteps. A voice behind me said
“Good,” and I started, dropping my pencil in my
confusion.

12

THE GARDEN OF ENGLAND

Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” said the
voice.

I turned round and saw a man standing behind me,
a man without a cap, with curly brown hair, and a face
coloured deep brown by the sun. He was dressed in a
faded suit of greenish tweed, wore a blue flannel shirt,
carried a thick stick in his hand, and had a worn-
looking box slung over his shoulders by a stained
leather strap.

I suppose my surprise showed in my face in some comic
way, for he laughed heartily, showing a set of strong
white teeth.

“No, I’m not Pan,” he said laughing, ‘“ or a keeper,
or a vision. I’m a gardener.”

His admirable assurance and pleasant address were
very captivating.

I asked him what he did there, and he immediately
sat down by me, pulled out a black clay pipe, and lit
up before replying. He extended the honours of his
match to my cigarette and I noticed that his hands
were well formed, and that he wore a silver ring on the
little finger of his right hand.

When he had arranged himself to his comfort, propping
his back against a tree and crossing his legs, he told me
he was a gardener on a very large scale.

I wished him joy of his garden, at which he smiled
broadly, and informed me in the most matter-of-fact
way that he gardened the whole of Great Britain.

For a moment I wondered if I had fallen in with an
amiable lunatic, but a closer inspection of his face
showed me he was sane, uncommonly healthy, and, I
judged, a clever man.

“ A vast garden ?”’ I said.

Without exactly replying to my remark, which was put
half in the manner of a question, he said, partly to

13

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

himself, “ The slight fingers of April. Do you notice how
delicate everything is ?”

I had noticed. The air was full of suggestion, the
flowers were very fairylike, the green of the trees very
tender.

** Pied April,” said I.

Instead of answering me again he unstrapped the box
that now lay beside him on the grass, opened it and
took from it a beautiful Fritillaria.

‘* There’s one of the April Princesses, if you like,” he
said. “There are not many about here, just an odd
one or two; plenty near Oxford though.”

“You know Oxford ?” said I.

** Guess again,” he said, smiling. ‘I’m no Oxford
man, but I know the woods about there well. Please
go on working; I'll talk.”

I was about to look at my watch when he stopped
me.

“It’s half-past two,” he said. “ The slant of the sun
on the leaves ought to tell you that.”

I was amused, interested in the man; he was so odd
and quaint. “I’ve not eaten my lunch yet,” I said.
“ Perhaps you'll share it with me.”

“IT was wondering if you’d invite me,” he replied.
“Tm rather hungry.”

I had, luckily, enough for two. Slices of ham, some
cheese, a loaf of new bread, and a full flask. Very soon
we were eating together like old friends. _

In an inconsequent way he asked me what I thought
of the name of Noakes.

I said it was as good as any other.

“* Let’s have it Noakes, then,” he said, laughing again.
A very merry man.

** About this garden of yours, Mr. Noakes ? ” I asked.

He tapped his wooden box and said, “* If you want to

14

THE GARDEN OF ENGLAND

know, I’m a herbalist. You can scarcely call me a2
civilised being, except on occasions when I do go among
my fellow men to winter.” He pulled a cap and a pair
of gloves out of his pocket. “* My titles to respectability,”
he said.

** And in the Spring ?”

** T take to the road with the Coltsfoot and the Butter-
burrs. I come out with the first Violet, and the Pussy-
cat Willow. I wander, all through the year, up and
down the length and breadth of England, with my box
of herbs. I get my bread and cheese that way—while
you draw for pleasure.”

** Partly.”

“Tt must be for pleasure, or you wouldn’t take so
much pains. I suppose you think I’m a very disgrace-
ful person, a bad citizen, a worse patriot. But I
know the news of the world better than those who
read newspapers. Although I trade on superstitions,
I do no harm.”

** Do you sell your herbs ? ”

** Colchicum for gout—Autumn Crocus, you know it,”
he replied. ‘‘ Willow-bark quinine; Violet distilled,
for coughs. Not a bad trade—besides, it keeps me
free.”

I hazarded a question. ‘‘ Tell me—you must observe
these things—do swifts drink as they fly ? It has often
puzzled me.”

“I don’t know,” said he. ‘“‘ Ask Mother Nature.
Some of these things are the province of professors.
I’m not a learned man ; just a herbalist.”

At that moment a thrush began to sing in a tree
overhead. My friend cocked his head, just like an
animal.

““There’s the wise thrush,” he quoted softly, ‘‘ he
sings his song twice over.”

15

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

“So you read Browning,” I said.

‘“‘T have a garret and a library,” he said. ‘“* Winter
quarters. We shall meet one day, and you'll be surprised.
I actually possess two dress suits. It’s a mad world.”
He stopped abruptly to listen to the thrush. ‘ This is
better than the Carlton or Delmonico’s, anyhow ! ”

“What do you do?” I asked. ‘“ Go from village to
village selling herbs ? ”

“ That’s about it. Lord! Listen to that bird. I
heard and saw a nightingale sing once in a shaw near
Ewelme. I think athrush is the better musician, though.
Yes, I sell my herbs, all sorts and kinds. Drugs and
ointments, very simple I assure you—Hemlock and
Poppy to cure the toothache. Wood Sorrel—tull of
oxalic acid, you know, like Rhubarb—for fevers. Aconite
for rheumatics—very popular medicine I make of that,
sells like hot cakes in water meadow land, so does
Agrimony for Fen ague. Tansy and Camomile for liver
—excellent. Hellebore for blisters, and Cowslip pips
for measles—I’m a regular quack, you see.”

** And it’s worth doing, is it ?”

He leaned back, his pipe between his lips, a very
contented man. ‘“ Worth doing!” he said. ‘ Worth
owning England, with all the wonderful mornings, and
the clean air; worth waking up to the scent of Violets;
worth lying on your back near a Bean field on a summer
day ; worth seeing the Bracken fronds uncurl ; watching
kingfishers ; worth having the fields and hedgerows for a
garden, full of flowers always—I should think so. I
earn my bread, and I’m happy, far happier than most
men. I can lend a hand at haymaking, at the harvest ;
at sheep-shearing, at the cider press, at hoeing, when
I’m tired of my own company. I’ve worked the seines
in the mackerel season on the South coast—do you
know the bend of shore by Lyme and Charmouth ?

16

THE WEALD OF KENT, SHOWING THE COUNTRY LIKE A PATCHWORK QUILT.

THE GARDEN OF ENGLAND

I’ve ploughed in the Lowlands, and found lost sheep in
the Lake Country ; caught moles for a living in Norfolk,
and cut Hop-poles in Kent, and Heather in the Highlands.
—And I’m not forty, and I’m never ill.”
“Tt sounds delightful.”
He rose to his feet and gave me his hand.

** We shall meet again,” he said laughing. ‘* Perhaps
in the conventional armour of starched shirts and inky
black. For the present—to my work,” he pointed over
his shoulder. “I’m building hen-coops for a widow.
Hasta luego.”

With that he vanished as quietly ashe came. Almost
as soon as the trees had hidden him from my sight, a
blackbird began to whistle, then stopped, and a laugh
came out of the woods.

Altogether a very strange man.

I found, when he had gone, that he had written
something on a piece of paper and had pinned it to the
tree with a long thorn. It was this:

** T think, very likely, you may not know Ben Jonson’s
‘Gipsy Benediction.’ If you don’t, accept the oflering as
a return for my excellent lunch.

“The faerybeam upon you—
The stars to glisten on you—
A moon of light
In the noon of night,
Till the firedrake hath o’er gone you!
The wheel of fortune guide you;
The boy with the bow beside you;
Run aye in the way
Till the bird of day,
And the luckier lot, betide you.”

He signed, at the foot, “‘ Noakes, Under the Greenwood
Tree.”? And he seemed to have written some of his
zicar laughter into it.

17 co}

Til

A COUNTRY LANE: A MEMORY
FROM ABROAD

I was looking at a vision of the world upside down,
mirrored in the deep blue of a still sea. Where the
inverted picture of my boat gleamed white, and the
rope that moored her to a tree showed grey, I saw the
dark fir trees growing upside down, the bank of emerald
grass looking more brilliant because of the grey-green
lichened rocks; a black rock, glistening, hung with
brown seaweed, made the vision clear, and, over all,
clouds chased each other in the sky, seemingly below
me. They were those round fleecy clouds, like sheep,
and they reminded me of something I could not quite
arrest,

A fish swam—dash—across my mirror, another and
another, rippling the sky, the trees, the bank, distorting
everything. Then I looked up and saw a fishing-
boat come sailing by with its great orange and
tawny sails all set out to catch the land breeze; and
bright blue nets hung out ready, floating and billowing
in the slight wind. There was a creaking of ropes
and a hum of Breton as the sailors talked. From my
moorings by the island I watched her sail—Saint Nicholas
she was called, and had a little figure of the Madonna
on her stern. Out of the land-locked harbour she
slipped, tacking to make the neck that led to the outer
harbour, and there she was going to meet other gaily

18

{

A COUNTRY LANE

coloured ships and sail with them to the sardine grounds
off the coast of Spain.

After she had passed, leaving her wide white wake
in the still waters, I followed her in my mind, seeing
the nets cast and the shimmering silver fish drawn
up, and the long loaves of bread eaten, with wine and
onions, until the waters round me were quiet again,
and I could look once more into my mirror and wonder
what it was the flocks of clouds said to my brain.

It came in a flash. Big Claus said to Little Claus,
‘** After I threw you into the river in the sack, where
did you get all those sheep and cattle?”’ And Little
Claus said, ‘‘ Out of the river, brother, for there I
came upon a man in beautiful meadows, and he was
tending the sheep and cattle. There were so many
that he gave me a flock of sheep and a herd of cattle
for myself, and I drove them out of the river and up
here to graze.” Now they were looking over the bridge
at the time, and the description Little Claus gave of
the meadows and the sheep below in the river made
the mouth of Big Claus begin to water with greed. As
they looked, Little Claus pointed excitedly at the water,
and said, ‘“‘ Look, brother, there go a flock of sheep
under your very nose.” It was, really, nothing but
the reflection of the clouds in the water, but Big Claus
was too interested to think of this, and he implored
his brother to tie him in a sack and push him into the
water, that he, too, might get some of these wonderful
herds. This Little Claus did, and that was the end of
Big Claus.

How well I remember now—so well that when I
looked into the water and saw the fleecy clouds go
floating by, the picture changed for me and I saw an
English country lane, and a small boy sitting under a
hedge out of a summer shower, and he was deep in

19

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

dreams over an old brown volume of “ Grimm’s Fairy
Tales.”

How wonderful the lane smelt after the rain! The
Honeysuckle filled the air and mingled with the smell
of warm wet earth. It was a deep lane, with the high
hedges grown so rank and wild that they nearly crossed
overhead, and the curved arms of the Dog Roses criss-
crossed against the patch of turquoise sky. The thin
new thread of a single wire crossed high overhead,
shining like gold in the sun. It went, I knew, to the
Coast Guard Station below me, and I remember clearly
how I used to wonder what flashed across the wire to
those fortunate men: news of thrilling wrecks, of
smugglers creeping round the point, of battle-ships
put out to sea, and other tales the sailors told me.

The lane was deep and twisted, and so narrow that
when a flock of sheep was driven down it, the dogs
ran across the backs of the sheep to head off stragglers.
What a cloud of white dust they made, and how thick
it lay on the leaves and flowers until the rain washed
them clean again.

On the day of which I was dreaming, there had been
one of those sharp angry storms, very short, and fierce,
with growling thunder in the distance, and purple and
deep grey clouds flying along with torn, rust-coloured
edges. I had sheltered under a quick-set hedge (set, .
that is, while the thorn was alive—quick, and bent
into a kind of wattle pattern by men with sheepskin
gloves) and where I sat, under a wayfaring tree (the
Guelder Rose), the lane had a double turn, fore and
aft, so that a space of it was quite shut off, like an
island. I had my garden here and knew all the flowers
and the butterflies.

On this day the rain washed the Foxgloves and
made them gay and bright, each bell with a sparkling

20

A COUNTRY LANE

drop of water on its lips. The Brambles had long
rows of drops on them, all shining like jewels, until a
yellow-hammer perched on one of the arched sprays
and shook all the raindrops off in a fluster of bright
light

Behind me, and in front, trailing Black Bryony
twisted its arms round Traveller’s Joy, Honeysuckle
and Wild Roses. Here and there, pink and white Bind-
weed hung, clinging to the hedge. By me, on the
bank, Monkshood, Our Lady’s Cushion, and Butterfly
Orchis grew, all shining with the rain, and the Silver-
weed shone better than them all.

Presently came two great cart horses, their trappings
jingling, down my lane, and on the back of one, riding
sideways, a small boy, swaying as he rode. His face
was a perfect country poem, blue eyes, shaded by a
battered hat of felt, into the band of which a Dog Rose
‘was stuck. His hair, like Corn, shone in the sun, and
his face, red and freckled, a blue shirt, faded by many
washings and sun-bleached to a fine colour, thick
boots, a hard horny young fist, and in his mouth a
long stem of feathery grass. He looked as much part
of Nature as the flowers themselves. There was some
sort of greeting as he passed. I can see the group
now; the slow patient horses, the boy, the yellow
canvas coat slung to. dry across the horse’s neck, a
straw basket, from which a bottle neck protruded,
hitched on the horse’s collar. They passed the bend
in the lane and the boy began to whistle an aimless
tune, but very good to hear. And it was England,
every bit of it, the kind of thing one hungers for when
a southern sun is beating pitilessly on one’s head, or
when the rains in the tropics bring out overpowering
scents, heavy and stifling.

So I might have dreamed on about this garden lane

21

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

I carried in my mind, had not the tide turned and little
waves begun to lop the sides of my boat.

I slipped my moorings, shipped the oars, and sailed
home quietly on the tide under a clear blue sky from
which all the clouds had vanished like my dream.

IV
FIELDS

A MAN will tell you how he has walked to such and such
a place “across the fields,” with an air of saying,
“You, I suppose, not knowing the country, painfully
pursue the highroad.” He has the look of one who
has made the discovery that it is good and wise to
leave the beaten track, the cart rut, and the plain
and obvious road, and has adventured in a daring
spirit from stile to stile, from gate to ditch, where only
the knowing ones may go. He is generally so occupied
in the pride of reaching his destination by these means,
that he has had little time to look about him and enjoy
the expanse of country. For all that, he is a man
after my own heart for, in a sense, he becomes part
owner of England with me as soon as he puts his leg
across a stile and begins to cast an eye across country.

There is an extraordinary satisfaction in following
a footpath, that is made doubly sweet if one sucks in
the joy of the day, and the blitheness of that through
which .we pass. To be knee-high in a bean field in
flower is as good a thing as I know, more especially
if it be on a hillside overlooking the sea.

I sat once on the polished rail of a stile (very well
made with cross arms to hold by, like two short step-
ladders, each with one long arm) and looked at a path
I had taken that lay through a field of whispering oats.
They seemed to hold a thousand secrets that they passed

23

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

from ear to ear all down the field, and when the breeze
came, and blew birds across the hedge, the whole field
swayed, showing a rustling, silken surface, as if it
enjoyed a great joke. The Poppies and Cornflowers
and the White Convolvulus had no part in the conversa-
tion of the Oats, but field mice had, and ran across the
path hurrying like urgent messengers, and once a mole
nosed its way from the earth by my stile and vanished
grumbling—like some gruff old gentleman—along the
hedgerow. I never saw a field laugh as much as that
field, or be so frivolous, or so feminine. The field at
my back was more like a great lady in a green velvet
gown, embroidered with Daisies. There, at the bottom
of the field, was a pond like a bright blue eye in the
green, and lazy cattle, red and white, stood in it, while
others lay under a chestnut tree near by.

Down in the valley, a long undulating spread before
me, fields of different hues, some green, some brown,
some golden with ripe Corn, lay baked in the heat,
quivering under a calm blue sky. In one field a man
was sharpening a scythe with a whetstone—the rasp
came floating up to me clearly, and presently he began
to open a field of wheat for the reaping machine I could
see, with men round her, under a clump of trees. Next
to this field was a narrow strip of coarse grass all aglow
with Buttercups, then a wide triangular field, with a
pit in the corner of it, snowed over with Daisies, and
then a farm looking like a toy place, neat. with white
painted railings, and a dovecote, and a long barn covered
over with yellow Stone Crop. I could see—all in
miniature—the farmer come out of his house door,
beckon to a dog, and walk past a row of Hollyhocks
and a flush of pink Sweet Williams, open the gate and
eross a road to the Corn-field. The dog leapt ahead of
him, barking joyously.

24°

IN SURREY.

POPPIES

FIELDS

A little further down, and cut off partly from view
by the May tree that sheltered me, was a village, white
and grey, sheltered by Elm trees. In the midst of the
handful of cottages the square-towered flint church
stood with Ivy on the tower and dark Yews in the
churchyard. The graves in the churchyard looked
like the Daisies in the distant field, as if they grew
there. At the back of the church, and facing the high
road, was a line of trees from whence came an incessant
noise of rooks.

Very few things moved on the high road, a lumber-
ing waggon, the doctor’s trap, a bicycle, and then the
carrier’s cart with a man I knew driving it, a very
pleasant man who preached in the Sion Chapel on
Sundays and chalked up texts in the tilt of his waggon
—but with a shrewd eye to business: a man who
never forgave a debt.

As I sat on my stile I felt this was all mine: no
person there knew the beauty of it as I did, or cared
to capture its sweetness as I did. No one but I saw
the field of Oats laugh, or cared to note the business of
the dragon fly, or the flashing patterns of the butter-
flies. I had seen these fields turned up, rich and brown,
under the plough, and tender green when the seeds
came up, and waving green, and gold when they bore
their harvest of Corn, or silver and green with roots
and red with Beets. I had counted the sheep on the
hillsides, and watched the cattle stray in a long line
to be milked at milking time,-and though I did not
farm an acre of it, I owned it with my heart, and gathered
its harvest with my eyes.

Every field footpath had its story, the road was
rich in old romance, and hidden by the trees at
the head of the valley was the big house where my
hostess lived and with a loving hand directed all

26 D

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

this little world—but I doubt if she owned it more
than I.

To end all this, comes a little maid through the Oats,
almost hidden by them, her face quivering with tears
because of a misplaced trust in a bunch of Nettles.
So we apply Dock leaves and a penny, and a farthing’s
worth of country wisdom, and part friends—I to the
head of the valley, she to her father’s farm on the other
side of the hill,

V
EPISODE OF THE CONTENTED TAILOR

Not a hundred yards out of a certain village I came
across a little man dressed in grey. We were alone
on the road, we were going in the same direction, and
I came to learn that he travelled with as little purpose
as I,

As soon as I saw his face, his jaunty walk, his knap-
sack and his stick, I knew him for a friend.

I hailed him. He stopped, smiled pleasantly, and
fell in with my stride. We soon found a mutual bond
of esteem. It appeared we were out in search of ad-
ventures.

He explained to me, quite simply, that he was not
going anywhere, and that he proposed to be some four
months about it.

“ Just walking about looking at things,” he volun-
teered.

** That is my case,” I replied.

“I’m a tailor, sir,” said he.

** Having a look at the cut of the country ?”

He gave a little friendly nod.

** And do you tailor as you go along ?”’ I asked, for
I had never met a travelling tailor before: tinkers
galore; haberdashers aplenty ; patent medicine men
a few; sailors; old soldiers (the worst) ; apothecaries
I have mentioned; gentlemen, many; ploughboys,
purse thieves, one or two, and ugly customers—

27

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

they were in a dark lane—but a tailor, never. It
scemed all the world could tread the high road but a
tailor. Then I remembered my fairy tales—‘ Seven at
a Blow ’—and laughed aloud.

*“ T’ve given up my trade,” he explained, as we began
to mount the hill. ‘‘ No more sitting on a bench for
me in the spring or summer. I do a bit in the winter,
but I’m a free man on two pounds ten a week.”

And he was young—forty at the most.

“ Put by ?” said I.

He smiled again. ‘‘ Not quite, sir. I had a little
bit put by, but a brother of mine went to Australia,
and made a fortune—he died, poor Tom, and left his
money to me and my sister. Two pound ten a week
for each of us.”

“‘ And it has brought you—this,” I explained, point-
ing with my stick at the expanse of country. ‘It’s
like a romance.”

“Isn’t it 2”?

“Then you read romances ?” I asked quickly.

**T read all I can lay hands on,” he replied. ‘I’m
living just as my sister and I dreamed we'd live if ever
something wonderful happened.”

** And it has happened ? ”

**'You’re right, sir. My sister lives in the little
cottage I bought with my savings. She’s got all she
wants—all anybody might want, you might say. A
cottage, six-roomed, all white, with a Pink Rose growing
over the porch, and a canary ina cage in the parlour.
Then there’s a garden, and a bit of orchard, and bees
and a river at the bottom of the little meadow, and a
Catholic Church within a stone’s throw—so it’s all
tight. She’s a rare good gardener, is my sister.”

“IT envy you both,” I said.

He looked me. up and down for a moment before

28

EPISODE OF THE CONTENTED TAILOR

speaking. ‘No cause for you to do that, I expect,
sir.”

“* Well, you know what you want, and you’ve got it.”

We had reached the crest of the hill now after a
longish climb. It was a hot day and I proposed a rest.
Besides, it was one o’clock and I was hungry.

I had four hard boiled eggs, and he had bread and
cheese—we divided our goods evenly, and ate com-

~fortably under a hedge in a field.

** T’ve often sat on my bench,” he said, ** and looked
out at the sun in the dusty street and wondered if I
should ever be able to sit out in it on the grass and
have nothing to do. We used to go for a day in the
country, I and my sister, whenever I could spare the
money, and it was a holiday. You wouldn’t believe
what the sight of green fields and trees meant to me
and my sister: you see the hedgerows were the only
garden we could afford, and we could ill-afford that.
My sister used to talk about the Roses she’d have,
and the Carnations, and the Sunflowers and Asters,

_ when our ship came home. It came home—think of
that.”” He stretched his limbs luxuriously. ‘‘ And
here we are with everything, and more.”

‘** And more ? ” T asked.

‘““ Well, you see, it is more, somehow. I’m ‘me’ now
—do you follow the idea? I never knew what it was
to be on my own: just ‘me.’ I can lie abed now as
long as I want to, I can wear what I like, do what I
like. And I’ve a garden of my own.”

“* But you don’t stop there,” I said.

* Well,” he said, ‘‘ I wonder if you’d know what I
meant if I said that a garden and sitting about is a

‘bit too much for me for the present. I want to walk
and walk in the open air, and see things, and stretch
my legs a bit to get rid of twenty odd years of the bench.

29

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

I want to run up the top of hills and shout because—
well, because I feel as if I had a right to shout when
the sun is shining.”

““I quite understand that,” I said.

** And then,’”’ he went on, and his face showed the
joy he felt, “everything is so wonderful. Look at
that village we came through: those people there feel
the same as you and me. They’ve got to express them-
selves somehow, so they grow flowers right out into
the road, just as a gift to you and me. A sort of some-
thing comes to them that they must have flowers at the
front door. Whenever I see a good garden, full of
Pinks and Roses and Larkspur, I get a bed at that
cottage, if I can. I’ve slept all over the place, all over
England, you might say ; and cheap, too.”

“ That was a beautiful village, below there,” I said.

He nodded wisely. ‘‘ Seems as if they’d decorated
the street on purpose to make the cottages look
as if they grew like the flowers. All the porches
covered with Honeysuckle and Roses, and ever-
lasting Peas, and flowers up against the windows.
I’ve a perfect craze for flowers—can’t think where I
get it from.”

** You are the real gardener,” said I.

“I believe I am,” he said. ‘‘ And why I took to
tailoring beats me, now. My futher was a butcher.”

I pointed over my shoulder towards the village.
** Do you live in a place like that ?”’ I asked.

‘“‘ Better than that,” he answered proudly. “It
took me nearly two years to find the place my sister
and I had dreamed of. We wanted a cottage in a
county as much like a garden as possible. I found it—in
Devonshire ; my eye, it’s a wonderful place, all orchards.
In the blossom time it looks like—well, as if it was
expecting somebody, it’s so beautiful.”

30

EPISODE OF THE CONTENTED TAILOR .

“T know,” I said. ‘‘ Sometimes the country dresses
itself as if a lover were coming.”

“Do you ever read Browning?” he asked. ‘“ Be
cause he answers a lot of questions for me.”

‘“* For me too.”

** Well,” he said, and reddened shyly as he said it;
** do you remember the poem that ends

‘ What if that friend happened to be God ?’”

I understood perfectly. He was a man of soul, my
tailor.

‘TI expect you are surprised to find I read a lot,”
he went on in his artless way. ‘‘ But when I was a boy
I was in a book shop, before my father lost all his money,
and put me out to be a tailor. My mother was a lady’s
maid, and she encouraged me to read. There was a
priest, Father Brown, who helped me too; it was from
him I first learned to love flowers.”

‘* Then, as you are a Catholic, you know what to-day
is,” said I.

‘** The twenty-ninth of August. No, sir, I’m afraid I
don’t.” :

** It is dedicated to one of our patron Saints—there
are two for gardeners—Saint Phocas, a Greek, and
Saint Fiacre, an Irishman. To-day is the day of Saint
Phocas.”

The tailor crossed himself reverently.

** [ll tell you the story if you like.” And, as he lay
on his back, I told him the little legend of

Saint Pyocas : PATRON SAINT OF GARDENERS.

** At the end of the third century there lived a certain
good man called Phocas, who had a little dwelling
outside the gates of the city of Sinope, in Pontus.
He had a small garden in which he grew flowers and

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

vegetables for the poor and for his own needs. Prayer,
love of his labour, and care for the things he grew filled
his life.”

My tailor interrupted here to ask, apologetically,
what manner of garden Saint Phocas would have.

‘“* Neat beds,” said I—for I had gone into the matter
myself— ‘‘ edged with box. The flowers and vegetables
growing together. Violets, Leeks, Onions, with Crocuses,
Narcissus, and Lilies. Then, in their season, Gladiolus,
Hyacinths, Iris, Poppies, and plenty of Roses. Melons,
also, and Gherkins, Peaches, Plums, Apples and Pome-
granates, Olives, Almonds, Medlars, Cherries, and Pears,
of which quite thirty kinds were known. . In his house,
on the window ledge, if he had one, he may have grown
Violets and Lilies in window pots, for they did that in
those days.”

“Now, isn’t that interesting?” said the tailor.
“My sister will care to know that. I shouldn’t be a
bit surprised to find her putting a statue of Saint Phocas
over the door. She’s all for figures.”

“I’m afraid,” said I, ‘‘ there will be some trouble
over that. There is a statue of him in Saint Mark’s
in Venice, a great old man with a fine beard, dressed
like a gardener, and holding aspadeinhishand. There’s
one of him, too, in the Cathedral at Palermo, but I
have never seen them copied. Now I must tell you the
rest of the story. -

“‘There were days, you know, when Christians were
hunted out and killed. One evening there came to the
house of the Saint, two strangers. It was the habit
of this good man to give of what he had to all travellers,
food, rest, water to bathe their feet, and a kindly wel-
come. On this occasion the Saint performed his hos-
pitable offices as usual—set the strangers at his board,

prepared a meal for them, and led them afterwards to a
32

PORCHES GROWN OVER WITH _HONEYSUCKLE AND ROSES AT BROADWAY, IN
THE COTSWOLDS.

¢

EPISODE OF TilE CONTENTED TAILOR

place where they might sleep. Before going to rest
they told him their errand ; they were searching for a
certain man of the name of Phocas, a Christian, and,
having found him, they were to slay him. When they

were asleep, the Saint, after offering up his prayers,
* went into his garden and dug a grave in the middle of
the flower beds.

“The morning came, and the strangers prepared to
depart, but the Saint, standing before them, told them
he was the very man whom they sought. A horror
seized them that they should have eaten with the man
they had set out to kill, but Saint Phocas, leading them
to the grave among the flowers, bid them do their
work. They cut off his head, and buried him in his
own garden, in the grave he had dug.”

The little tailor was silent. TI lit my pipe, and began
to put my traps together.

Then he spoke. “I couldn’t do that, you know.
Those martyrs—by gum!”

** Death,” said I, ‘‘ was life to them. Their life was
only a preparation for death.”

The tailor sat up. ‘‘ My sister’s like that,” he said.
** She’s bought a tombstone—think of that. Said she’d
like to have it by her. She’s a one for a bargain, if you
like ; saw this tombstone marked ‘ Cheap,’ in a stone-
mason’s yard down our way, and went in at once to
ask the price. She’d price anything, my sister would.
You’ve only got to mark a thing down ‘Cheap’ and
she’s after the price in a minute.”

““How did the tombstone come to be marked
‘cheap’ ?” I asked, laughing with him.

“It was this way,” said the tailor. Then he turned,
in his inconsequent way to me. “I wonder,” he said,
“if, as you’re so kind as to take an interest, you’d

care to see our cottage. We'd be proud, my sister and
33 E

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

I, if-you would come. If you are just walking about
for pleasure, perhaps you’d come down as far as that
one day and—and, well, sir, it’s very humble, but we’d
do our best.”

“When shall you be there?’ I said. ‘* Because I
want to come very much.”

“T’m going back; I’m on my way now,” he said;
““I always go back two or three times in the summer
just to tell her the news. I tell her what’s happened,
and what flowers they grow where I’ve been. If you
would really come, sir, perhaps you’d come in three
weeks from now, if you have nothing better todo. I'd
let her know.”

‘“‘ Then she could tell me the story of the tombstone
herself ? ” I said.

It ended at that. He wrote the address for me in my
sketch-book, and took his leave of me in characteristic
fashion.

“I hope I’m not taking a liberty,” he said, as he
jerked his knapsack into a comfortable place between
his shoulders.

‘** There’s nothing I should like better,” said I.

* You'll like the garden,”’ he said as an inducement.

And this was how I came to hear the story of the
‘‘ Tailor’s Sister’s Tombstone.”

34

VI

THE BLUEBELL WOOD AND THE CALM
STONE DOG

Man is an autobiographical animal, he speaks only
from his thimbleful of human experience, and the I, I, I,
of his talk drops out like an insistent drip of water.
Even the knowledge we gain from books has to be
grafted on to the knowledge we have of life before it
bears fruit in our minds. Like patient clerks we are
always adding up the columns of facts, fancies, and
ideas, and arriving at the very tiny total at the end
of the day.

In order to give themselves scope when they wish
to soliloquise, many authors address their conversa-
tion to a cat, a grandfather clock, a dog, a picture on
the wall, or what-not. Cats, I think, have the pre-
ference. I have often wondered what Crome, the
painter, said to his cat when he pulled hairs out of her
to make paint-brushes; or what Doctor Johnson said
to his cat Hodge, about Boswell. Having explained
this much, I may easily be forgiven for repeating the
conversation I had with a Stone Dog who sat on his
haunches outside the door of a woodman’s cottage.

The cottage stood on the edge of a wood, and was,
as I shall point out, a remnant of departed glory, of
which the dog was the most pertinent reminder.

A cottage on the borders of a wood is in itself one of

the most valuable pictures for a romance. A wood-
35

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

cutter may be in league with goodness knows how
many fairies, elves, and witches. It is a place where
heroes meet heroines; where kings in disguise eat
humble pie; where dukes, lost in hunting a white stag.
meet enchanted princesses.

The wood, of which I speak, was once, years ago—
about three hundred years—part of the park of Tangle-
wood Court, an extensive property, an old house, a
great family possession.

Gone, like last winter’s snow, were the family of
Bois; gone the pack; gone the glories of the great
family; gone the portraits, the armour, the very
windows of Tanglewood Court, of which but a fine
ruin remained. And the lane, a mere cart track, was
all that was left of the fine sweep of drive to the house ;
and a tangled undergrowth under ancient trees all
that stood for the grand avenue down which my Lord
Bois had once ridden so madly. They call the lane
Purgatory Lane, and they tell a story of wild doings
and of a beautiful avenue, that cannot have its place
here.

The great gates that once swung open to admit the
carriage of Perpetua Bois (of the red hair, the full
voluptuous figure, the smile Sir Peter Lely painted)
were now two stone stumps at the feet of which two
slots, green and worn, showed where the hinges had
been. These fine gates once boasted, on the top of
stone pillars, the greyhounds of Bois in stone. One of
these dogs had been rescued from the undergrowth
by the woodcutter, the other lies broken and bramble-
covered in the wood. I wonder if they miss each other.

So you see I was addressing myself to a high-born
Jacobean dog.

This dog, very calm and dignified, with a stone tail
and a back worn smooth by wind and weather, sat

36

THE BLUEBELL WOOD

with his back to the cottage which had been built out
of the remains of the old stone lodge by a gentleman of
the name of Bellington, who was afterwards found
drowned in the lake. That lake held many secrets,
indeed, some said (the woodcutter’s wife told me this)
it held Lady Perpetua’s jewels. That did not con-
cern me, for it held for me the finer jewels of Water
Lilies that grew there in profusion, though I will not
deny that the idea of Lady Perpetua gave an added
touch of romance. How often had the clear water of
the lake reflected her satin-clad figure and the forms of
her little toy spaniels ?

It so happening, I sat by the Stone Dog, on a wooden
seat, to eat my lunch one day, and dropped into con-
versation with him, after a bite or two, in the most
natural way in the world.

There was the wood in front of us, blue-purple with
wild Hyacinths. There was the old cottage behind
clothed with rambling Creepers; a carpet of smooth
rabbit-worn grass at our feet; a profusion of Prim-
roses, Wind Flowers, and budding trees before our
eyes. There was also the enchanting hum of wild bees
(like those wild bees Horace knew, that sought the
mountain of Matinus in Calabria, and there “laboriously
gathered the grateful thyme”) to soothe us in our
solitude.

I addressed him then, ‘‘ Stone Dog,” I said, ‘ this
is a very beautiful wood. Nature, laughing at the
ghosts of the Bois family, steel-clad, periwigged, or
patched, has reclaimed her own.”

The dog answered me never a word but kept his gaze
fixed in front of him as if he saw visions in the wood.

“This was a Park once,” said I, “the pleasure-
ground of great folk, where they might sport in play-
ful dalliance ’’—I thought that sounded rather Jacobean,

37

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

But, as I looked at him, it seemed, as though he
listened for the sound of wheels, and turned his sight-
less eyes to look for the figure of Lady Perpetua.

**She was very fair,” I said, understanding him,
knowing that he had seen many generations drive
through the gates he sat to guard. ‘She would come
down to the lodge-keeper’s house to take her breakfast
draught of small ale. Poor Lady Perpetua, she was a
good house wife, and saw to the pickling of Nasturtium
buds, and Lime Tree buds, and Elder roots; and ordered
the salting of the winter beef; and looked to it that
plenty of Parsnips were stored to eat with it. What
sights you must have seen ! ”

Even as I talked there emanated from the Stone
Dog some atmosphere of the past, and we were once
more in a fair English park, with its orangeries, and
houses of exotic plants, and its maze, and leaden statues,
and cut yew trees, and lordly peacocks. The great
trees had been cut down, and the timber sold; acres
of land, once grazing ground for herds of deer, were
ploughed ; here, in front of us, was the tangled wood,
a corner of what was, once, a wild garden—a fancy of
Lady Perpetua’s, no doubt, who loved solitudes, and
sentimental poetry :

“T could not love thee, dear, so much;
Loved I not honour more.”

Perhaps it was here she met young Hervey; perhaps
it was here Lord Bois found them, cutting initials on
one of those very trees, G. H. and P. B. and two hearts
with an arrow through them. Ah! then the smile
Sir Peter Lely painted faded to a quiver of the lips.
Lord Bois looked at the trembling mouth and his glance
flew to the initials onthe tree. ‘‘ So this is why, madam,
I could hear him say, ‘‘ you took to sylvan glades like
a timid deer; so this is why you coaxed me up to

THE BLUEBELL WOOD

London, leaving you alone—but, not unprotected.” I
could see his sneering bow to young Hervey—a bow
that was a blow.

And all the while I was only seeing with the Stone
Dog’s eyes. There was just the rippling sea of wild
Hyacinths, the pale gold of the Primroses, the innocent
white of the wood Anemones—like fairies’ washing—
and the purple haze of bursting buds.

Once the Stone Dog had looked along an avenue
and had seen a vista of Tanglewood Court, and smooth
terraces, and bright beds of flowers, with Lords and
Ladies walking up and down, taking the air, discussing
fruit trees, and Dutch gardening, and glass hives for
bees. Now, he saw nothing but the woods all brimming
with Spring flowers: a garden made by Nature.

And then I thought I saw one Bluebell detach itself
from its fellows and come wafting to us with a fairy’s
message, but it was a bright blue butterfly who sailed,
rejoicing in the sun. Somehow the butterfly reminded
me of the Lady Perpetua, soft and smiling, and fluttering
in the sun: as if she had returned to her woods in that
guise to hover near the tree, the trysting-place, on
which the initials were cut.

I said as much to the Stone Dog, but received no
answer.

“ Stone Dog,” I said, ‘‘ England is a very wonderful
place: every park, every field, every little wood is _
full of stories. I cannot pass a park gate without
thinking of the men and women who have been through
it. What a Garden of History the whole place is!
Tl warrant a Roman has kissed a Saxon girl in this
very place, for there’s a camp not far off—perhaps you
have seen twinkling ghostly watch-fires gleaming in
the night. Young Hervey’s dead, but you never saw
him die; they fought in the garden on the smooth

39

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

grass, and the story goes that he slipped, and Bois
ran him through as he lay on the grass. What flowers
grow over his head now? And Perpetua is dead.
They say she ran out and saw her lover dead, anc
bared her breast to her husband’s sword. The grass
was wet with her blood when you saw Lord Bois ride
madly down the drive, through the gates, and out into
the open country. The smile Sir Peter Lely painted is
carved by the hand of Death. She was only a girl,
after all. Who places flowers on her grave ?”

Meanwhile the sun shone on the Bluebells, and struck
odd leaves of the trees, picking them out with a fanciful
finger till they shone like green fires.

Then the idea came to me that this wood held the
spirit of Lady Perpetua fast for ever. The Bluebells
were the satin sheen of her dress (blue like the Lely
portrait), the red-brown autumn leaves and the dead
Bracken were her hair; the Wind Flowers, like her
body linen; the- Violets, her eyes; the Primroses,
her breath; the Cowslips, her golden ornaments; the
Daisy petals like her pure white skin. A gentle breeze
stirred all the flowers together, and—behold! there
she was, alive. The wood was yielding up her secret,
as woods and flowers will do to those who love them.

So the Stone Dog and I had a bond of sympathy
between us, the bond of old memories, and the wood
united us with its store of romance and beauty: and
he who loves wild flowers and woods, as well as walled
gardens and trees clipped in images, may gather store
of pictures for his mind.

So the afternoon passed in this pleasant manner, and
I took opportunity to speak once more to the Stone
Dog before the woodcutter’s children came home from
school to spoil our peace.

I said, ‘‘ There is no man so poor but he can afford
40

BLUEBELLS IN SURREY.

THE BLUEBELL WOOD

to take pleasure in Bluebells, and, even if he live in a
town, there are wild flowers for sale in the streets, and
a bunch of Spring to be bought for a penny. And
there is no man so rich that he can wall up the treasures
of heaven, or build his walls so high but a Rose will
peep over the edge. Poor and rich are free of their
thoughts, and there are thoughts and enough to spare,
in a hedgerow or a wood. Uncaged birds sing best,
and wild flowers yield the purest scents. You and I
are fellow dreamers, and this wood is our garden, and
these birds our orchestra, and this grass our carpet ;
and even when I am underneath the brown earth I
love so well, you will sit here and listen for the sound
of carriage wheels, and wonder if you will catch a
glimpse of red hair and a satin dress through the long-
silent avenue. There are mountains, Stone Dog, that
still feel the pressure of the foot of Moses; and hills
under which Roman soldiers lie; and there are woods
growing where orchard gardens were; and gardens
planted where the wild boar once ravaged.”

After I had said this came wild shouts, and the
laughter of children, and a great clatter as the four
children of the woodcutter came running from the
village school.

As I left that place, and turned, before a bend of
the road shut out the sight of the wood, I saw the sea
of Bluebells, and the sky above, the Primroses and the
Wind Flowers and last year’s leaves all melt into one.
The figure they made was the figure of Lady Perpetua
standing there smiling. Then I heard the wheels of a
carriage on the road, and I could have sworn I saw the
Stone Dog turn his head.

41

Vit
THE TAILOR’S SISTER’S TOMBSTONE

I was on the hill over against the village where my
friend the tailor lived, and was preparing to descend
into the valley to inquire the whereabouts of his cottage,
when one of those sharp summer storms came on, the
sky being darkened as if a hand had drawn a curtain
across it, and the entire village lit by a vivid, unnatural
light, like limelight in its intensity.

Turning about, as the first great drops fell, to look
for shelter, I spied a rough shed by the wayside, shut
in on three sides with gorse, wattle and mud, and roofed
over with heather thatch. Into this I scuttled and found
a comfortable seat on a sack placed on a pile of hurdles.

It was evidently a place used by a shepherd for a
store-house of the implements of his craft. At the
back of a shed was one of those houses on wheels shep-
herds use in the lambing season; besides this were
hurdles, sacks, several rusty tins, and a very rusty oil-
stove. All very primitive, and possessed of a nice
earthy smell. It gave me a sudden desire to be a
shepherd.

Looking down into the valley I saw men running for
shelter, hastily pulling their coats over their shoulders
as they ran. In a field on the far side of the valley
they were carting Wheat, and I saw two men quickly
unhitch the cart horses, and lead them away to some
place hidden from me by trees.

42

THE TAILOR’S SISTER’S TOMBSTONE

The village was buried in orchards, and lay along the
bank of a quickly running river that caught a glint
of the weird light here and there between the trees like
a path of shining silver. A squat church tower stuck
up among the red roofs.

For a moment the scene shone in the fierce light,
then the low growling thunder broke into a tremendous
crash, and the light was gone in an instant. Then the
rain blotted out everything.

The hiss of the rain on the dry heather thatch over
my head was good enough company, and it was added
to, soon, by the entrance of seven swallows that flew
into my shelter and sat twittering on a beam just inside
the opening. Then came an inky darkness, broken
violently by a blare of lightning as if some hand had
rent the dark curtain across in a rage. A great torn
jagged edge of blue-white light streamed across the
valley, showing everything in wet, glistening detail.

Only that morning I had been reading by the way-
side an account of a storm in the Memoirs of Benvenuto
Cellini. It came very pat for the day. It was at the
time when Cellini rode from Paris carrying two precious
vases on a mule of burden, lent him to go as far as
Lyons, by the Bishop of Pavia. When they were a
day’s journey from Lyons, it being almost ten o’clock
at night, such a terrific storm burst upon them that
Cellini thought it was the day of judgment. The hail-
stones were the size of Lemons; and the event caused
him to sing psalms and wrap his clothes about his
head. All the trees were broken down, all the cattle
deprived of life, and a great many shepherds were
killed.

I was still engaged in picturing this when the sky
above me grew lighter, the rain fell Jess heavily, and,
in a very short time, all that was left of the storm was

43

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

a distant sound as of a giant murmuring, a dark blot
of rain cloud on the distant hills, and the ceaseless
patter of dripping trees. The sun shone out and showed
the village and landscape all fresh and shining. Then,
as I looked, against the dark bank of distant clouds,
a rainbow arched in glorious colours, one step of the
arch on the hills tailing into mist, and one in the corn
field below. The sight of the rainbow with its wonder-
ful beauty, and its great message of hope thrilled me,
as it always does. I do not care what the scientist
tells me of its formation: he has not added one atom
to my feeling, with all his knowledge. It remains for
me the sign of God’s compact with man.

** And God said, This is the token of the covenant which
I make between me and you, and every living creature that
is with you, for perpetual generations.

“I set my bow in a cloud, and it shall be for a token of a
covenant between me and the earth.

** And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the
earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud.

“And I will remember my covenant which is between
me and you, and every living creature of all flesh; and the
waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.

** And the bow shall be in the cloud ; and I will look upon
it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between
God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the
earth.”

I learnt to love that when I was a child, and being
still, in many ways, the same chi'd, I look upon a rain-
bow and think of God remembering his covenant: and
it makes me very happy.

Now as the storm was over, and I had no further
excuse for stopping in my shelter, I took my knapsack
again on to my shoulder and walked down, across two
fields of grass, round the high hedges of two orchards,
and came out into the road in the valley, about two

44

THE TAILOR’S SISTER’S TOMBSTONE

hundred yards distant from the village church. It
was about four of the afternoon.

I was about to turn towards the village to ask my
best way to the tailor’s cottage, when who should turn
the bend of the road but the tailor himself with all the
air of looking for some one.

I grasped him warmly by the hand, and he held
mine in a good grip like the good fellow he was, saying,
“IT was looking about for you, sir, thinking you might
have forgotten my direction ”’ (as indeed, I had), ‘‘ and
knowing you would most likely go to the village to in-
quire, I was on my way there.”

As we turned to walk down the road away from the
church, the tailor informed me his-sister was all agog
to see me, but very nervous that I might think theirs
too poor a place to put up with, and she had, at the
last moment, implored him to take me to the inn in-
stead.

The affection I had gained for the little man in my
few hours’ talk with him made me certain I should be
happy in his company, and I laughed at his fears.

‘** Why, man,” said I, “‘ I have walked a good hundred
miles to see you, do you think it likely I shall turn away
at the last minute ? ”

‘““There,” cried the tailor, ‘‘I told her so. She’s a
small body, you’ll understand, sir, and gets worried at
times.”

We turned a corner and I saw before me one of the
prettiest cottages I have ever seen. A low, sloping roof
of thatch, golden brown where it had been mended,
rich brown and green in the older part. The body
of the cottage was white, with a fine tree of Cluster
Roses, the Seven Sisters, I think it is called, growing
over the porch and on the walls. The garden was
one mass of bloom, 2 wonderful garden—as artists say,

45

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

** juicy ’ with colour. Standard Roses, Sweet Williams,
Hollyhocks, patches of Violas, Red Hot Pokers, Japanese
Anemones, a hedge of Sweet Peas “all tip-toe for a
flight ’’ as Keats has it, clumps of Dahlias just coming
out, with red pots on sticks to catch the earwigs; an
old Lavender hedge, grey-green. A rain butt painted
green; round a corner, three blue-coloured beehives ;
and all about, such flowers—I could not mention half
of them. Bushes of Phlox, for instance; and great
brown-eyed Sunflowers cracked across with wealth of
seed; and tall spikes of Larkspur like the summer
skies : and Carnations couched in their grey grass or tied
to sticks. A worn brick pathway leading through it all.

The tailor watched the effect on me anxiously.

I stood with one hand on the gate and drank in the
beauty of it. Set, as the place was, in a bower of
orchards, it looked like a jewelled nest, a place out of a
fairy tale, everything complete. The diamond panes
of the windows with neat muslin curtains behind them,
with fine Geraniums in very red pots on the window-
sill, were like friendly eyes beaming pleasantly at the
passing world. To a tired traveller making his way
upon that road, such a sight would bring delight to
his eyes, and cause him, most certainly, to pause before
the glad garden. If he were a romantic man he would
take off his hat, as men do abroad to a wayside Calvary,
in honour of the peace that dwelt over all.

Like a rich illuminated page the garden glowed
among the trees—like a jewel of many colours it shone
in its velvet nest.

The tailor could restrain himself no longer. He said,
* As neat as anything you’ve seen, sir?”

** Perfect,” said I. ‘‘ As much as a man could want.”

He walked before me down the garden path and
called, ‘‘ Rose,” through the open door,

46

THE TAILOR’S SISTER’S TOMBSTONE

In another minute I was shaking hands with the
tailor’s sister.

In appearance she was as spotlessly clean as her
muslin curtains. She was a tiny woman of about
forty-five, very quick in her movements, with a little
round red face and very bright blue eyes. She wore,
in my honour, a black silk dress, and a black silk apron
and a large cornelian brooch at her neck.

‘** Pray step inside, sir,” she said throwing open the
door of the parlour.

When I was seated at tea with these people I kept
wondering where they had learnt the refinement and
taste everywhere exhibited. For one thing the few
family possessions were good, and there was no tawdry
rubbish. A grandfather clock, its case shining with
polishing, ticked comfortably in one corner of the
room. An old-fashioned sofa filled the window space.
We sat upon Windsor chairs with our feet on a rag
carpet. Most of the household gods were over or upon
the mantelpiece, most prominent among which was a
really fine landscape, hung in the centre. I inquired
whose work this might be.

One had only to look in the direction of any object
to get its history from the tailor.

‘**T bought that, sir,” he said, when I was looking at
the picture, ‘‘ of a man near Norwich. It cost me half
a crown.”

“Three shillings,” said the sister. Then to me,
“He takes a sixpence off, now and again, sir, because
he’s jealous of my bargains ; aren’t you, Tom ?”

Tom smiled at her and winked at me. ‘She will
have her bit of fun,”’ he said.

‘* But it’s a fine picture,” said I.

** Proud to have you say so,” he answered; “I like
it, and the man didn’t seem to care about it. He was

47

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

going to the Colonies and parting with a lot of odds and
ends. I bought the brass candlesticks off him at the
same time—a shilling.”

I could see why the little man liked the picture, for
the same reason I liked it myself. It was of the Norwich
School, a broad open landscape painted with care and
finish of detail, and with much of the charming falsity
of light common among certain pictures of that time.
Jn the left was a cottage whose garden gave on to the
road, a cottage almost buried under two great trees.
The road wound past, out of the shadows of the trees,
and vanished over a hill. The middle distance showed a
great expanse of country dotted with trees with the con-
tinuation of the road running through the vale until
it was lost ina wood. A sky of banked up clouds hung
over all. Right across the middle of the picture was
a wonderfully painted gleam of sunlight, flicking trees,
meadows, and the road into bright colours; the rest
of the picture being subdued to give this effect. Up the
road, coming towards the cottage, was a small man in a
three-cornered hat, knee breeches, and long skirted
coat. This figure dated the -picture a little earlier
than I had at first thought it.

“That’s me,” said the tailor, pointing to the figure.
“ That’s what Rose said as soon as I brought it home,
‘ Why that’s you, Tom.’”

“JT did, sir, that’s just what I said. ‘Why Tom,
that’s you,’ I said.”

“ And so it is,”’ said the tailor.

Half a crown! Few of us are rich enough in taste
to have bought it.

After tea I begged leave to see the garden. ‘ And,
Miss Rose,” I said, “to hear about the tombstone,
please.””

She put her small fat hands to her face and laughed

48

“NAUMVO FDWLLOQ V

THE TAILOR’S SISTER’S TOMBSTONE

and laughed. ‘‘ He’s been and told you that, sir?
Well, I never did!”

We went out of the back door and into a second
flower garden rivalling the one in front for a display
of colour. There, sure enough, stood the tombstone,
grey and upright, planted in a bed of flowers. They
seemed to hurl themselves at the grim object, wave
upon wave of coloured joy washing the feet of the
emblem of Death.

*“* There she is,” said the tailor’s sister proudly.

** Please tell me about it,” said I, wondering at her
cheerfulness.

‘“* You see, sir,” she began, ‘“‘ before Tom and I came
into our fortune, and got rich-——”

Multi-millionaires, I thought, could you but hear
that! But they were rich—as rich as any one could
be. The flowers in the garden were worth a kingdom.

°° We used to wonder what we’d do if we ever had
a bit of money. Of course, we never dreamed of any-
thing like this.” Her eyes wandered proudly over her
possessions,

** Yes,” said the tailor, joining in. ‘‘ Our best dreams
never came near this. I’d seen such places, but never
thought to live in one, much less own one.”

‘“* Well, you see, sir,” said his sister taking up the
thread of her story, “‘ there was one thing I’d always
set my mind on—a nice place to lie in when I was dead.
I had a horror of cemeteries, great ugly places, as you
might say, with the tombstones sticking up like almonds
in a tipsy cake pudding, and a lot of dirty children
playing about. I lived for ten years in London, in a
room that overlooked one, a most dingy place I called
it. I couldn’t bear to think I’d be popped in with a
crowd, anyhow. Now, a churchyard in the country—
that’s quite different.”

49 G

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

“I'd a great fancy for a spot I knew in Kent,” said
the tailor. ‘‘ Dark Yew trees all round one side, and
Daisies over everything, and a seat near by for people
to rest on, coming early to church.”

“Go on, Tom,” said his sister lovingly. ‘“* Ar’n’t you
satisfied with what you’ve got ?”

He turned to me after putting his arm through his
sister’s. ‘‘ We’ve got our piece of ground,” he said
cheerfully. ‘I’m going to be planted next to her,
on the left of the church door—well, it’s as good a place
as you’d find anywhere, and people coming out of
church will notice us easily. I'd like to be thought of,
after I’m gone.”

Death held no terrors for these people, it seemed,
‘they talked so happily of it, made such delightful plans
to welcome it; robbed it of all its gloom and horror,
its false trappings, its dingy grandeur.

There was a flaunting Red Admiral sunning its wings
on the tombstone.

“TI never thought,” said the sister, ‘1 should find
just what I wanted by accident. Isn’t it lovely ?”

It certainly had a beauty of its own. It was a copy
of an early eighteenth century tombstone, the top in
three arches, the centre arch large, and round, ending
in carved scroll work. In the centre of the arch a
cherub was carved, very fat and smiling, with wings
on either side of his head. Then, in good deep-cut
lettering, were the words:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
ROSE BRANDLE
- Both these curious people looked at me as I read
\ the lettering. Arm in arm they looked nice, cheerful,

loving friends, a good deal like one another in the face,
60

THE TAILOR’S SISTER’S TOMBSTONE

very gay and homely, and with a certain sparkling
brightness, like the flowers they loved. To see them
standing there proudly, smiling at the grey tombstone,
smiling at me, under the sun, in the garden so full of
life and of growing healthy things, gave me a sensation
that Death was present in friendly guise, a constant
welcome companion to my new friends, and a pleasant
image even to myself.

“* Second-hand,” said the tailor’s sister, “ all except
the name, and he put that in for me at a penny the
letter: that came to elevenpence, so I gave him a
shilling to make an even sum.”

‘* A guinea, as it stands,” said the tailor.

‘* You like it, sir ? ” asked his sister anxiously.

** On the contrary,” said I, “‘ I admire it enormously.”

** As soon as I saw it,” she said, “I fell in love with
it. It was standing at the back of the yard among a
heap of stones. The sun was shining on it, and I said
to myself, ‘ If that’s cheap, it’s as good as mine.’ The
man had cut it out years ago as an advertisement to
put in the front of the yard, and it had a bit of paper
pasted on it with his terms and what not—Funerals
in the best style. Distance no object—and that sort
of'thing. I asked the price of it and he told me ‘ One
pound.’ ‘Cheap,’ I said, and he told me how ’twas
so, since people nowadays like broken urns and pillars
or something plainer, and had given up cherubs, and
death-heads and suchlike. So I put down the money,
and he popped it on a waggon that was coming back
this way with a small load of Hay, and Tom put it up
for me in the garden. Now I can die happy, sir.”

I asked her if she had no feelings about Death, and
if the idea of leaving her garden and her cottage was
not strange to her.

She replied, in the simplest way possible, heing 4

61

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

cheerful religious woman without a particle of sham
in her nature, that when God called her she was ready
and glad to go, and as for the garden she would only
go to another one—far more beautiful.

Her faith, I found afterwards, was of a sweet simple
kind, and had been with her as a child, and remained
with her as a woman, untouched by the least doubt.
She heard Mass every morning of her life in the little
church half a mile away, and spoke in loving and familiar
tones of her favourite saints as being friends of hers,
though in a higher station of life. Included in her
ideas of heaven was a very distinct belief that there
would be many beautiful flowers and birds, and the
pleasure with which she looked forward to seeing them
—in a humble way, as if she might be one of a crowd
in a Public Garden—gave her a quiet dignity and
charm, the equal of which I have seldom met. Her
brother, who was always marvelling at her, had, also,
some of her dignity, but a wider, freer view of things,
and the natural gaiety of a bird.

The next morning, as soon as I woke in the fresh
clean bedroom they had made ready for me, I sprang
from my bed and went to look out of the window.
The dew was sparkling on the flowers, and their scent
came up sweet and strong; a tubful of Mignonette,
at which the bees were busy, was especially fragrant.
As I looked, the tailor’s sister came into the garden,
in a neat lavender-coloured print dress; she carried
a missal in one hand, and a rosary swung in the other.
She stood opposite to her tombstone for a minute, her
lips moving softly, and then, after turning her pleasant
face towards the wealth of flowers about her, she bowed
deeply, as if saluting the morning. A little time later
I heard the gate of the front garden swing and shut, and
I knew she had gone to hear Mass.

52

THE TAILOR’S SISTER’S TOMBSTONE

The garden was left alone, busy in its quiet way ;
growing, dying, perpetuating its kind. The bees were
industriously singing as they worked; lordly butter-
flies danced rigadoons and ravanes over the flowers ;
a thrush, after a long hearty tug at a fat worm, swallowed
it, and then, perching on the tombstone, poured out its
joy in full clear notes, And Death was cheated of his
sting.

VIII
THE COTTAGE GARDEN

For the same reason that your town man keeps a pot
of Geraniums on his window-sill, and a caged bird in
his house, your countryman plants bright-coloured
flowers by his door, and regales his children with news
of the first cuckoo. They pull as much of Heaven down
as will accommodate itself to their plot of earth.

Any man standing in the centre of however small a
space of his personal ownership—a piece of drugget
in a garret, a patch of garden—makes it the hub of the
universe round which the stars spin, on which his world
revolves. Within a hand-stretch of him lie all he is,
his intimate possessions, his scraps of comfort scratched
out of the hard earth: books, pictures, photographs
showing the faces of his small world of friends and his
tiny travels—how little difference. there is between a
walk through Piccadilly and a journey across Asia:
your great traveller has little more to say than the
man who has found Heaven in a penny bunch of Violets,
or heard the stars whisper over St. James’s Park—
within his reach are the things he has paid the price of
life for, and they are the cloak with which he covers his
nakedness of soul against the all-seeing eye he calls his
Destiny.

With all this, commenced perhaps in cowardice—
for the earth’s brown crust is too like a grave, the garret
floor too like a shell of wood—your man, town or

54

THE COTTAGE GARDEN

country, grown to know love of little things, nurses a
seedling as if it were his conscience, patches his drugget
as if it were a verse he’d like to polish. Out of the
vast dreary waste of faces who pass by unheeding,
and the unseeing world that does not care whether he
lives or dies, he makes his small hoard of treasures, as a
child hides marbles, thinking them precious stones—
as, indeed, they are to those who have eyes to see—
and, be they books, or pictures, pots of plants, or curious
conceits in china, they all answer for flowers, for the
bright-coloured spots of comfort in a life of doubt.

No man thinks this out carefully, and sets about to plan
his garden in this spirit : he feels a need, and meets it as
he can. In this manner we are all cottage gardeners.

In days gone by—days of serfdom, oppression, battle,
slavery, poverty—the countryman passed his day waiting
for the next blow, living between pestilences, and pray-
ing in the dark for small sparks of comfort. The
monks kept the land sweet by growing herbs in sheltered
places; the countryman looked dully at Periwinkles
and Roses and Columbines, thought them pretty, and
passed by. Even the meanest flower, Shepherd’s-eye
or Celandine, was too high for him to reach. (The
poet who keeps Jove’s Thunder on his mantelpiece
would understand that.) Roses were common enough
even in the dark ages ; the English hedgerow threw out
its fingers of Wild Rose and scented the air—but where
was the man with a nose for fragrance when a mailed
hand was on his shoulder. Those Roses on the Field
of Tewkesbury—think of them stained with blood and
flowering over rotting corpses.

“T sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Cesar bled ;

That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its lap from some once lovely Head

65

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River’s Lip on which we lean.

Ah, lean upon it lightly ! for who knows

From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen.”

Little did the dull ploughman think of Roses in the
hedge, or Violets in the bank, he’d little care except
for a dish of Pulse. Yet, all the time, curious men were
studying botany, dredging the earth for secrets, as the
astronomer swept the sky. The Arviells, Gilbert and
Hernicus, were, one in Europe, the other in Asia, collect-
ing good plants and herbs to replenish the Jardins de
Santé the monks kept—that in the thirteenth century,
too, with war clouds everywhere, and steel-clad knights
wooing maidens in castles by the secondhand means of
luting troubadours.

The Arts of Rome were dead, buried, and cut up by
the plough. (How many ploughmen, such as Chaucer
knew, turned long brown furrows over Roman vine-
yards, and black crows, following, pecked at bright
coins, brought by the plough to light.)

All at once, it must have seemed, the culture of flowers,
was in the air: Carnations became the rage; then
men spent heaven knows what on a Tulip bulb; built
orangeries ; sent Emissaries abroad to cull flowers in
the East. The great men’s gardeners, great men them-
selves, kept flowers in the plot of ground about their
cottages ; gave out a seed or so here and there; talked
garden gossip at the village ale-house. (Tradescant
steals Apricots from Morocco into England. A Carew
imports Oranges. The Cherry orchards at Sittingbourne
are planted by one of Henry the Eighth’s gardeners.
Peiresc brings all manner of flowers to bloom under
our grey skies: great numbers of Jessamines, the clay-
coloured Jessamine from China; the crimson American
kind; the Violet-coloured Persian.)

56

Frontispiece.

COTTAGE,

A SURREY

THE COTTAGE GARDEN

The grass piece by the cottage door begins to find
itself cut into beds; uncared for flowers, wild Gilly-
flowers, Thyme, Violets and the like, give colour to the
cottage garden that has only just become a garden.
With that comes competition : one man outdoes another,
begs plants and seeds of all his friends ; buds a Rose on
to a Briar standard, and boasts the scent of his new
Clove Pinks. And so it grew that times were not so
strenuous: Queen Victoria comes to the throne, and
with prosperity come the pretty frillings of life, and
cottage gardens ape their masters’ Rose walks, and
collections of this and that. To-day Africa and Asia
nod together in a sunny cottage border, and Lettuces
from the Island of Cos show their green faces next to
Sir Walter Raleigh’s great gift to the poor man, the
Potato. Poplars from Lombardy grow beside the
garden gate; the Currant bush from Zante drips its
jewel-like fruit tassels under a Cherry tree given to us,
indirectly, by Lucullus, lost by us in our slumbering
Saxon times, and here again, with Henry the Kighth’s
gardener, from Flanders. In some quite humble
gardens the Cretan Quince and Persian Peach grow ;
so that history, poetry, and romance peer over
Giles’s rustic hedge ; and the wind blows scents of all
the world through the small latticed window.

Ploughman Giles, sitting by his cottage door, smoking
an American weed in his pipe while his wife shells the
Peas of ancient Rome into a basin, does not realise
that his little garden, gay with Indian Pinks and African
Geraniums, and all its small crowd of joyous-coloured
flowers, is an open book of the history of his native
land spread at his feet. Here’s the conquest of America,
and the discovery of the Cape, and all the gold of Greece
for his bees to play with. Here’s his child making a
chain of Chaucer’s Daisies; and there’s a Chinese

57 H

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

mandarin nodding at him from the Chrysanthemums ;
and there’s a ghost in his cabbage patch of Sir Anthony
Ashley of Wimbourne St. Giles in Dorsetshire.

Ploughman Giles is a fortunate man, and we, too,
bless his enterprise and his love of striking colours and
good perfumes when we lean over the gate of his cottage
garden to give him good-day.

I showed him once a photograph of a picture by
Holbein—the Merchant of the Steel Yard—and pointed
out the vase of flowers on the table and the very same
flowers growing side by side in his garden, Carnations,
the old single kind, and single Gilly-flower. He looked
at the picture with his glasses cocked at the proper
angle on his nose—he’s an oldish man and short-sighted
—and-said in his husky voice, ‘‘ Well, zur, I be sur-
prised to zee un.”” And he called out his wife to look—
which didn’t please her much as she was cooking—but,
when she saw the flowers, ‘‘ In that there queer gentle-
man’s room, and as true as life, so they do be,”’ she be-
came enthusiastic, wiped her hands many times on her
apron, and looked from the picture to the actual flowers
growing in her garden with a kind of awe and wonder.
It was of far more interest to them to know that they
were hand in glove with the history of their own country
than it would have been to learn that chemists made a
wonderful drug called digitalis out of the Foxgloves
by the fence. I gave them the photograph and it
hangs in a proud position next to a stuffed and bloated
perch in a glass-case ; and, what is more, they have an
added sense of dignity from the dim, far away time the
picture represents to them.

‘“‘ He might a plucked they flowers inthis very garden,”
she says; and indeed, he might if he had happened that
way. But the older flowers, though they don’t realise
it, are the people themselves. Ploughman Giles and his

58

THE COTTAGE GARDEN

wife, have been on the very spot far, far longer than the
Pinks and Gilly-flowers, blooming into ripe age, rearing
countless families back and back and back, until one
can almost see a Giles sacrificing to Thor and Odin at
the stone on the hill behind the cottage. The Norman
Church throws its shadow over the graves of countless
Gileses, and over the graves, pleasant-eyed English
Daisies shine on the grass.

After all, when we see a cottage standing in its
glowing garden, with a neat hedge cutting it off from
its fellows; with children playing eternal games with
dolls (Mr. Mould’s children following the ledger to its
long home in the safe—shall I ever forget that ?), we
see the whole world, cares, joys, birth, death and
marriage; the wealth of nations scattered carelessly
in flowers, spoils from every continent, surrounded
by a hedge, its own birds to sing, its hundred forms of
life, feeding, breeding, dying round the cottage door ;
and, at night, its little patch of stars overhead.

It was a fanciful child, perhaps, but children are full
of quaint ideas, who caught the moon in a bright tin
spoon, and put it in a bottle, and drew the cork at night
to let the moon out to sail in the sky. The child found
the tin spoon, dropped by a passing tinware pedlar,
in the road, waited till night came, with his head full
of a fairy story he had heard, and when it was dark,
except for the moon, he stepped into the garden, held
the bowl of the spoon to catch the moon’s reflection,
and when she showed her yellow face distorted in the
bright spoon, he poured the reflection, very solemnly,
into a bottle and corked it fast and tight. Then,
with a whispered fairy spell, some nurse’s gibberish,
he teok the precious bottle and hid it in a cupboard
along with other mysterious tokens. That’s a symbol

of all our lives, bottling up moons and letting them out
59

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

at nights. Isn’t a garden just such a dream-treat to
some of us? There are golden Marigolds for the sun
we live by, and silver Daisies for the stars, and blue
Forget-me-nots for summer skies. Heaven at our
feet, and angels singing from birds’ throats among the
trees.

Sometimes we see one cottage garden, next to a
Paradise of colour, flaunting Geraniums, and all the
summer garland, and in it a poor tree or so, a few ill-
kept weedy flowers, overgrown Stocks, a patch of
drunken-looking Poppies, a grass-grown waste of choked
Pinks: the whole place with a sullen air. What is the
matter with the people living there? A decent word
will beg a plant or two, seeds and cuttings can be had
for the asking. Is it a poor or a proud spirit who re-
fuses to join the other displays of colour? Knock at
the door, and your answer comes quick-footed ;_ it
is the poor spirit answers you. Of course, there are
men who can coax blood out of a stone, and find big
strawberries in the bottom of the basket; and others
who cannot grow anything, try as they may. It is
common enough to hear this or that will not grow for
so-and-so, or that man makes such a plant flourish
where mine all die. There’s something between man
and his flowers, some sympathy, that makes a Rose
bloom its best for one, and Carnations wither under his
touch, or Asters show their magic purples for one, and
give a weak display for another. No one knows what
speaks in the man to the Roses that bloom for him, or
what distaste Carnations feel for all his ministrations,
but the fact remains—any gardener will tell you that.
So with your man of greenhouses, so with your humble
cottage gardener, and, looking along a village street, the
first glance will show you not who loves the flowers
but whom flowers love.

60

THE COTTAGE GARDEN

This, of course, is not the reason of the weedy garden
of the poor spirit, the reason for that is obvious: the
poor spirit never rejoices, and to grow and care for
flowers is a great way of rejoicing. There’s many a
man sows poems in the spring who never wrote a line
of verse: his flowers are his contribution to the world’s
voice; united in expressions of joy, the writer, the
painter, the singer, the flower-grower are all part of one
great poem.

The average person who passes a cottage garden is
more moved by the senses than the imagination; he
or she drinks deep draughts of perfume, takes long com-
fort to the eyes from the fragrant and coloured rood of
land... They do not cast this way and that for curious
imaginings; it might add to their pleasure if they did
so. There are men who find the whole of Heaven in a
grain of mustard seed ; and there are those who, in all
the pomp and circumstance of a hedge of Roses, find
but a passing pleasure to the eye.

We, who take our pleasure in the Garden of England,
who feast our eyes on such rich schemes of colours she
affords, have reason to be more than grateful to those
who encourage the cottage gardener in his work. It
is from the vicarage, rectory, or parsonage gardens that
most encouragement springs; it is the country clergy-
man and his wife who, ina large measure, are responsible
for the good cottage gardening we see nearly every-
where. These, and the numberless societies, combine
to keep up the interest in gardening and bee-keeping,
to which we owe one of our chiefest English pleasures.
The good garden is the purple and fine linen of the poor
man’s life; poets, philosophers, and kings have praised
and sung the simple flowers that he grows. Wordsworth
for instance, sings of a flower one finds in nearly every
cottage garden :

61

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING.

You call it ‘‘ Love-lies-Bleeding ”—so you may,
Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops
As we have seen it here from day to day,
From month to month, life passing not away :
A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops,
(Sentient by Grecian sculpture’s marvellous power)
Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment,
The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower !
(Tis Fancy guides me, willing to be led
Though by a slender thread)
So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew
Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air
The gentlest breath of resignation drew ;
While Venus in a passion of despair
Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair
Spangled with drops of that celestial shower.
She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do ;
But pangs more lasting far that Lover knew
Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower
Did press this semblance of unpitied smart
Into the service of his constant heart,
His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share
With thine, and gave the mournful name

Which thou wilt ever bear.

Then again, Mrs. Browning, who loved Nature and
England, and spoke her love in such delicate fancies,
writes of flowers in ‘“‘ Our Gardened England,” ina poem
called,

A FLOWER IN A LETTER.

Red Roses, used to praises long,
Contented with the poet’s song,
The nightingale’s being over ;
And Lilies white, prepared to touch
The whitest thought, nor soil it much,
Of dreamer turned to lover.

62

THE COTTAGE GARDEN

Deep Violets you liken to
The kindest eyes that look on you,
Without a thought disloyal !
And Cactuses a queen might don
If weary of her golden crown,
And still appear as royal !

Pansies for ladies all! I wis
That none who wear such brooches miss
A jewel in the mirror :
And Tulips, children love to stretch
Their fingers down, to feel in each
Its beauty’s secret nearer.

Love’s language may be talked with these!
To work out choicest sentences,
No blossoms can be neater—
And, such being used in Eastern. bowers,
Young maids may wonder if the flowers
Or meanings be the sweeter.

IX
A FEAST OF WILD STRAWBERRIES

THERE’s many a child has crowned her head with
Buttercups—no bad substitute for gold—mirrored her
face in a pool, and dreamed she was a Queen. There’s
many a boy has lain for hours in the Wild Thyme on a
cliff top and sent dream-fleets to Spain. The touch of
imagination is all that is required to make the world
seem real, and not until that wand is used is the world
real, Only those moments when we hear the stars,
peer in through Heaven’s gates, or rub shoulders with
a poet’s vision, are real and substantial; the rest is
only dreamland, vague, unsatisfactory. Huddled rows
of dingy houses, smoke, grime, roar of traffic, scramble
for the pence that make the difference, these things are
not abiding thoughts—“ Here there is no abiding city ”
—but those great moments when we grow as the flowers
grow, sing as the birds sing, and feel at ease with the
furthest stars, those are the moments we live in and
remember. Our great garden may hold our thoughts
if we wish. When we own England with our eyes, when
all the fields and woods, the mountain streams, the
pools and rills, rivers and ponds, are ours; when
we are on our own ground with Ling and Broom,
Heather, Heath and Furze for our carpet; when
Harebells ring our matin’s bell and Speedwell close
the day for us; when the Water-lily is our cup,
broad leaves of Dock our platter, and King-cups
64

PATCHES OF HEATHER.

A FEAST OF WILD STRAWBERRIES

our array—how vast !—of gold plate, then are we
kings indeed.

I'll give you joy of all your hot-house fruit, if you'll
leave me to my Wild Strawberries. I?ll wish you pleasure
of Signor What’s-his-name, the violin player, if you'll
but listen to my choir of thrushes. What do you care
to eat ? Here’s nothing over substantial, I’ll admit ;
but there’s good wine in the brook, and food for a day
in the fields and hedges. Nuts, Blackberries, Wortle-
berries, Wild Raspberries, Mushrooms, Crabs and Sloes,
and Samphire for preserving; Elderberries to make
-into a cordial; and Wild Strawberries, that’s my
chiefest dish at this season—food for princesses.

Come to the cliffs with your leaf of Wild Straw-
berries, and I can show you blue Flax, and Sea Pinks,
yellow Sea-Cabbage, and Sea Convolvulus, and Golden
Samphire; you shall have Sandwort, and Viper’s
Bugloss, and Ploughman’s Spikenard, and Horned
Poppies, and Thyme, in plenty. We will choose a
fanciful flower for the table, the yellow Elecampane
that gave a cosmetic to Helen of Troy. And the men-
tion of her who set Olympus and Earth in a blaze of
discord makes me remember how Hermes, of the golden
wand, gave to Odysseus the plant he had plucked from
the ground, black at the root, and with a flower like to
milk—‘‘ Moly the Gods call it, but it is hard for mortal
men to dig; howbeit with the Gods all things are
possible.”

Any manner of imaginings may come to those who
make a feast of “Wild Strawberries. We may follow
our Classic idea and discuss the Hydromel, or cider of
the Greeks ; the syrup of squills they drank to aid their
digestion, or the absinthe they took to promote appetite.
We might even try to make one of their sweet wines of
Rose leaves and honey, such a thing would go well

65 1

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

with our Wild Strawberries. These things might all
come out of our country garden and give us a ghostly
Greek flavour for our pains. There were Wild Straw-
berries, I think, on Mount Ida where Paris was shep-
herd, whence they fetched him when Discord threw the
Golden Apple.

It is almost impossible to reach out a hand and pick a
flower without plucking a legend with it.

I had taken, I thought, England for my garden, and
Wild Strawberries for my dish, but I find that I have
taken the world for my flower patch, and am sitting to
eat with ancient Greeks. Let me but pick the Pansy by
my hand and I find that Spenser plucked its fellow
years ago:

“Strew me the ground with Daffe-down-dillies,
And Cowslips, and King-cups, and loved Lilies,
The pretty Paunce (that is my wild Pansy)
The Chevisaunce
Shall watch with the fayre Fleur de Luce.”

And you may call it Phcebus’-paramour, or Herb-
Trinity, or Three Faces-under-a-Hood.

To our forefathers the fields, lanes, and gardens were
a newspaper far more valuable than the modern sheet
in which we read news of no importance day by day.
To them the blossoming of the Sloe meant the time for
sowing barley; the bursting of Alder buds that eels
had left their winter holes and might be caught. The
Wood Sorrel and the cuckoo came together; when Wild
Wallflower is out bees are on the wing, and linnets have
learnt their spring songs. Water Plantain is supposed
to cure a mad dog, and is a remedy against the poison
of a rattlesnake; ointment of Cowslips removes sun-
burn and freckles; the Self-heal is good against cuts,
and so is called also, Carpenter’s Herb, Hook-heal, and
Sicklewort. Yellow Water-lilies will drive cockroaches

66

A FEAST OF WILD STRAWBERRIES

and crickets from a house. Most charming intelligence
of all deals with the Wild Canterbury Bell, in which the
little wild bees go to sleep, loving their silky comfort.
These are but a few paragraphs from our news-sheet,
but they serve to show how pleasant a paper it is to
know—and it costs nothing but a pair of loving and
careful eyes.

If we choose to be more fanciful—and who is not, in
a wild garden with a dish of Wild Strawberries ?—we
shall find ourselves filling Acorn cups with dew to drink
to the fairies, and wondering how the thigh of a honey-
bee might taste. Herrick is the poet for such flights
of thought. His songs—‘‘ To Daisies, not to shut so
soon.” ‘*To Primroses filled with Morning Dew,”
and, for this instance, to

THE BAG OF THE BEE

About the sweet bag of a bee
Two Cupids fell at odds ;

And whose the pretty prize should be
They vowed to ask the Gods.

Which Venus hearing, thither came
And for their boldness stripped them 3

And taking thence from each his flame
With rods of Myrtle whipped them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she’s seen them,

She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them. ~

We can do no better than give thanks for all our
garden, our house, and our well-being in the words of
the same poet. For we need to thank, somehow,
for all the joys Nature gives us. Though, in

67

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

this poem, he names no flowers, yet his poems are
full of them:

«*__That I, poor I,
May think, thereby,
I live and die
’*Mongst Roses.”

Every man who is a gardener at heart, whether he be
in love with the flowers of the open fields, the garden
of the highways and the woods, or with his protected
patch of ground, will care to know this song of Herrick’s
if he has not already found it for himself :

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE

Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell ;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is waterproof ;

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry ;

Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate;
Both void of state ;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by th’ poor,

Who thither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall
And kitchen’s small ;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead ;

Some brittle sticks of Thorn or Briar
Make me a fire

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A FEAST OF WILD STRAWBERRIES

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The Pulse is thine.
And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee ;
The Worts, the Purs!ain, and the mess
Of Watercress,
Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
And my content
Makes those, and my beloved Beet,
To be more sweet.
Tis thou that crown’st my glittering hearth,
With guiltless mirth,
Aud giv’st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink. —
Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,
And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one;
Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day ;
Besides, my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year ;
The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine ;
All these, and better, thou dost send
Me, to this end—
That I should render, for my part,
A thankfnl heart ;
Which, fired with incense, I resign,
As wholly thine ;
—But the acceptance, that must be,
My Christ, by Thee.

69

x

THE PRAISES OF A COUNTRY LIFE
TRANSLATED FROM HORACE

BY CHRISTOPHER SMART

Happy the man, who, remote from business, after the
manner of the ancient race of mortals, cultivates his
paternal lands with his own oxen, disengaged from every
kind of usury; his is neither alarmed with the horrible
trumpet, as a soldier, nor dreads he the angry sea;
he shuns both. the bar, and the proud portals of men in
power.

Wherefore, he either weds the lofty Poplars to the
mature branches of the Vine; or lopping off the useless
boughs with his pruning-knife, he engrafts more fruit-
ful ones; or takes a prospect of the herds of his lowing
cattle, wandering about in a lonely vale; or stores his
honey, pressed from the combs, in clean vessels; or
shears his tender sheep.

Or, when Autumn has lifted up in the field his head
adorned with mellow fruits, how glad is he while he
gathers Pears grafted by himself, and the Grape that
vies with the purple, with which he may recompense
thee, O Priapus, and thee, father Sylvanus, the guardian
of his boundaries !

Sometimes he delights to lie under an aged Holm,
sometimes on the matted grass: meanwhile the waters
glide down from steep clefts; the birds warble in the

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THE PRAISES OF A COUNTRY LIFE

woods; and the fountains murmur with their purling
streams, which invites gentle slumbers.

But when the wintry season of the tempestuous air
prepares rains and snows, he either drives the fierce
boars, with dogs on every side, into the intercepting
toils; or spreads his thin nets with the smooth pole, as
a snare for the voracious thrushes; or catches in his
gin the timorous hare, or that stranger, the crane,
pleasing rewards for his labour.

Amongst such joys as these, who does not forget
those mischievous anxieties, which are the property
of love? But if a chaste wife, assisting on her part
in the management of the house and beloved children,
(such as is the Sabine, or the sunburnt spouse of the
industrious Apulian) piles up the sacred hearth with
old wood, just at the approach of her weary husband,
and shutting up the fruitful cattle in the woven hurdles
milks dry their distended udders; and drawing this
year’s wine out of a well-seasoned cask, prepares the
unbought collation; not the Lucrine oysters could
delight me more, nor the turbot, nor the scar, should
the tempestuous Winter drive any from the Eastern
floods to this sea: not the turkey, nor the Asiatic wild
fowl, can come into my stomach more agreeable than
the Olive, gathered from the richest branches of the
trees, or the Sorrel that loves the meadows, or Mallows
salubrious for a sickly body, or a lamb slain at the feast
of the god Terminus, or a kid just rescued from a wolf.

Amidst these dainties, how it pleases one to see the
well-fed sheep hastening home ? To see the weary oxen,
with drooping neck, dragging the inverted plough-
share! and numerous slaves, the test of a rich family
ranged about the smiling household gods!

7

A PERYOLA IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN,

PART Il
GARDENS AND HISTORY

I
THE ROMAN GARDEN IN ENGLAND

Ir would appear, judging from the specimens one sees,
that the building of garden apartments, or summer-
houses, is a lost art. But then leisure, as an art, has
also been lost ; and no man unless he understand leisure
can possibly build an apartment to be entirely devoted
to it.

Imagine the man of the day who could write of his
summer-house as the younger Pliny wrote: “ At the
end of the terrace, adjoining to the gallery, is a little
garden-apartment, which I own is my delight. In
truth it is my mistress: I built it.” The younger
Pliny, of to-day, is scouring the countryside in a motor-
car, his eyes half-blinded by dust, his nose offended
by the stink of petrol; his thoughts, like his toys,
purely mechanical.

There are still a few quiet people, and some scholars,
whom the Socialist in his eager desire to benefit man-
kind at reckless speed, and at ruthless expense of
humanity, would like to blot out, who can enjoy their
gardens with that curious remoteness which is the
privilege of the person of leisure.

The art of leisure lies, to me, in the power of absorbing
without effort the spirit of one’s surroundings; to
look, without speculation, at the sky and the sea; to
become part of a green plain ; to rejoice, with a tranquil
mind, in the feast of colour in a bed of flowers. To

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

this end is the good gardener born. The man, who, from
a sudden love, stops in his walk to look at a field of
Buttercups has no idea of the spiritual advancement he
has made.

All this ambles away from the main topic, but so
closely does the peace of gardens cling, that thoughts
fly over the hedges like bees on the wing and bring
back honey from wider pastures and dreams from
larger tracts than those the garden itself covers. A
men might write a romance of Spain from looking at an
Oranze.

The Romans, who left an indelible mark on England
in their roadways and by their laws, built in this country
many villas whose pavements and foundations remain
to show us what manner of habitations they were.
Besides this we have ample records of the shapes and
purposes of these villas, with long accounts of baths,
furniture and the like, such as enable us to picture very
completely the life of a Roman gentleman exiled to these
shores.

Houses, parks, and fields now cover all traces of any
gardens there were attached to these Roman villas.
Many a man lives over the spot where the hedges and
alleys, the flower beds and walks, once delighted those
gentlemen who sat drinking Falerian wine poured from
old amphore dated by the year of the consul. Where
sheep now browse gentlemen have sat after a feast of
delicacies—Syrian Plums stewed with Pomegranate
seeds ; roasted field-fares, fresh Asparagus ; Dates sent
from Thebes—and, having eaten, have enjoyed the
work of their topiarius, whose skill has cut hedges of
Laurel, Box, and Yew into the forms of ships, bears,
beasts and birds.

Differing from the Greeks, who were not good gar-
deners, the Romans, with a skill learnt partly from

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THE ROMAN GARDEN IN ENGLAND

Oriental countries, made much of their gardens, and
laid them out with infinite care and arrangement.
They raised their flower-beds in terraces, and edged
them with neat box borders ; they made walks for shade,
and walks for sun; planted thickets, alleys of fruit
trees, orchards, and Vine pergolas. They had, as a rule,
in larger gardens, a gestatio, a broad pathway in which
they were carried about in litters. They had the
hippodromus, a circus for exercise, which had several
entrances with paths leading to different parts of the
garden.

It is not too much to presume that the Romans, who
spent their lives in our country, and build magnificent
villas for themselves, and brought over all the arts of
their country, brought, also, their methods of gardening,
and planted here as they planted in their villas outside
Rome, all the flowers, fruits and vegetables that the
country would produce.

Tacitus was of the opinion that “the soil and climate
of England was very fit for all kinds of fruit trees,
except Vine and Olive; and for all kinds of edible
vegetables.”’ In this he was right but for the Vine, which
was planted here in the Third Century, and we know
of vineyards and wine made from them in the Highth
Century.

Of gardeners there was the topiarius, a fancy gardener,
whose main business it was to be expert on growing,
cutting and clipping trees. The villicus, or viridarius,
who was the real villa gardener, with much the same
duties as our gardener of to-day. The hortulanus is a
later term. And there was the aquarius, a slave whose
duty it was to see that all the garden was provided with
proper aqueducts, and who managed the fountains
which, without doubt, formed a great part in garden
ornament. I imagine, also, that the aquarius would

77

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

have control over the supply of hot water which must
flow through the green-houses where early fruits and
flowers were forced; such fruits as Winter Grapes,
Melons, and Gherkins ; and of flowers, the Rose in par-
ticular, for use in garlands and crowns.

Violets and Roses were the principal flowers, being
often grown as borders to the beds of vegetables, so
that one might find Violets, Onions, Turnips, and Kidney
Beans flourishing together.

Besides these flowers there were also the Crocus,
Narcissus, Lily, Iris, Hyacinth (the Greek emblem of
the dead in memory of the youth killed by Apollo by
mistake with a quoit), Poppy, and the bright red Damask
Rose and Lupias.

In the orchards of Rome were Cherries, Plums, Quinces,
Pomegranates, Peaches, Almonds, Medlars, and Mul-
berries; and in the vineyards were thirty varieties of
Grapes. Those kinds of fruits which were hardy enough
to stand our climate were grown here, and to judge
from all account only the Olive failed to meet the test.

Not only were flowers and fruit grown in profusion
but Herbs, Asparagus, and Radishes had their place.

Honey, which took a great place in Roman cookery,
and in making possets, and in thickening wine, was pro-
vided by bees kept especially in apiaries built in shel-
tered places, with beds of Cytisus, and Thyme and
Apiastrum by them. The hives were built of brick or
baked dung, and were placed in tiers, the lowest on
stone parapets about three feet above the ground ;
these parapets being covered with smooth stucco to
prevent lizards and insects from entering the hives.

The descriptions by the younger Pliny of his villas
and gardens are so delightful in themselves, besides
being of great value, that I am going to quote largely
from them.

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THE ROMAN GARDEN IN ENGLAND

The village of Laurentium where Pliny built his villa
was on the shores of the Tuscan Sea, and not far from
the mouth ofthe Tiber. The villa was built as a refuge
after a hard day’s work in Rome, which was only seven-
teen miles away. ‘‘A distance,” he says, “‘ which
allows us, after we have finished the business of the
day, to return thither from town, with the setting sun.”

There were two roads from Rome to this villa, the
one the Laurentine road—‘“‘if you go the Laurentine
you must quit the high road at the fourteenth stone ’’—
and the Ostian road, where the branch took place at the
eleventh.

After a description of the house and the baths he
writes of the garden :

‘* At no great distance is the tennis-court, so situated,
as never to be annoyed by the heat, and to be visited
only by the setting sun. At the end of the tennis-
court rises a tower, containing two rooms at the top
of it, and two again under them; besides a banqueting
room, from whence there is a view of very wide ocean,
a very extensive continent, and numberless beautiful
villas interspersed upon the shore. Answerable to this
is another turret containing, on the top, one single room
where we enjoy both the rising and the setting sun.
Underneath is a very large store-room for fruit, and a
granary, and under these again a dining-room from
whence, even when the sea is most tempestuous, we
only hear the roaring of it, and that but languidly and
at a distance. It looks upon the garden, and the place
for exercise which encludes my garden. The whole is
encompassed with Box; and where that is wanting
with Rosemary ; for Box, when sheltered by buildings,
will flourish very well, but wither immediately if ex-
posed to wind and weather, or ever so distantly affected

by the moist dews from the sea. The place for exercise
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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

surrounds a delicate shady vineyard, the paths of
which are easy and soft even to the naked feet.

«<The garden is filled with Mulberry and Fig trees; the
soil being propitious to both those kinds of trees, but
scarce to any other.

‘‘A dining-room, too remote to view the ocean, com-
mands an object no less agreeable, the prospect of the
garden: and at the back of the dining-room are two
apartments, whose windows look upon the vestibule of
the house; and upon a fruitery and a kitchen garden.
From hence you enter into a covered gallery, large
enough to appear a public work. The gallery has a
double row of windows on both sides; in the lower
row are several which look towards the sea; and one
on each side towards the garden; in the upper row
there are fewer; in calm days when there is not a
breath of air stirring we open all the windows, but in
windy weather we take the advantage of opening that
side only which is entirely free from the hurricane.
Before the gallery lies a terrace perfumed with Violets.
The building not only retains the heat of the sun, and
increases it by reflexion, but defends and protects us
from the northern blasts.”

After a further description of this gallery written
with some care, Pliny begins his praise of his garden
apartment. No man but a man of true Ieisure could
have dwelt so lovingly on a description of a summer-
house. Herrick loved his simple things as much, and
sang them tenderly. The small things that come close
to us, to keep us warm from all life’s disappointments,
these are the things our hearts sing out to, these are
the things we think of when we are from home. “ At
the end of the terrace, adjoining to the gallery, is a little
garden-apartment, which I own is my delight. In
truth it is my mistress: I built it; and in it is a

80

«

‘ONIGTVdS “TIVH FIT HOAOISAY

SNHGUYVS AHL OL AINVAINA

THE ROMAN GARDEN IN ENGLAND

particular kind of sun-trap which looks on one side towards
the terrace, on the other towards the sea, but on both
sides has the advantage of the sun. A double door
opens into another room, and one of the windows has
a full view of the gallery. On the side next the sea,
over against the middle wall, is an elegant little closet ;
separated only by transparent windows, and a curtain
which can be opened or shut at pleasure, from the roor
just mentioned. It holds a bed and two chairs; the
feet of the bed stand towards the sea, the back towards
the house, and one side of it towards some distant
woods. So many different views, seen from so many
different windows diversify and yet blend the prospect.

«‘ Adjoining to this cabinet is my own constant bed-
chamber, where I am never disturbed by the discourse
of my servants, the murmurs of the sea, nor the violence
ofastorm. Neither lightning nor daylight can break in
upon me till my own windows are opened. The reason of
so perfect and undisturbed a calm here arises from a
large void space which is left between the-walls of the
bedchamber and of the garden; so that all sound is
drowned in the intervening space.

‘* Close to the bedchamber is a little stove, placed so
near a small window of communication that it lets out,
or retains, the heat just as we think fit.

“From hence we pass through a lobby into another
room, which stands in such a position as to receive the
sun, though obliquely, from daybreak till past noon.”

There is one thing in this description that is very note-
worthy, the absolute content with everything, the lack
of any note of grumbling. After all, the pleasures of that
garden apartment were very simple; he took his joy of
the sun, the wind, and the distant sound of the sea
Heat, light, and the pleasant music of nature ; the bank
of Violets near by, the prospect of the villas on the shore

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

glimmmering amidst their greenery in the sun; the
songs of birds in the thickets of Myrtle and Rosemary,
there made up the fine moments of his life.

Such little houses were copied from the Eastern idea,
such as is pointed to several times in the Bible. The
Shunamite gives such a house to Elisha:

“Let us make him a little chamber, I pray thee, with walls 3
and let us set him there a bed, and a table, and a stool, and
a candlestick, that he may turn in thither when he cometh
to us.”

Whether a Roman living in England ever built himself
such a house it is difficult to prove, since, so far as I can
find, no remains of such a place are to be seen. But,
when one considers the actual evidence of the Roman
Occupation, the yields given by the neighbourhoods of
Roman cities, the statues, vases, toys, the amphi-
theatres for cock-fighting, wrestling, and gladiatoral
combat, then surely there were gardens of great wonder
near to these cities where men like Pliny went to sit in
their garden houses and enjoyed the cool of the evening
after a day’s work.

I have always made it a fancy of mine to suppose such
an apartment to have stood on the spot where a garden
house I know now stands. I have sat in this little house,
a tiny place compared to Pliny’s, and pictured to myself
the surrounding country as it might have looked under
the eyes of our Roman conquerors. Not far distant is a
Roman town, outside which is a huge amphitheatre ;
the Roman road, via Iceniana, cutting through the
western downs and forests. Over this very countryside
were villas scattered here and there, bridges, walls,
moats and camps. Even to-day, not far away from my
summer-house, are two small Roman bridges, over
which, in my day-dreams, the previous occupier of the
site has often passed.

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THE ROMAN GARDEN IN ENGLAND

Here, from this summer-house, I look upon an apiary,
a bed of Violets, a little wood that gives shelter to the
birds, a running stream where trout leap in the pools
My Roman friend, had he built his house here, would
have looked, as I look, at green meadows, and across them
to a wild heath on which rise the very mounds he must
have known, British earthworks, and the heap-up burial
places of great British chiefs. Round about the house
grow many flowers that would seem homely to my
ghostly friend, Roses, Lilies, Narcissi, Violets, Poppies.
Here he might have sat and contemplated, as Pliny did,
and taken his pleasure of the sun, the wind, the birds.
The sea he could not have heard, since it is eight miles
away, but he could well have seen storms come up over
the western downs, known that the Roman galleys were
seeking shelter in the coves and harbours, and noticed
how the gulls flew screaming inland, and the Egyptian
swallows flew low before the coming tempest.

This house that I know is a simple affair, compared
to the elaborate design of Pliny’s ; it is a small thatched
single apartment built in the elbow of the garden wall.
It is not tuned to trap the sun, or dull the sounds of the
violence of the winds, but its solitary window opens wide
to let in the sound of the bees at work, the thrush singing
in the Lilac tree, or tapping his snails on a big stone by the
side of the garden path. It has a shelf for books, two
chairs, a writing table, and an infinity of those odds and
ends a person collects who deals with bees. Withal it is
pervaded by a very sweet smell of honey.

Then there are ghosts for company if the books, the
birds, and the bees fail. There is my Roman to speak
for his villa, for the glories of the town near by. There
is the British chieftain whose mound is not two miles
away, a mound where his charred ashes lie, but the urn
that held them is on a shelf overhead. There are Saxons

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

who have trod this very ground, and Danes and Nor-
mans, men also from Anjou, Gascony, and Maine, and a
host of others. Then there are the flowers themselves
with romances every one.

If I have a mind to following fancy and turn this into a
veritable Roman garden, I can link my fancy with Pliny’s
facts and see how it would have been ordered and ar-
ranged. I can see the villa portico with its terrace in
front of it adorned with statues and edged with Box.
Below here is a gravel walk on each side of which are
figures of animals cut inBox. Then there is the circus at
the end of a broad path, where my Roman friend could
exercise himself on horseback. Round about the circus
are sheared dwarf trees, and clipped Box hedges. Onthe
outside of this is a lawn, smooth and green. Then comes
my summer-house shaded with Plane trees, with a marble
fountain that plays on the roots of the trees and the
grass round them. There would be a walk near by
covered with Vines, and ended by an Ivy-covered wall.
Several alleys (my imagination has traced their courses)
wind in and out to meet in the end of a series of straight
walks divided by grass plots, or Box trees cut into
a thousand shapes; some of letters forming my
Roman’s name; others the name of his gardener. In
these are mixed small pyramid Apple trees; ‘“‘ and now
and then (to follow Pliny’s plan) you met, on a sudden,
with a spot of ground, wild and uncultivated, as if
transplanted hither on purpose.” Everywhere are
marble or stone seats, little fountains, arbours covered
with Vines, and facing beds of Roses, or Violets, or
Ucrbs, and always is to be heard the pleasant murmur
of water “‘ conveyed through pipes by the hand of the
artificer.”

The more I think of it the more I see how exactly the
garden I know fulfils this purpose. Except for a

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THE ROMAN GARDEN IN ENGLAND

greater, a far greater display of flowers, Pliny would be
quite at home here. There is an abundance of water ;
the very site for the horse course; winding alleys,
straight paths, and several pergolas for Roses.

A noticeable thing in the planning of a Roman garden,
and one that is too often absent from our own, is the
great attention paid to the value of water. In many
places where there is an abundant supply of water, with
streams running close by, or even through the garden,
we find no attempt made to use the value of water either
decoratively or for useful purposes. We are apt to dis-
pose our gardens for the purposes of large collections of
flowers, whereas the Roman with his small store of them
was forced to bring every aid to bear on varying his
garden, such as seats, fountains, and little artificial
brooks. The cost, even in small gardens, of arranging
a decorative effect of water, where water is plentiful,
would not amount to so very much, and in many cases
would be a great saving of labour. We use wells to some
extent, and, to my mind, a properly-built well-head,
with a roof and posts, and seats, is one of the most beau-
tiful garden ornaments we can have.

The well-head itself should be built of brick raised
about eighteen inches above the ground, and should be at
least fourteen inches broad in the shelf, so that the
buckets have ample room in which to stand. The coil
and windlass are better if they are both simple, and of
good timber. Round this a brick path, two feet broad,
should be laid. Over all a roof of red tiles supported on
square wooden posts or brick pillars, would give shade to
the well, and to a seat of plain design that should be
placed against the outer edge of the brick path. And if
beds of flowers were set about it all, as I have seen done,
and well done, in a cottage garden in Kent, the effect is

quaint and beautiful.
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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

I have no doubt that in Roman England such wells
were built where the supply of water was not equal to
great distribution. But it is amazing to think that such
a tiny village as Laurentium, where Pliny had one of his
villas outside Rome, held three Inns, in each of which
were baths always heated and ready for travellers, and
that it has taken us until the present day to bring the
bath into the ordinary house.

Naturally, when one casts one’s eyes over a picture of
a Roman garden in England, and compares it with a gar-
den of to-day, the very first thing we find missing is that
mass of colour and that wonderful variety of bloom that
constitutes the apex of modern gardening. Where they
were surprised, or gave themselves sudden shocks to the
eye, it was by means of little grottos, fountains, vistas at
the ends of long alleys, statues in a wild part of a garden,
or unexpected seats commanding a prospect opened out
by an arrangement of the trees. We prepare for our-
selves wildernesses in which the Spring shall paint her
wonderful picture of Anemones, Daffodils, Crocuses, and
such flowers ; where Blue Bells and Primroses, Ragged
Robin, and Foxgloves hold us by their vivid colour.. Our
scarlet armies of Geranium, our banks of purple Asters, or
the flaming panoplies of Roses with which we illuminate
our gardens would seem to the Roman something
wonderful and strange. Yet, in a sense, his taste
was more subtle. He held green against green, a bed
of Herbs, the occasional jewel of a clump of Violets,
more to his manner of liking. And he arranged his
garden so as to contain as many varieties of walks as
possible.

In the evenings now, when I am, by chance, staying
in the house whose garden holds that summer-house I
love, I can see my old Roman of my dreams wandering
cver his estate, and I almost feel his presence near me as

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THE ROMAN GARDEN IN ENGLAND

his ghost sits on the wooden seat by the lawn and his eyes
seem to peer across the meadows back to where Rome
herself lies over the eastern hills. An exile, buried far
from Rome, his spirit seems to hover here as if he could

not sleep in peace away from the warm, sweet Italy of
his birth.

87

1

II

ST. FIACRE, PATRON SAINT OF GARDENERS
AND CAB-DRIVERS

GarRDENERS who, to a man, are dedicated to peaceful
and meditative pursuits, should care to know of the story
of Saint Fiacre, the Irish Prince who turned hermit, and
after his death was hailed Patron of Gardeners.

He left Ireland, says the story, at that time when a
missionary zeal was sending Irish monks the length and
breadth of Europe. As Saint Pol left Britain and slew
the Dragon on the Isle of Batz; Saint Gall drove the.
spirits of flood across the Lake of Constance; Saint
Columban founded monasteries in Burgundy and the
Apennines, so did Saint Fiacre leave his native land and
take himself to France, and there by a miracle enlarge
the space of his garden.

At Meaux, on the river Marne, near Paris, the Bishop
Saint Faron had founded a new monastery in the woods
and called it the Monastery of Saint Croix. To this
monastery came the son of the Irish King, and made his
vows. It was early days in Europe, for Saint Fiacre
died in or about the year 670, and it is almost impossible
to imagine the perils and discomforts of his journey, for
in Britain and Gaul fighting was going on, roads were bad
and unsafe, the sea had to be crossed in an open boat.

But these Celts, driven west by war, now began to
make their own war on Europe, not with sword and’
shield and battle-cry, but with pilgrim’s staff, and reed

88

A CABDRIVEK IN PICCADILLY,

ST. FIACRE

pen, and the device of Christ on their hearts. Ulumina-
tion, one of the marvels of monkish accomplishment,
was spread throughout Europe by bands of Irish monks,
who, taking the wonderful traditions of such work as
“The Book of Kells,” and those works written and
illuminated at Lindisfarne, went their ways from country
to country spreading their culture as well as their
message.

Saint Fiacre stayed a certain time in the monastery
until, indeed, the voice within him calling for more
solitude and for another mode of life, forced him to
go to the Bishop. To him he spoke of his vocation,
of those feelings within him that prompted him to
become a hermit.

The good Bishop seeing in Fiacre a good intention,
and perceiving doubtless the holy nature of the monk,
granted him a space on his own domain, some way
from the monastery, on the edge of the woods and the
plain of Brie. To this place the monk repaired and
began the great work of his life.

Now it is not easy for the best of men at the best of
times to live solitary in a wood without becoming
something of a self-conscious or morbid person. Not
so with these old hermits. They seemed to have the
grace of such excessive spirituality as to have been
uplifted above ordinary men, and to have lost all sense
of loneliness in conversation with the Saints, and in
communion with God.

What finer means of reaching this exalted condition
than by labouring to make a garden in the wilderness ? +
Saint Fiacre cleared a space in the woods with his own
hands, and in this space he built an oratory to Our
Lady, and a hut by it wherein he dwelt. All must
have been of the most primitive order; one of those
beehive shaped buildings, such as still remain in Ireland,

89 M

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

for the oratory, fashioned out of stones and mud in
what is called rag-work, and most probably roofed
with turf.

After the work of building he began to make his
garden. It is evident that his clearing was not near
the river as the fountain or well from which he drew
his water is still to be seen and it is a considerable
distance away.

Imagine the solitary life of this priest gardener, whose
food depended entirely on the produce of the ground.
To any man the silence of the woods holds a mysterious
calm, a weird, haunting uneasiness. To dwellers in
woods, after a time, the silence becomes full of friendly
voices; the fall of Acorns; the crackling of twigs as a
wild animal forces a passage through the undergrowth ;
the snap of trees in the frost; the shuffling of birds
getting ready for the night. But here, in the wild
woods of Meaux in those early times, wolves, bears,
wild boars lived.

It is possible to imagine the Saint on his knees at
night, the trees, dark masses round his garden, a heaven
above him pitted with stars, the smoke of his breath as
he prays rising like incense. And, as has been known
to be the case, all wild animals fearless of him, and
friendly to him in whom they see, by instinct, one who
will do them no harm. As Saint Jerome laid down with
the lions, as Saint Francis spoke with Brother Wolf,
and Sister Lark, so Saint Fiacre must have spoken with
his friends, the beasts. In the heart of a gardener lies
something to which all wild nature responds.

But consider a man of that time alone in the wood,
at that time when men knew so little and whose lives
were full of superstitious guesses at scientific facts.
And think how much more full of dread Fiacre must

have been than an ordinary man, since he was one of a
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ST. FIACRE

nation to whom fairies and goblins of every kind are
daily actualities. Think of the Saint seeing his own
face daily reflected in the well as he drew his water ;
think of the mysterious quality of water in lonely wells
when it seems now to be troubled by unseen hands,
now to lift a clear smiling face to the sky. He must be
a mystic and a man filled with a simple goodness who
can garden in a wilderness like this.

One can picture him seated at the door of his hut
eating his Acorn mash or Herb soup after a day’s work
and prayer. A stout wooden spade rests by his side,
the shaft of Oak worn smooth by his hands. In front
of him what labours show in the ground! Huge
stumps of trees that have been uprooted and dragged
away; herbs he has tried to grow showing green in
the heavy soil; wild flowers sweeting the air; here the
beginnings of a vineyard; there the first blades of a
patch of Wheat, or Oats.

In various parts of Europe were other Irish people
at work sweetening the soil. Saint Gobhan near Laon,
Saint Etto, at Dompierre, Saint Caidoc and Saint
Fricor in Picardy, and Saint Judoc also there, Saint
Fursey, at Lagny, six miles north of Paris; and a
daughter of an Irish king, Saint Dympna, at Gheel, in
Belgium. These are but a few of the Irish who ventured
forth to save the world. Beyond all of these does Saint
Fiacre appeal to us who love our gardens.

Self-denial has been called the luxury of the Saints,
yet the phrase-maker would seem to such denials of
unessentials as rich foods and wines, and mortifications
of the flesh which a man may choose to do without any
suggestion of Saintship. Here, in Saint Fiacre, we
have a man whose process of purification was symbolised
by his work. The uprooting of trees, the uprooting
of a thousand superstitious ideas ; the purifying of the

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soil, the cleansing of his heart; the growing of food,
the sustenance for his spirit besides his body.

He leaves his native land, he becomes monk, hermit,
gardener. He dwells in the wilds of a forest, one man,
alone, doing no great deed one might imagine that
would cause his fame to travel, living his quiet simple
life shut right away from the world by leagues of forest,
more buried than a man in the wilderness. For cathedral,
the depth of his woods, the aisles of great trees, the
tracery and windows made by boughs and leaves.
For choir, the birds. He was, one would think, so
utterly alone, that no step but his own ever broke the ©
silence of the woodland glades; so isolated that no
human voice but his own ever penetrated the brakes
and thickets. Yet he became known.

Doubtless some hunter, a wild man, to whom the
tracks in the forest were as roads, coming one day
through the woods after game, burst into the clearing,
and stood amazed, paused suspicious, wondering to
see the little oratory, the hut, the garden all about.
The hunter casts his keen eyes about, here and there,
alert, scenting danger, eyeing the new place with
anxious wonder, holding his spear in readiness. Then
comes the Saint from his hut and calls him brother,
bids him put down his spear, sit and eat.

The hunter goes; a swineherd, seeking lost droves of
pigs turned loose to fatten on the acorns, comes across
the place. The news filters through the country,
reaches the huddled villages by the river, reaches the
dwellers in the hills, the people of the forest. They
come to look, to stare, to be amazed. To each Saint
Fiacre offers his hospitality.

As men, drawn irresistibly by a strong personality,
will throng towards a well whose water is supposed to

contain some virtue, or a stone to touch which restores
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ST. FIACRE

lost friends, so they came to test the holiness of this
man of the woods, and found him good, and true, and
full of peace. And they marvelled to find a garden in
the wood, and, being entreated, eat of its produce, and
heard the holy man preach, and saw him heal. Then
the Saint was forced to build another hut for those of
his visitors who came from far to consult him, and, as
the crowds grew greater he was forced to go to the Bishop
to ask for more land.

Saint Faron, the Bishop of Meaux, to whom all the
forest belonged, knew his man. One can imagine two
such men leading lofty and spiritual lives meeting in the
monastery. I like to think of the Bishop as one of those
thin men full of years, with a skin like parchment, his
holiness shining out of his eyes, a man whose quiet
voice, tuned to the silence of the monastery, breathes
peace. And Fiacre, bronzed with the open air, rough
with labour, with the curious eyes of the mystic, eyes
that looked as if they had pierced the veil of a mystery,
standing before his Bishop asking for his grant of land.

Coming from the depths of the heavy wood into the
town, leaving the silence of his forest for the noise of the
place, he must have felt strange. Those who met him
were, I am sure, conscious of the atmosphere he carried
with him, the envelope all lonely men wear, the curious
reserve common to all dwellers in woods, and wilds.

The Bishop consented to the demand, and gave him
his desire after a curious manner. Perhaps to test
this hermit whose fame had already spread so far,
perhaps to see how real were the stories he must have
heard of his spiritual son, this holy gardener, he granted
him as much land as he could enclose with his spade in
one day.

Back went Saint Fiacre to his forest clearing, to his
friends the birds, his bubbling wells, his aisles of trees,

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

his garden, now well grown, and, breaking a stick he
marked out far and wide the space of land he needed,
more than any man could in one day enclose with any
spade. And after that into the little oratory he went
and prayed for help.

You may be sure every movement of this was carefully
observed. A woman envied him and spied on these
proceedings. I take it she was some woman to whom,
before the Saint grew famous, the peasants came for
spells and simples, a wise woman, a witch, whose reputa-
tion was at stake.

‘The Saint’s prayer was answered. The woman, evil
report on her tongue, made her journey to the Bishop
of Meaux, and accused Fiacre of magic, of dealings
with the Devil. Roused by the report, the Bishop
came to see the Saint and saw all that had happened.
In one day all the wide space Fiacre had marked out
had been enclosed. After that the oratory was denied
to all women. Even as late as 1641, nearly a thousand
years after his death, when Anne of Austria visited his
shrine in the Cathedral of Meaux she did not enter the
Chapel but remained outside the grating. It was the
legend, handed down all that time, that any woman
who entered there would go blind or mad.

Where the Saint had dug his solitary garden, and on
the site of his cell a great Benedictine Priory was built
in after years, where his body was kept and did many
wonders of healing, especially in the cure of a certain
fleshy tumour, which they called “le fie de St. Fiacre.”
After many years, in the beginning of the seventeenth
century, his body was removed to the Cathedral at
Meaux.

So it may be seen for how good a cause he became
known as Patron of Gardeners, and it must now be
shown why he is called the Patron of Cab Drivers. In

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St. FIACRE

1640 a man of the name of Sauvage started an establish-
ment in Paris from which he let out carriages for hire.
He took a house for this business in the Rue St. Martin,
and the house was known as the Hotel de St. Fiacre,
and there was a figure of the Saint over the doorway.

All the coaches plying from here began to be called,
for short, fiacres, and the drivers placed images of the
Saint on their carriages, and claimed him as their patron.

There is a Pardon of St. Fiacre in Brittany ; and there
are churches and altars to him all over France.

EVELYN’S “SYLVA”

ALSO
KALENDARIUM HORTENSE;; Or, ye Gard’ners Almanao ;
Directing what he is to do Monethly throughout the year.

—Tibi res antique laudis et artis
Ingredior, tantos ausus recludere fonteis. Virg.

LONDON: Printed by Jo. Martyn, and Ja. Allestry, Printers
to the Royal Society, and are to be sold at their Shop at the
Bellin S. Paul’s Church-yard ;

MDCLXIV.

This book was the first ever printed for the Royal
Society, and contains, as may be seen, a practically com-
plete record of seventeenth century planting and garden-
ing, thus having an unique interest for all who follow the
craft.

John Evelyn, from the day he began his lessons
under the Friar in the porch of Wotton Church, was a
curious observer of men and things, but especially was
he devoted to all manners and styles of gardening.

Nothing was too small, too trivial to escape his notice ;
from the weather-cocks on the trees near Margate—put
there on the days the farmers feasted their servants, to
the interest he found in watching the first man he ever
saw drink coffee.

The positions he held under Charles IT. and James II.
were many and varied, yet he found time to collect
samples in Venice, and travel extensively, to write a Play,
a treatise called: ‘‘ Mundus Muliebris, or the Ladies’
Dressing Room, Unlocked,” and a pamphlet, called
‘* Tyrannus, or the Mode,” in which he sought to make
Charles IT. dress like a Persian, and succeeded in so
doing.

But above all these things he held his chiefest pleasure
in seeing and talking of the arrangement of gardens,
passing on this love to his son John, who, when a boy of
fifteen, at Trinity College, Oxford, translated ‘* Rapin,

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

or Gardens,” the second book of which his father in-
cluded in his second edition of ‘‘ Sylva.”

His Majesty Charles II., to whom the “Sylva”? is
dedicated, was a monarch to whom justice has never
been properly done. He is represented by pious but
inaccurate historians, those men who for many years
gave a false character of jovial good nature to that gross
thief and sacrilegious monster, Henry VIII., as a King
who spent most of his time in the Playhouse, or in talking
trivialities with gay ladies, and in making witty remarks
to alland sundry in his Court. The side of him that took
interest in shipbuilding, navigation, astronomy, in the
founding of the Royal Society, in the advancement of Art,
in the minor matters of flower gardening and bee-keeping
is nearly always suppressed. It was largely through his
interest in this volume of Evelyn’s that the Royal forests
were properly replanted ; and it was in a great measure
due to Royal interest that the parks and estates of the
noblemen of England became famous in after years for
their beautiful timber.

In that part of the “‘ Sylva ” dealing with forest trees,
there were a hundred hints to all lovers of nature and of
gardens, for your good gardener is a man very near in his
nature to a good strong tree, and loves to observe the
play of light and shade in the branches of those that give
shade to his garden walks.

Evelyn tells us how the Ash is the sweetest of forest
fuelling, and the fittest for Ladies’ Chambers, also for the
building of Arbours, the staking of Espaliers, and the
making of Poles. The white rot of it makes a ground for
the Sweet-powder used by gallants. He tries to intro-
duce the Chestnut as food, saying how it is a good, lusty
and masculine food for Rustics ; and commenting on the
fact that the best tables in France and Italy make them
a service. He tells us how the water in which Walnut

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EVELYN’S “SYLVA ”

husks and leaves are boiled poured on the carpet of walks
and bowling-greens infallibly kills the worms without
hurting the grass. That, by the way, is a matter for dis-
cussion among gardeners, seeing that some say that the
movements of worms from below the surface to their
cast on the lawn lets air among the grass roots and is good
for them.

He tells us how the Horn-beam makes the stateliest
hedge for long garden walks. He advises us how to
make wine of the Birch, Ash, Elder, Oak, Crab and
Bramble. He praises the Service-Tree, and the Eugh, and
the Jasmine, saying of this last how one sorry tree in
Paris where they grow “has been worth to a poor
woman, near twenty shillings a year.”

All this and much besides of diverting and instructive
reading, varied with remarks on the gardens of his
friends and acquaintances, as when he ‘cannot but
applaud the worthy Industry of old Sir Harbotle Grim-
stone, who (I am told) from a very small Nursery o}
Acorns which he sowed in the neglected corners of his
ground, did draw forth such numbers of Oaks of
competent growth; as being planted about his Fields in
even and uniform rows, about one hundred foot from the
Hedges; bush’d and well water’d till they had suffi-
ciently fix’d themselves, did wonderfully improve
both the beauty, and the value of his Demeasnes,”’
for the honour and glory of filling England with
fine trees and gardens to improve, what he calls—the
Landskip. ;

The exigencies of the present moment when Imperial
Finance threatens to tax all good parks and orchards out
of existence, and to make all fine flower gardens out of
use, except to the enormously wealthy, makes the
«‘Gard’ners Calendar” all the more interesting as
showing what manner of flowers, fruits, and vegetables

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

were in use in the Seventeenth Century, and the means
employed to grow and preserve them.

Then, as now, there was a danger of over cultivation of
certain plants and flowers, so that a man might have
more pride in the number and curiosity of his flowers,
than in the beauty and colour of them. It is a certain
fault in modern gardeners that they do not study the
grouping and massing of colours, but do, more generally,
take pride in over-large specimens, great collections,
and rare varieties. But this age and that are times of
collecting, of connoisseurship, ages that produce us great
art of their own but have an extraordinary knowledge of
the arts and devices of the past. Not that I would
decry the friendly competitions of this and that man to
grow rare rock plants, or bloom exotics the one against
another, but I do most certainly prefer a rivalry in pro-
ducing beautiful effects of colour ; and love better to see
a great mass of Roses growing free than to see one poor
tree twisted into the semblance of a flowering parasol as
men now use in many of the small climbing Roses.

To the end that gardeners and lovers of gardens may
know how those past gardeners treated their fruits and
flowers, I give the whole of Evelyn’s “ Gard’ners
Calendar,’’ than which no more complete account of
gardens of that time exists.

It would be as well to note, before arriving at our
Seventeenth Century Calendar, how the art of gardening
had grown in England after the time of the Romans.

From the time that every sign of the Roman occupa-
tion had been wiped out to the beginning of the thir-
teenth century, gardens as we know them to-day did not
exist. The first attempts at gardens within castle walls
were little plots of herbs and shrubs with a few trees of
Costard Apples. It appears that all those plants and
flowers the Romans cultivated had been lost, and that

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EVELYN’S “SYLVA”

with the sterner conditions of living all such arrange
ments as arbours of cut Yew trees, or elaborate Box-
edged paths had completely vanished. Certainly they
did have arbours for shade, but of a simple kind and quite
unlike the elaborate garden houses the Romans built.
There were vineyards and wine made from them as
early as the Eighth Century, and in the reign of Edward
the Third wine was made at Windsor Castle by Stephen
of Bourdeaux. The Cherry trees brought here by the
Romans had quite died out and were not recovered
until Harris, Henry the Eighth’s Irish fruiterer, grew
them again at Sittingbourne. In the Twelfth Century
flower gardening again came in, and within the castle
walls pleasant gardens were laid out with little avenues
of fruit trees, and neat beds of flowers. Of the fruit
trees there was the Costard Apple, the only Apple of that
time, from which great quantities of cider—that
‘* good-natured and potable liquor ”"—was made. There
was the great Wardon Pear, from which the celebrated
Wardon pies were made; they were Winter Pears from
a stock originally cultivated by those great horti-
culturists the Cistercian monks of Wardon in Bedford-
shire. Then there was also the Quince, called a Coyne,
the Medlar, and I believe the Mulberry, or More tree.
In the borders, Strawberries, Raspberries, Barberries
and Currants were grown, that is in a well-stocked
garden such as the Earl of Lincoln had in Holborn in
1290. Then there was a plot set aside as a Physic
garden where herbs grew and salads of Rocket, Lettuce,
Mustard, Watercress, and Hops. In one place, probably
overlooking the pond or fountain which was the centre
of such gardens, was an arbour, and walks and smaller
gardens were screened off by wattle hedges. In that
part of the garden devoted to flowers were Roses, Lilies,
Sunflowers, Violets, Poppies, Narcissi, Pervinkes or
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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Periwinkles. Lastly, and most important was the
Clove Pink, Orgilly-flower, a variety of Wallflower then
called Bee-flower. Add to this an apiary and you have
a complete idea of the medieval garden.

Later, in the Fifteenth Century came a new feature
into the garden, a mound built in the centre for the view,
made sometimes of earth, but very often of wood
raised up as a platform, and having gaily carved and
painted stairways. These, with butts for archery,
and bowling-greens, and a larger variety of the old
kinds of flowers, showed the principal difference.

We come now to the gardens of the Sixteen Century,
when flower gardening was extremely popular. Spenser
and the other poets are always describing the beauties
of flowers, and from these and old Herbals, from Bacon,
Shakespeare and other writers of that time, we are able
to see how, slowly but surely, the art of flower growing
had advanced. The gardens were very exact and
formal, and were divided in geometrical patterns, and
grew large ‘“‘ seats” of Violets, Penny Royal, and Mint
as well as other herbs. Above all, a new addition to the
mounds, archery butts and bowling-greens, was the
maze which had a place in every proper garden of the
Elizabethans.

The first garden where flower growing was taken
really seriously belonged to John Parkinson, a London
apothecary who had a garden in Long Acre. Great
importance was given to smell, as is highly proper,
and flower gardens were bordered with Thyme, Mar-
joram and Lavender. Highly-scented flowers were
the most prized, and for this reason the prime favourite
the Carnation, was more grown than any other flower.
Of this there were fifty distinct varieties of every shape
and size, including the famous large Clove Pink, the

golden coloured Sops-in- Wine.
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EVELYN’S “SYLVA ”

With the increase in the variety of the Rose, of which
about thirty kinds were known, came the fashion,
quickly universal, of keeping potpourri of dried Rose
leaves, many of which were imported from the East,
from whence, years before, had come quantities of Roses
to supply the demand in Winter in Rome.

As the fashion for growing flowers increased so, also,
did the efforts of gardeners to procure new and rare
flowers from foreign countries, and soon the Fritillary,
Tulip and Iris were extensively cultivated, and were
treated with extraordinary care.

Following this came the rage for Anemones and
Ranunculi, in which people endeavoured to excel over
their friends. And after that came in small Chry-
santhemums, Lilac or Blue Pipe tree, Lobelia, and the
Acacia tree.

It will be seen that within quite a short space of time
the old garden containing few flowers, and only those
as a rule that had some medicinal properties, vanished
before a perfect orgy of colour and wealth of varieties ;
and that gardening for pleasure gave the people a new
and fascinating occupation. The rage for Anemones
and for the different kinds of Ranunculus developed
until in the late Seventeenth Century the madness,
for it was nothing else, for Tulip collecting came in,
to give place still later to the Rose, and in our day only
to be equalled by the collection of Chrysanthemums
and Orchids.

The best books previous to Evelyn’s ‘‘ Sylva” are
Gervase Markham’s ‘‘ Country House-Wife’s Garden,”
(1617), and John Parkinson’s “ Paradisus in Sole”
(1629).

One word more on the subfect of flower mania. The
rage for the Tulip that attacked both English and
Dutch in the late Seventeenth Century is one of the

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

most peculiar things in the history of gardening. The
Tulip is really a Persian flower, the shape of it suggest-
ing the name, thoulyban, a Persian turban. It was
introduced into England about 1577, by way of
Germany, having been brought there by the German
Ambassador from Constantinople. By the Seventeenth
Century there had developed such a passion for this
flower that it led to wreck and ruin of rich men who
paid fabulous sums for the bulbs, a single bulb being
sold for a fortune. One bulb of the Semper Augustus
was sold for four thousand six hundred florins, a new
carriage, a pair of grey horses, and complete harness.
So great did the business in Tulips become that every
Dutch town had special Tulip exchanges, and there
speculators assembled and bid away vast sums to
acquire rare kinds. The mania lasted about three
_years, and was only finally stopped by the Govern-
ment.

104

TULIPS IN THE GARDEN OF PEACE.

PART III

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE:

OR THE

GARD’NERS ALMANAC;

Drirectine wuat Hz ts To DO
MONETHLY
THROUGHOUT THE

YEAR

1664

JANUARY.

To be done
In THE OrcHARD, AND OxiToRY GARDEN.

Trench the ground, and make it ready for the Spring:
prepare also soil, and use it where you have occasion :
Dig Borders, &c., uncover as yet Roots of Trees, where
Ablaqueation is requisite.

Plant Quick-Sets, and Transplant Fruit-trees, if not
finished: Set Vines; and begin to prune the old:
Prune the branches of Orchard-fruit-trees; Nail, and
trim your Wall-fruit, and Espaliers.

Cleanse Trees of Moss, &c., the weather moist.

Gather Cyons for graffs before the buds sprout ;
and about the later end, Graff them in the Stock: Set
Beans, Pease, etc.

Sow also (if you please) for early Colly-flowers.

Sow Chevril, Lettuce, Radish, and other (more deli-
cate) Saleting ; if you will raise in the Hot-bed.

In over wet, or hard weather, cleanse, mend, sharpen
and prepare garden-tools.

Turn up your Bee-hives, and sprinkle them with a
little warm and sweet Wort; do it dextrously.

Fruits In Prime, on YET LASTING.

APPLES.

Kentish-pepin, Russet-pepin, Golden-pepin, French
pepin, Kirton-pepin, Holland-pepin, John-apple, Winter-
queening, Mari-gold, Harvey-apple, Pome-water, Pome-

1

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

roy, Golden-Doucet, Reineting, Loues-pearmain, Winter-
Pearmain, etc.

PEARS.

Winter-husk (bakes well), Winter-Norwich (excellently
baked), Winter-Bergamot, Winter-Bon-crestien, both
Mural: the great Surrein, etc.

JANUARY.
To be done
In THE PARTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN.

Set up your Traps for Vermin; especially in your
Nurseries of Kernels and Stones, and amongst your
Bulbous-roots: About the middle of this month, plant
your Anemony-roots, which will be secure of, without
covering, or farther trouble: Preserve from too great
and continuing Rains (if they happen), Snow and Frost,
your choicest Anemonies, and Ranunculus’s sow’d
in September, or October for earlier Flowers: Also
your Carnations, and such seeds as are in peril of being
wash’d out, or over chill’d and frozen; covering them
with Mats and shelter, and striking off the Snow where
it lies too weighty; for it certainly rots, and bursts
your early-set Anemonies and Ranunculus’s, ete., unless
planted now in the Hot-bed; for now is the Season, and
they will flower even in London. Towards the end,
earth-up, with fresh and light mould, the Roots of
those Auriculas which the frosts may have uncovered;
filling up the chinks about the sides of the Pots where
your choicest are set: but they need not be hous’d;
it is a hardy Plant.

FLOWERS IN Prime, orn YET LASTING.

Winter Aconite, some Anemonies, Winter Cyclamen,
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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Black Hellebor, Beumal-Hyacinth, Oriental-Jacynth,
Levantine-Narcissus, Hepatica, Prime-Roses, Laurus-
tinus, Mezereon, Praecoce Tulips, etc., especially if raised
in the (Hot-bed).

NOTE.

That both these Fruits and Flowers are more early,
or tardy, both as to their prime Seasons of eating, and
perfection of blowing, according as the soil, and situation,
are qualified by Nature or Accident.

NOTE ALSO

That in this Recension of Monethly Flowers, it is to
be understood for the whole period that any flower
continues, from its first appearing, to its final withering.

110

FEBRUARY.

To be done
In THE ORCHARD, AND OLITORY GARDEN.

Prime Fruit-trees, and Vines, as yet. Remove graffs
of former year graffing. Cut and lay Quick-sets. Yet
you may Prune some Wall-fruit (not finish’d before)
the most tender and delicate: But be exceedingly care-
ful of the now turgid buds and bearers; and trim up
your Palisade Hedges, and Espaliers. Plant Vines as
yet, and the Shrubs, Hops, ete.

Set all sorts of kernels and stony seeds. Also sow
Beans, Pease, Radish, Parsnips, Carrots, Onions, Garlick,
etc., and Plant Potatoes in your worst ground.

Now is your Season for Circumposition by Tubs,
Baskets of Earth, and for laying of Branches to take
Root. You may plant forth your Cabbage-plants.

Rub Moss off your Trees after a soaking Rain, and
scrape and cleanse them of Cankers, etc., draining away
the wet (if need require) from the too much moistened
Roots, and earth up those Roots of your Fruit-trees,
if any were uncover’d. Cut off the webs of Caterpillars,
etc. (from the Tops of Twigs and Trees)to burn. Gather
Worms in the evenings after Rain. °

Kitchen-Garden herbs may now be planted, as Parsly,
Spinage, and other hardy Pot-herbs. Towards the
middle of later end of this Moneth, till the Sap rises
briskly, Graff in the Cleft, and so continue till the last
of March; they will hold Apples, Pears, Cherries,
Plums, etc. Now also plant out your Colly-flowers

111

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

to have early; and begin to make your Hot-bed for the
first Melons and Cucumbers; but trust not altogether
to them. Sow Asparagus. Lastly,

Half open your passages for the Bees, or a little
before (if weather invite); but continue to feed weak
Stocks, ete.

Fruits 1x Prime, on Yer LASTING.
APPLES,

Kentish, Kirton, Russet, Holland Pepins; Deuxans,
Winter Queening, Harvey, Pome-water, Pomeroy,
Golden Doucet, Reineting, Loues. Pearmain, Winter
Pearmain, ete.

PEARS.

Bon-crestien of Winter, Winter Poppering, Little
Dagobert, ete.

FEBRUARY,
To be done
-In THE PARTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN,

Continue Vermine Trapps, ete.

Sow Alaternus seeds in Cases, or open beds; cover
them with thorns, that the Poultry scratch them not
out,

Now and then air your Carnations, in warm days
especially, and mild showers.

Furnish (now towards the end) your Aviarys with
Birds before they couple, ete.

112

APPLE TREES.

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

FLowers In Prime, or YET LASTING.

Winter Aconite, single Anemonies, and some double,
Tulips praecoce, Vernal Crocus, Black Hellebore, single
Hepatica, Persian Iris, Leucoium, Dens Caninus,
three leav’d, Vernal Cyclamen, white and red. Yellow
Violets with large leaves, early Daffodils, ete.

113 bf

MARCH.

To be done
In tot Orcuarp, AND OLITORY GARDEN.

Yet Stercoration is seasonable, and you may plant
what trees are left, though it be something of the latest,
unless in very backward or moist places.

Now is your chiefest and best time for raising on the
Hot-bed Melons, Cucumbers, Gourds, etc., which about
the sixth, eighth or tenth day will be ready for the
seeds; and eight days after prick them forth at dis-
tances, according to the method, etc.

If you have them later, begin again in ten or twelve
days after the first, and so a third time, to make Ex-
periments.

Graff all this Moneth, unless the Spring prove extra-
ordinary forwards.

You may as yet cut Quick-sets, and cover such Tree-
roots as you laid bare in Autumn.

Slip and set Sage, Rosemary, Lavender, Thyme, ete.

Sow in the beginning Endive, Succory, Leeks, Ra-
dish, Beets, Chard-Beet, Scorzonera, Parsnips, Skirrets,
Parsley, Sorrel, Buglos, Borrage, Chevril, Sellery,
Smalladge, Alisanders, etc. Several of which con-
tinue many years without renewing, and are most of
them to be blanch’d by laying them under litter and
earthing up.

Sow also Lettuce, Onions, Garlick, Okach, Parslan,
Turneps (to have early) monethly, Pease, etc. these
annually, :

114

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

Transplant the Beet-chard which you sow’d in August
to have most ample Chards. Sow also Carrots, Cab-
bages, Cresses, Fennel, Marjoram, Basil, Tobacco, ete.
And transplant any sort of Medicinal Hearbs.

Mid-March dress up and string your Strawberry-beds,
and uncover your Asparagus, spreading and loosening
the Mould about them, for their more easy penetrating.
Also you may transplant Asparagus roots to make new
Beds.

By this time your Bees sit; keep them close Night
and Morning, if the weather prove ill, Turn your
Fruit in the Room where it lies, but open not yet the
windows.

Fruits In Prime, or YET LASTING.

APPLES.

Golden Duchess (Doucet), Pepins, Reineting, Loues
Pearmain, Winter Pearmain, John-Apple, etc.

PEARS.
Later Bon-crestien, Double Blossom Pear, ete.

MARCH.

To be done
In THE PARTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN.

Stake and binde up your weakest Plants and Flowers
against the Windes, before they come too fiercely, and in
a moment prostrate a whole year’s labour.

Plant Box, etc., in Parterres. Sow Pinks, Sweet
Williams, and Carnations, from the middle to the end of
this Moneth. Sow Pine kernels, Firr-seeds, Bays, Ala-
tirnus, Phillyrea, and most perennial Greens, ete. Or
you may stay till somewhat later in the Moneth. Sow

116

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Auricula seeds in pots or cases, in fine willow earth, a
little loamy ; and place what you sow’d in October now
in the shade and water it.

Plant some Anemony roots to bear late, and succes-
sively: especially in, and about London, where the
Smoak is anything tolerable ; and if the Season be very
dry, water them well once in two or three days. Fibrous
roots may be transplanted about .the middle of this
Moneth; such as Hepatica’s, Primeroses, Auricula’s,
Camomile, Hyacinth, Tuberose, Matricaria, Hellebor,
and other Summer Flowers ; and towards the end Con-
volvulus, Spanish or ordinary Jasmine. _

Towards the middle or latter end of March sow on the
Hot-bed such Plants as are late-bearing Flowers or
Fruit in our Climate ; as Balsamine, and Balsamummas,
Pomum Onions, Datura, Aethispic Apples, some choice
Amaranthmus, Dactyls, Geraniums, Hedysarum Clip-
eatum, Humble, and Sensitive Plants, Lenticus, Myrtle-
berries (steep’d awhile), Capsicum Indicum, Canna
Indica, Flos Africanus, Minabile Peruvian, Nasturtium
Ind., Indian Phaseoli, Volubilis, Myrrh, Carrots, Mana-
coe, fine flos Passionis and the like rare and exotic
plants which are brought us from hot countries.

Note.—That the Nasturtium Ind., African Mary-
golds, Volubilis and some others, will come(though not
altogether so forwards) in the Cold-bed without Art.
But the rest require much and constant heat, and
therefore several Hot-beds, till the common earth be very
warm by the advance of the Sun, to bring them to a due
stature, and perfect their Seeds.

About the expiration of this Moneth carry into the
shade such Auriculas, Seedlings or Plants as are for their
choiceness reserv’d in Pots.

Transplant also Carnation seedlings, giving your layers
fresh earth, and setting them in the shade for a week,

116

‘

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

then likewise cut off all the sick and _ infected
leaves.

Now do the farewell-frosts, and Easterly-winds
prejudice your choicest Tulips, and spot them ; therefore
cover such with Mats or Canvass to prevent freckles, and
sometimes destruction. The same care have of your
most precious Anemonies, Auricula’s, Chamae-iris, Bru-
mal Jacynths, Early Cyclamen, etc. Wrap your shorn
Cypress Tops with Straw wisps, if the Eastern blasts prove
very tedious. About the end uncover some Plants, but
with Caution ; for the tail of the Frosts yet continuing,
and sharp winds, with the sudden darting heat of the
Sun, scorch and destroy them in a moment ; and in such
weather neither sow nor transplant.

Sow Stock-gilly-flower seeds in the Fall to produce
double flowers.

Now may you set your Oranges, Lemons, Myrtils,
Oleanders, Lentises, Dates, Aloes, Amonumus, and like
tender trees and Plants in the Portico, or with the win-
dows and doors of the Green-houses and Conservatories
open for eight or ten days before April, or earlier, if the
Season invite, to acquaint them gradually with the Air ;
but trust not the Nights, unless the weather be thor-
oughly settled.

Lastly, bring in materials for the Birds in the Aviary
to build their nests withal.

FLOWERS IN Prime, orn YET LASTING.

Anemonies, Spring Cyclamen, Winter Aconite, Crocus,
Bellis, white and black Hellebor, single and double
Hepatica, Leucoion, Chamae-iris of all colours, Dens
Caninus, Violets, Fritillaria, Chelidonium, small with
double Flower, Hermodactyls, Tuberous Iris, Hyacinth,
Zenboin, Brumal, Oriental, etc. Junquils, great

117

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Chalie’d, Dutch Mezereon, Persian Iris, Curialas, Nar-
cissus with large tufts, common, double, and single, Prime
Roses, Praecoce Tulips, Spanish Trumpets or Junquilles ;
Violets, yellow Dutch Violets, Crown Imperial, Grape
Flowers, Almonds and Peach-blossoms, Rubus odoratus,
Arbour Judae, ete.

118

APRIL.

To be done
In THE OrncHARD, AND OtitTory GARDEN.

Sow Sweet Marjoram, Hyssop, Basile, Thyme, Winter-
Savoury, Scurvey-grass, and all fine and tender Seeds
that require the Hot-bed.

Sow also Lettuce, Purslan, Caully-flower, Radish, etc.

Plant Artichoke-slips, etc.

Set French-beans, etc.

You may yet slip Lavender, Thyme, Rose-mary, etc.

Towards the middle of this moneth begin to plant forth
your Melons and Cucumbers, and to the late end; your
Ridges well prepared.

Gather up Worms and Snails, after evening showers,
continue this also after all Summer rains.

Open now your Bee-hives, for now they hatch ; look
carefully to them, and prepare your Hives, etc,

Fruits In Prime, AND YET LasTING.

APPLES.

Pepins, Deuxans, West-berry Apples, Russeting,
Gilly-flowers, flat Reinet, etc.

PEARS,

Late Bon-crestien, Oak-pear, etc., double Blossom,

etc.
119

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

APRIL.

To be done
In THE PARTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN.

Sow divers Annuals to have Flowers all the Summer ;
as double Mari-golds, Cyanus of all sorts, Candy-tufts,
Garden-Pansy, Muscipula, Scabious, ete.

Continue new, and fresh Hot-beds to entertain such
exotic plants as arrive not to their perfection without
them, till the Air and common earth be qualified with
sufficient warmth to preserve them abroad. A Cata-
logue of these you have in the former Moneth.

Transplant such Fibrous roots as you had not finished
in March; as Violets, Hepatica, Prim-roses, Hellebor,
Matricaria, etc.

Sow Pinks, Carnations, Sweet-Williams, etc., to
flower next year ; this after rain.

Set Lupines, etc.

Sow also yet Pine-kernels, Firr-seeds, Phillyrea, Alat-
ernus, and most perennial greens.

Now take out your Indian Tuberoses, parting the off-
sets (but with care, lest you break their fangs), then pot
them in natural (not fore’d) Earth ; a layer of rich mould
beneath, and about this natural earth to nourish the
fibers, but not so as to touch the Bulbs ; then plunge your
pots in a Hot-bed temperately warm, and give them no
water till they spring, and then set them under a South-
wall. In dry weather water them freely, and expect an
incomparable flower in August. Thus likewise treat the
Narcissus of Japan, or Garnsey-Lilly, for a late flower,
and make much of this precious Direction.

Water Anemonies, Ranunculus’s, and Plants in Pots
and Cases once in two or three days, if drouth require it.
But carefully protect from"violent Storms of Rain and

120

DAFFODILS IN A MIDDLESEX GARDEN.

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

Hail, and the too parching darts of the Sun, your Pen-
nach’d Tulips, Ranunculus’s, Anemonies, Auricula’s,
covering them with Mattresses supported on cradles of
hoops, which have now in readiness.

Now is the season for you to bring the choice and
tender shrubs, etc., out of the Conservatory ; such as
you durst not adventure forth in March. Let it be ina
fair day; only your Orange-trees may remain in the
house till May, to prevent all danger.

Now, towards the end of April, you may Transplant
and Remove your tender shrubs, ete., as Spanish Jas-
mines, Myrtils, Oleanders, young Oranges, Cyclamen,
Pomegranats, ete., but first let them begin to sprout ;
placing them a fort-night in the shade ; but about Lon-
don it may be better to defer this work till August, vide
also May. Prune now your Spanish Jasmine within an
inch or two of the stock ; but first see it begin to shoot.
Mow Carpet-walks, and ply Weeding, etc.

Towards the end (if the cold winds are past) and
especially after showers, clip Philyrea, Alaternus, Cy-
press, Box, Myrtils, Barba Jovis, and other tonsile
shrubs, ete.

FLowers IN Prime, or YET LASTING.

Anemonies, Ranunculus’s, Auriculalirri, Chamae-Iris,
Crown Imperial, Uaprisolium, Cyclamen, Dens Caninus,
Fritillaria, double Hepaticas, Jacynth starry, double
Daisies, Florence-Iris, tufted Narcissus, white, double
and common, English Double, Prime-rose, Cow-slips,
Pulsatilla, Ladies-Smock, Tulips Medias, Ranunculus’s
of Tripoly, white Violets, Musk, Grape-flower, Parietaria
Lutea, Leucoium, Lillies, Paeonies, double Jonquils,
Muscaria revers’d, Cochlearia, Periclymenum, Aican-
thus, Lilac, Rose-mary, Cherries, Wall-pears, Almonds,
Abricots, White-Thorn, Arbour Judae blossoming, ete.

121 Q

ay —

MAY.

To be done
In THE ORCHARD, AND OxiTorY GARDEN.

Sow Sweet-Marjoram, Basil, Thyme, hot and Aromatic
Herbs, and Plants which are the most tender.

Sow Parslan, to have young; Lettuce, large-sided
Cabbage, painted Beans, etc.

Look carefully to your Mellons ; and towards the end of
this moneth, forbear to cover them any longer on the
Ridges, either with straw or mattresses, etc.

Ply the Laboratory, and distill Plants for Waters,
Spirits, etc.

Continue Weeding before they run to Seeds.

Now set your Bees at full Liberty, look out often,
and expect Swarms, etc.

Fruits In Prime, on Yet Lastine.

Pepins, Deuxans or John-Apples, West-berry-apples,
Russeting, Gilly-flower Apples, the Maligan, etc., Cod-
ling.

PEARS.

Great Kainville, Winter-Bon-cretienne, Double Blos-
som-pear, ete.

CHERRIES, ETC.

The May-Cherry, Straw-berries, etc.

122

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

MAY.

To be done
In THE ParTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN.

Now bring your Oranges, etc., boldly out of the Con-
servatory ; ’tis your only Season to Transplant, and Re-
move them; let the Cases be fill’d with natural-earth
(such as is taken the first half spit, from just under the
Turf of the best Pasture ground), mixing it with one part
of rotten Cow-dung, or very mellow Soil screen’d and
prepar’d some time before; if this be too stiff, sift a
little Lime discreetly with it. Then cutting the Roots a
little, especially at bottom, set your Plant ; but not too
deep; rather let some of the Roots appear. Lastly, |
settle it with temperate water (not too much) having put
some rubbish of Brick-bats, Lime-stones, Shells,or the like
at the bottom of the Cases, to make the moisture passage,
and keep the earth loose. Then set them in the shade
for a fort-night, and afterwards expose them to the Sun.

Give now also all your hous’d-plants fresh earth at the
surface, in place of some of the old earth (a hand-depth
or so) and loos’ning the rest with a fork without wound-
ing the Roots. Let this be of excellent rich soil, such as
is thoroughly consumed and with sift, that it may wash
in the vertue, and comfort the Plant. Brush, and
cleanse them likewise from the dust contracted during
their Enclosure. These two last directions have till
now been kept as considerable secrets amongst our
gard’ners ; vide August and September.

Shade your Carnations and Gilly-flowers after mid-
day about this season. Plant also your Stock Gilly-
flowers in beds, full Moon.

Gather what Anemony-seed you find ripe, and that is
worth saving, preserving it es dry.

1

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Cut likewise the stalks of such Bulbous-flowers as you
find dry.

Towards the end, take up those Tulips which are dried
in the stalk ; covering what you find to be bare from the
Sun and showers.

FLowers In Prime, or Yer LAstIna.

Late set Anemonies and Ranunculus nom. gen.
Anapodophylon, Chamae-iris, Angustifol, Cyanus, Col-
ambines, Caltha Palustris, double Cotyledon, Digitalis,
Fraxinella, Gladiolus, Geranium, Horminum Creticum,
yellow Hemerocallis, strip’d Jacynth, early Bulbous
Iris, Asphodel, Yellow Lilies, Lychnis, Jacca, Bellis
double, white and red, Millefolium Liteum, Lilium Con-
valium, Span. Pinkes, Deptford-pinke, Rosa common,
Cinnamon, Guelder and Centifol, etc. Syringa’s,
Sedunis, Tulips, Serotin, ete. Valerian, Veronica double
and single, Musk Violets, Ladies Slipper, Stock-gilly-
flowers, Spanish Nut, Star-flower, Chalcedons, ordinary
Crow-foot, red Martagon, Bee-flowers, Campanula’s
white and bleu, Persian Lilly, Honey-suckles, Buglosse,
Homers Moly, and the white of Dioscorides, Pansys,
Prunella, purple Thalictrum, Sisymbrium, double and
single, Leucoium bulbosum serstinum, Rose - mary
Stacchas, Barba Jovis, Laurus, Satyrion, Oxyacanthus,
Tamariscus, Apple-blossoms, etc,

124

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

JUNE.

To be done
In THE ORCHARD, AND OLITORY GARDEN.

Sow Lettuce, Chevril, Radish, etc., to have young
and tender Salleting.

About the midst of June you may inoculate Peaches
Abricots, Cherries, Plums, Apples, Pears, etc.

You may now also (or before) cleanse Vines of exuberant
branches and tendrils, cropping (not cutting) and stop-
ping the joynt immediately before the Blossoms, and
some of the under branches which bear no fruit ; especi-
ally in young Vineyards when they first begin to bear,
and thence forwards.

Gather Herbs in the Fall, to keep dry ; they keep and
retain their virtue, and smell sweet, better dry’d in the
shade than in the Sun, whatever some pretend.

Now is your season to distill Aromatic Plants, ete.

Water lately planted Trees, and put moist and half-
rotten Fearn, etc., about the pot of their Stems.

Look to your Bees for Swarms, and Casts ; and begin
to destroy Insects with Hooses, Canes, and tempting
baits, etc. Gather Snails after rain, ete.

Fruits In Prime, or YET Lastina.

APPLES.

Juniting (first ripe), Pepins, John-apples, Robillard,
Red-Fennouil, etc., French.
125

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

The Maudlin (first ripe), Madera, Green-Royal, St.
Laurence Pear, etc.

CHERRIES, ETC.

Black.
Duke, Flanders, Heart Red.
White.
Luke-ward, early Flanders, the Common - cherry,
Spanish - black, Naples- Cherries, etc, Rasberries,
Corinths, Straw-berries, Melons, etc.

JUNE.

To be done
In THE PARTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN.

Transplant Autumnal Cyclamens now if you would
change their place, otherwise let them stand.

Gather ripe seeds of Flowers worth the saving, as of
choicest Oriental Jacynth, Narcissus (the two lesser, pale
spurious Daffodels of a whitish green often produce
varieties), Auriculas, Ranunculus’s, etc., and preserve
them dry. Shade your Carnations from the afternoons
Sun. Take up your rarest Anemonies, and Ranunculus’s
alter rain (if it come seasonable) the stalk wither’d, and
dry the roots well. This about the end of the moneth.
In mid June inoculate Jasmine, Roses, and some other
rare shrubs. Sow now also some Anemony seeds. Take up
your Tulip-bulbs, burying such immediately as you find
naked upon your beds; or else plant them in some cooler
place ; and refresh over parched beds with water. Plant
your Narcissus of Japan (that rare flower) in Pots, etc.

126

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

Also you may now take up all such Plants and Flower-
roots as endure not well out of the ground, and replant
them again immediately: such as the Early Cyclamen,
Jacynth Oriental, and other bulbous Jacynths, Iris,
Fritillaria, Crown-Imperial, Martagon, Muscario, Dens
Caninus, etc. The slips of Myrtil set in some cool and
moist place do now frequently take root. Also Cytisus
lunatus will be multiplied by slips, such as are an hand-
ful long that Spring. Look now to your Aviary; for
now the Birds grow sick of their feathers; therefore
assist them with Emulsions of the cooler seeds bruised
water, as Melons, Cucumbers, etc. Also give them
Succory, Beets, Groundsel, Chickweed, ete.

FLOWERS IN Prime, on YET LASTING.

Amaranthus, Antirrhinum, Campanula, Clematis
Pannonica, Cyanus, Digitalis, Geranium, Horminum
Creticum, Hieracium, bulbous Iris, and divers others,
Lychnis, var. generum, Martagon white and red, Mille-
folium, white and yellow, Nasturtium Indicum, Carna-
tions, Pinks, Ornithogalum, Pansy, Phalangium Virgini-
anum, darks-heelearly. Pilosella, Roses, Thalaspi Creti-
cum, etc. Veronica, Viola pentaphyl, Campions or
Sultans, Mountain Lilies white and red ; double Poppies,
Stock - jelly flowers, Jasmines, Corn- flag, Hollyhoc,
Muscaria, serpyllum Citratum, Phalangium Allobrogi-
cum, Oranges, Rose-mary, Leuticus, Pome-Granade,
the Lime-tree, etc.

127

JULY.

To be done
In THE ORCHARD, AND OLITORY GARDEN.

Sow Lettuce, Radish, etc., to have tender salleting.

Sow later Pease to be ripe six weeks after Michaelmas.

Water young planted Trees, and Layers, etc., and
prune now Abricots, and Peaches, saving as many of the
young likeliest shoots as are well placed; for the new
Bearers commonly perish, the new ones succeeding :
Cut close and even.

Let such Olitory-herbs run to seed as you would
save.

Towards the later end, visit your Vineyards again,
etc., and stop the exuberant shoots at the second joint
above the fruit; but not so as to expose it to the
Sun.

Now begin to straighten the entrance of your Bees a
little ; and help them to kill their Drones if you observe
too many; setting Glasses of Beer mingled with Hony
to entice the Wasps, Flyes, etc., which waste your store :
also hang Bottles of the same Mixture near your Red-
Roman Nectarines, and other tempting fruits for their
destruction ; else they many times invade your best
Fruit.

Look now also diligently under the leaves of Mural-
Trees for the Snails; they stick commonly somewhat
above the fruit: pull not off what is bitten; for then

they will certainly begin afresh.
128

ENT.

iM

ORCHARD IN. I

POET'S

A

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE
Fruits in Prime, or YET LASTING.

APPLES.

Deuxans, Pepins, Winter-Russeting, Andrew-apples,
Cinnamon-apple, red and white Juiniting, the Margaret-
apple, etc.

PEARS

The Primat, Russet-pears, Summer-pears, green
Chesil-pears, Pearl-pear, etc.

CHERRIES.
Carnations, Morella, Great-bearer, Morocco-cherry,
the Egriot, Bigarreaux, etc.

PEACHES.

Nutmeg, Isabella, Persian, Newington, Violet-muscat,
Rambouillet.

PLUMS, ETC,

. Primordial, Myrobalan, the red, bleu, and amber
Violet, Damax, Deuny Damax, Pear-plum, Damax,
Violet or Cheson-plum, Abricot-plum, Cinnamon-plum,
the Kings-plum, Spanish, Morocco-plum, Lady Eliz.
Flum, Tawny, Damascene, etc.

Rasberries, Goose-berries, Corinths, Straw-berries,
Melons, etc.

JULY.

To be done
In THE PATERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN

Slip Stocks and other lignous Plants and Flowers :
From henceforth to Michaelmas you may also lay Gilly-
, 129 R

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

flowers and Carnations for Increase, leaving not above
two, or three spindles for flowers, with supports, cradles,
and hooses, to establish them against winds, and destroy
Earwigs.

The Layers will (in a moneth or six weeks) strike
root, being planted in a light loamy earth mix’d with
excellent rotten soil and seifted: plant six or eight
in a pot to save room in Winter: keep them well from
too much Rains: but shade those which blow from the
afternoons Sun, as in the former Moneths.

Yet also you may lay Myrtils, and other curious
Greens.

Water young planted Shrubs and Layers, etc., as
Orange-trees, Myrtils, Granades, Amomum, etc.

Clip Box, ete., in Parterres, knots, and Comparti-
ments, if need be, and that it grow out of order; do
it after Rain.

Graff by Approach, Trench, or Innoculate Jasmines,
Oranges, and your other choicest shrubs. Take up your
early autumnal Cyclamen, Tulips and Bulbs (if you will
Remove them, etc.) before mention’d; Transplanting
them immediately, or a Moneth after if you please,
and then cutting off, and trimming the fibres, spread
tuem to Air in some dry place.

Gather now also your early Cyclamen-seeds, and sow
it presently in Pots.

Likewise you may now take up some Anemonies,
Ranunculus’s, Crocus, Crown Imperial, Persian Iris,
Fritillaria, and Colchicums, but plant the three last as
soon as you have taken them up, as you did the Cycla-
mens. ;

Remove now your Dens Canivus, etc.

Latter end of July seift your Beds for Off-sets of
Tulips, and all Bulbous-roots, also for Anemonies—Ra-
nunculus’s, etc., which will prepare it for replanting with

130

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

such things as you have ready in pots to plunge, or
set in naked earth till the next season; as Amaranths,
Canna Ind., Mirabile Peruv., Capsicum Ind., Nasturt.
Ind., etc., that they may not be empty and disfurnished.

Continue to cut off the wither’d stalks of your lower
flowers, etc., and all others, covering with earth the
bared roots, etc.

Now (in the driest season) with Brine, Pot-ashes,
and water, or a decoction of Tobacco refuse, water your
gravel-walks, etc., to destroy both worms and weeds, of
which it will cure them for some years.

FLOWERS IN Prime, on YET LASTING.

Amanauthus, Campanula, Clematis, Sultana, Veronica
purple and odoriferous ; Digitalis, Eryugium, Planum,
Ind. Phaseolus, Geranium triste, and Creticum, Lychnis
Chaleaedon Jacea white and double, Nasturt. Ind. Multe-
folium, Musk-rose, Flos Africanus, Thlaspi Creticum, ete.
Veronica mag. and parva, Volubilis, Balsam-apple, Holly-
hock, Snapdragon, Cornflo, Alkekengi, Lupius, Scorpion-
grass, Caryophlata om. gen. Stock-gilly-flo, Indian
Tuberous Jacynth, Limonium, Linaria Cretica, Pansies,
Prunella, Delphinium, Phalangium, Perploca Virgin,
Flos Passionis, Flos Cardinalis, Oranges, Amomum
Plinii, Oleanders red and white, Agnus Castus, Arbutus,
Yucca, Olive, Lignateum, Tilia, etc.

131

AUGUST.

To be done
In tHe OrcnarpD, AND OLtToRY GARDEN.

Inoculate now early, if before you began not.

Prune off yet also superfluous Branches, and shoots
of this second spring; but be careful not to expose
the fruit, without leaves sufficient to skreen it from
the Sun, furnishing, and nailing up what you will spare
to cover the defects of your Walls. Pull up the suckers.

Sow Raddish, tender Cabages, Cauly-flowers for
Winter Plants, Corn-sallet, Marygolds, Lettuce, Carrots,
Parnseps, Turneps, Spinage, Onions ; also curl’d Endive,
Angelica, Scurvy-grass, etc. Likewise now pull up
ripe Onions and Garlic, ete.

Towards the end sow Purslan, Chard-Beet, Chervile,
etc.

Transplant such Letuce as you will have abide all
Winter.

Gather your Olitory-Seeds, and clip and cut all such
Herbs and Plants within a handful of the ground before
the fall. Lastley:

Unbind and release the buds you inoculated if taken,
etc.

Now vindemiate and take your Bees towards the ex-
piration of this Moneth ; unless you see cause (by reason
of the Weather and Season) to defer it till mid-September :
But if your Stocks be very light and weak begin the
earlier.

Make your Summer Perry and Cider.

132

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

FRvuIts IN Prime, on YET Lastina,
APPLES,

The Ladies Longing, the Kirkham Apple, John Apple ;
the Seaming Apple, Cushion Apple, Spicing, May-flower,
Sheeps-snout.

"PEARS.

Windsor, Soveraign, Orange, Bergamot, Slipper Pearl,
Red Catherine, King Catherine, Denny Pear, Prussia
Pear, Summer Poppering, Sugar Pear, Lording Pea,
etc.

PEACHES.

Roman Peach, Man Peach, Quinee Peach, Ram-
bouillet, Musk Peach, Grand Carnation, Portugal
Peach, Crown Peach, Bourdeaux Peach, Lavar Peach,
the Peach de-lepot, Savoy Malacoton, which lasts till
Michaemas, etc.

NECTARINES.

The Muroy Nectarine, Tawny, Red-Roman, little
Green Nectarine, Chester Nectarine, Yellow Nec-
tarine.

PLUMS.

Imperial, Bleu, White Dates, Yellow Pear-plum,
Black Pear-plum, White Nut-meg, late Pear-plum,
Great Anthony, Turkey Plum, the Jane Plum.

OTHER FRUIT.

Cluster Grape, Muscadine, Corinths, Cornelians, Mul-
berries, Figs, Filberts, Melons, ete.

133 -

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

AUGUST.

To be done
In THE PARTERRE, AND FLower Garpen,

Now (and not till now if you expect success) is the
just Season for the budding of the Orange Tree: In-
oculate therefore at the commencement of this Moneth.

Now likewise take up your bulbous Iris’s; or you
may sow their seeds, as also those of Larks-heel, Candi-
tufts, Iron-colour’d Fox-gloves, Holly-hocks, and such
plants as Endive Winter, and the approaching Seasons.

Plant some Anemony roots to have flowers all Winter,
if the roots escape.

You may now sow Narcissus, and Oriental Jacynths,
and replant such as will not do well out of the Earth,
as Fritillaria, Iris, Hyacinths, Martagon, Dens Canivus,

Gilly-flowers may yet be slipp’d.

Continue your taking of Bulbs, Lilies, etc., of which
before.

Gather from day to day your Alaternus seed as it
grows black and ripe, and spread it to sweat and dry
before you put it up; therefore move it sometimes with
a broom that the seeds may not clog together.

Most other seeds may now likewise be gathered from
Shrubs, which you find ripe.

About mid-Aug. transplant Auricula’s, dividing old
and lusty roots; also prick out your Seedlings: They
best like a loamy sand or light moist Earth.

Now you may sow Anemony seeds, Ranunculus’s,
etc., lightly covered with fit mould in Cases, shaded,
and frequently refresh’d: Also Cyclamen, Jacynths,
Iris, Hepatica, Primroses, Fritillaria, Martagon, Frax-
inella, Tulips, etc., but with patience ; for some of them
because they flower not till three, four, five, six or seven

134

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

years after, especially the Tulips, therefore disturb
not their beds, and let them be under some warm place
shaded yet, till the heats are past, lest the seeds dry ;
only the Hepaticas, and Primeroses may be sow’d in
some less expos’d Beds.

Now, about Bartholomew-tide, is the only secure
season for removing and laying your perenial Greens,
Oranges, Lemmons, Myrtils, Phillyreas, Oleanders,
Jasmines, Arbutus, and other rare Shrubs, as Pome-
granads, Roses, and whatever is most obnoxious to
frosts, taking the shoots and branches of the past Spring
and pegging them down in a very rich earth and soil
perfectly consum’d, water them upon all occasions
during the Summer; and by this time twelve-moneth
they will be ready to remove, Transplanted in fit earth,
set in the shade, and kept moderately moist, not over
wet, lest the young fibers rot; after three weeks set
them in some more airy place, but not in the Sun till
fifteen days more; vide our Observation in April, and
May, for the rest of these choice Directions.

FLOWERS IN Prime, orn YET LASTING.

Amaranthus, Anagallis Lusitanica, Aster Atticus,
Blattaria, Spanish Bells, Bellevedere, Campanula,
Clematis, Cyclamen Vernum, Datura Turtica, Elio-
chryson, Eryngium planum, Amethystium, Geranium
Creticum and Triste, Yellow Stocks, Hieracion minus
Alpestre, Tube-rose Hyacinth, Limonium, Linaria
Cretica, Lychnis, Nimabile Peruvian, Yellow Mille-
foil, Nasturt: Ind. Yellow mountain Hearts-ease,
Manacoc, Africanus Flos, Convolvulus’s, Scabious,
Asphodels, Lupines, Colchicum, Lencoion, Autumnal
Hyacinth, Holly-hoc, Star-wort, Heliotrop, French
Mary-gold, Daisies, Geranium nocte oleus, Common

136

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Pansies, Larks-heels of all colours, Nigella, Lobello,
Catch-fly, Thalaspi Creticum, Rosemary, Musk-rose,
Monethly Rose, Oleanders, Spanish Jasmine, Yellow
Indian Jasmine, Myrtils, Oranges, Pome-granads double
and single flowers, Agnus Cactus, etc.

A KENTISH GARDEN IN AUTUMN.

SEPTEMBER.

To be done
In tHE OrcHARD, AND OLITORY GARDEN.

Gather now (if ripe) your Winter Fruits, as Apples,
Pears, Plums, ete., to prevent their falling by the great
Winds: Also gather your Wind-falls from day to day ;
do this work in dry weather.

Sow Lettuce, Radish, Spinage, Parsneps, Skirrets, ete.
Cauly-flowers, Cabbage, Onions, etc. Scurvy-grass,
Anis-seeds, etc.

Now you may Transplant most sorts of Esculent, or
Physical plants, ete.

Also Artichocks, and Asparagus-roots.

Sow also Winter Herbs and Roots, and plant Straw-
berries out of the Woods.

Towards the end, earth up your Winter plants and
Sallad herbs; and plant forth your Cauly-flowers and
Cabbages which were sown in August.

No longer now defer the taking of your Bees, streighten-
ing the entrances of such Hives as you leave to a small
passage, and continue still your hostility against Wasps,
and other robbing Insects.

Cider-making continues.

Fruits 1n Primr, on YET LASTING.

APPLES.

The Belle-bonne, the William, Summer Pearmain,
Lordling-apple, Pear-apple, Quince-apple, Red-
137 )

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

greening ribbed, Bloody-Pepin, Harvey, Violet
apple, ete.

PEARS.

Hamdens, Bergamot (first ripe), Summer Bon-cres-
tien, Norwich, Black Worcester (baking), Green-field,
Orange, Bergamot, the Queen hedge-pear, Lewes-pear
(to dry excellent), Frith-pear, Arundel-pear (also to
bake), Brunswick-pear, Winter Poppering, Bings-pear,
Bishops-pear (baking), Diego, Emperours-pear, Cluster-
pear, Messire Jean, Rowling-pear, Balsam-pear, Bezy
d’ Hery, etc.

PEACHES, ETC.

Malacoton, and some others, if the year prove back-
wards, almonds, etc.

Quinces.

Little Bleu-grape, Muscadine-grape, Frontiniac, Pars-
ley, great Bleu-grape, the Verjuyce-grape, excellent
for sauce, ete.

Bexberries, ete.

SEPTEMBER.

To be done
InN THE PARTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN.

Plant some of all the sorts of Anemonies after the
first rains, if you will have flowers very forwards ; but
it is surer to attend till October, or the Moneth after,
lest the over moisture of the Autumnal seasons give you
cause to repent.

Begin now also to plant some Tulips, unless you
will stay until the later end of October, to prevent all
hazard of rotting the Bulbs.

All Fibrous Plants, such as Hepatica, MHellebor,

138

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

Cammomile, etc. Also the Capillaries; Matricaria,
Violets, Prim-roses, etc., may now be transplanted.

Now you may also continue to grow Alaternus,
Philyrea (or you may forbear till the Spring), Iris, Crown
Imper; Martagon, Tulips, Delphinium, Nigella, Cand-
tufts, Poppy; and generally all the Annuals which are
not impair’d by the Frosts.

Your Tuberoses will not endure the wet of this Season ;
therefore set the Pots into your Conserve, and keep
them very dry.

Bind up now your Autumnal Flowers, and Plants to
stakes, to prevent sudden gusts which will else prostrate
all you have so industriously rais’d.

About Michaelmas (sooner, or later, as the Season
directs) the weather fair, and by no means foggy, retire
your choice Greens, and rarest Plants (being dry) as
Oranges, Lemmons, Indian and Span. Jasmine, Oleanders,
Barba-Jovis, Amomum Plin. Citysus Lunatus, Cham-
alaca tricoccos, Cistus Ledon Clussii, Dates, Aloes,
Seduns, etc., into your Conservatory ; ordering them
with fresh mould, as you were taught in May, viz.
taking away some of the utmost exhausted earth, and
stirring up the rest, fill the Cases with rich, and well
consumed soil, to wash in, and nourish the roots during
Winter; but as yet leaving the doors and windows
open, and giving them much Air, so the Winds be not
sharp, nor weather foggy; do thus till the cold being
more intense advertise you to enclose them altogether :
Myrtils will endure abroad neer a Moneth longer.

The cold now advancing, set such plants as will not
endure the House into the earth ; the pots two or three
inches lower than the surface of some bed under a
Southern exposure: then cover them with glasses,
having cloath’d them first with sweet and dry Moss ;
but upon all warm, and benigne emissions of the Sun

139

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

and sweet showers, giving them air, by taking off all
that covers them: Thus you shall preserve all your
costly and precious Marum Syriacum, Cistus’s, Geranium
nocte olens, Fios Cardinalis, Maracoco, seedling Arbu-
tus’s (a very hardy plant when greater), choicest Ranun-
culus’s, and Anemonies, Acacia Aegypt, etc. Thus
governing them till April.

Secrets not till now divulg’d.

Note that Cats will eat, and destroy your Marur.
Syriac, if they can come at it.

FLOWERS IN Prime, or YET LASTING.

Amaranthus tricolor, and others; Anagallis of Por-
tugal, Antirrhinum, African flo. Amomum, Plinii,
Aster Atticus, Belvedere, Bellies, Campanula’s, Colchi-
cum, Autumnal Cyclamen, Chrysanthemum angustifol,
Eupatorium of Canada, Sun-flower, Stock-gill-flo.
Geranium Creticum and nocte olens, Gentianella
annual, Hieracion minus Alpestre, Tuberous Indian
Jacynth, Linaria Cretica, Lychnis Constant. single and
double; Limonium, Indian Lilly Narciss. Pomum
Aureum, and Amoris, etc., Spinosum Ind. Marvel of
Peru, Mille-folium, yellow, Nasturtium Indicum, Per-
sian Autumnal Narcissus, Virgianium Phalagium, Indian
Phaseolus, Scarlet Beans, Convolvulus divers. gen., Candy
Tufts, Veronica, purple Volubilis, Asphodil, Crocus,
Garnsey Lily, or Narcissus of Japan, Poppy of all
colours, single and double, Malva arborescens, Indian
Pinks, Aethiopic Apples, Capsicum Ind. Gilly-flowers,
Passion-flower, Dature double and single, Portugal
Ranunculus’s, Spanish Jasmine, yellow Virginian Jas-
mine, Rhododendron, white and red, Oranges, Myrtils,
Muske Rose, and Monethly Rose, ete,

140

OCTOBER.

To be done
In THE ORCHARD, AND OLITORY GARDEN.

Trench Grounds for Orcharding, and the Kitchin-
garden, to lye for a Winter mellowing.

Plant dry Trees (i) Fruit of all sorts, Standard, Mural
or Shrubs, which lose their lease ; and that so soon as
it falls: But be sure you chuse no Trees for the Wall
of above two years Graffing at the most.

Now is the time for Ablaqueation, and laying bare
the Roots of old unthriving, or over hasty hlooming
trees.

Moon now decreasing, gather Winter-fruit that re-
mains, weather dry ; take heed of bruising ; lay them up
clean lest they Taint, Cut and prune Roses yearly.

Plant and Plash Quick-sets.

Sow all stony, and hard kernels and seeds, such as
Cherry, Pear-plum, Peach, Almond-stones, etc. Also
Nuts, Haws, Ashen, Sycomor and Maple keys; Acorns,
Beech-mast, Apple, Pear and Crab Kernel, for Stocks ;
or you may defer it till the next Moneth towards the
later end. You may yet sow Letuce.

Make Winter Cider, and Perry.

Fruits in Prime, anp YET LastTING.

APPLES.

Belle-et-Bonne, William, Costard, Lordling, Parsley-
apples Pearmain, ao Honey-meal, Apis, ete,

THE CHARM OF GARDENS
PEARS.

The Caw-pear (baking), Green-butter-pear, Thorn-
pear, Clove-pear, Roussel-pear, Lombart-pear, Russet-
pear, Suffron-pear, and some of the former Moneth.

Bullis, and divers of the September Plums and Grapes,
Pines, ete.

OCTOBER.

To be done
In roe PArRTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN.

Now your Hyacinthus Tuberose not enduring the
wet, must be set into the house, and preserved very dry
till April.

Continue sowing what you did in September, if you
please: Also,

You may plant some Anemonies, and Ranunculus’s,
in fresh sandish earth, taken from under the turf; but
lay richer mould at the bottom of the bed, which
the fibres may reach, but not to touch the main roots,
which are to be covered with the natural earth two
inches deep: and so soon as they appear, secure
them with Mats, or Straw, from the winds and frosts,
giving them air in all benigne intervals; if possible
once a day.

Plant also Ranunculus’s of Tripoly, ete.

Plant now your choice Tulips, etc., which you feared
to interre at the beginning of September; they will
be more secure and forward enough: but plant them
in natural earth somewhat impoverish’d with very
fine sand; else they will soon lose their variegations ;
some more rich earth may lye at the bottom, within
reach of the fibres: Now have a care your Carnations
catch not too much wet; therefore retire them to

142

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

covert, where they may be kept from the rain, not the
air, Trimming them with fresh mould.

All sorts of Bulbous roots may now be safely buried ;
likewise Iris’s, ete.

You may yet sow Alaternus, and Phillyrea seeds ;
it will now be good to Beat, Roll, and Mow Carpet-
walks, and Camomile; for now the ground is supple,
and it will even all inequalities: Finish your last weed-
ing, ete.

Sweep and cleanse your Walks, and all other places, of
Autumnal leaves fallen, lest the worms draw them inte
their holes, and foul your Gardens, etc.

FLOWERS IN Prime, on YET LASTING.

Amaranthus tricolor, ete. Aster Atticus, Amomum,
Antirrhinum, Colchicum, Heliotrope, Stock-gilly-flo.,
Geranium triste, Ind. Tuberose Jacynth, Limonium,
Lychnis white and double, Pomum Amoris and Aethiop.,
Marvel of Peru, Millefol. luteum, Autumnal Narciss.,
Pansies, Aleppo Narciss., Sphaerical Narciss., Nasturt.,
Persicum, Gilly-flo., Virgin Phalangium, Pilosella,
Violets, Veronica, Arbutus, Span. Jasmine Oranges,

143

NOVEMBER.

To be done
In tHe OrcHARD, AND OLITory GARDEN.

Carry Comfort out of your Melon-ground, or turn and
mingle it with the earth, and lay it in ridges ready for
the Spring: Also trench and fit ground for Artichocks,
etc.

Continue your Setting and Transplanting of Trees;
lose no time, hard frosts. come on apace; yet you may
lay bare old Roots.

Plant young Trees, Standards or Mural.

Furnish your Nursery with Stocks to graff on the
following year.

Sow and set early: Beans and Pease till Shrove-tide ;
and now lay up in your Cellars for Seed, to be Trans-
planted at Spring, Carrots, Parsneps, Turneps, Cabbages
Cauly-flowers, etc.

Cut off the tops of Asparagus, and cover it with long-
dung, or make Beds to plant in Spring, ete.

Now, in a dry day, gather your last Orchard-fruits.

Take up your Potatoes for Winter spending, there
will be enough remain for stock, though nevez 6¢ exactly
gather’d.

Fruits in Prime, on YF LAstTING.

APPLES.

The Belle-bonne, the William, Summer Pearmain,
Lordling-apple, Pear-apple, Cardinal, Winter Chess-
144

WINTER.

IN

A HAMPSTEAD GARDEN

KALENDARIUM HORTENSE

nut, Short-start, etc., and some others of the former two
last Moneths, etc.

PEARS.

Messire Jean, Lord-pear, long Bergamot, Warden
(to bake), Burnt Cat, Sugar-pear, Lady-pear, Ice-pear,
Dove-pear, Deadmans-pear, Winter Bergamot, Belle-
pear, etc.

Bullis, Medlars, Services,

NOVEMBER.

To be done
In THE PARTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN.

Sow Auricula seeds thus: prepare very rich earth
more than half dung, upon that seift some very light
sandy mould; and then sow; set your Cases or Pans
in the Sun till March. Cover your peeping Ranun-
culus’s, etc.

Now is your best season (the weather open) to plant
your fairest Tulips in place of shelter, and under Es-
paliers ; but let not your earth be too rich, vide Octob.
Transplant ordinary Jasmine, etc. About the middle
of this Moneth (or sooner, if weather require) quite
enclose your tender Plants, and perennial Greens,
Shrubs, etc., in your Conservatory, secluding all en-
trance of cold, and especially sharp winds; and if the
Plants become exceeding dry, and that it do not actually
freeze, refresh them sparingly with qualified water
mingled with a little sheeps or Cow-dung: If the Season
prove exceeding piercing (which you may know by
the freezing of a dish of water set for that purpose in
your Green-house) kindle some Charcoal, and then
put them in a hole sunk a little into the floor about the

145 T

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

middle of it: This is the safest stove: at all other
times when the air is warmed by the beams of a fine
day, and that the Sun darts full upon the house shew
them the light; but enclose them again before the
sun be gone off: Note that you must never give your
Aloes, or Sedums one drop of water during the whole
Winter.

Prepare also Mattresses, Boxes, Cases, Pots, ete.,
for shelter to your tender Plants and Seedlings newly
sown, if the weather prove very bitter.

Plant Roses, Althea Frutex, Lilac, Syringas, Cytisus,
Peonies, etc.

Plant also Fibrous roots, specified in the precedent
Moneth.

Sow also stony-seeds mentioned in Octob.

Plant all Forest-trees for Walks, Avenues, and Groves.

Sweep and cleanse your Garden-walks, and all other
places, of Autumnal leaves.

FLOWERS IN Prime, oR YET LASTING.

Anemonies, Meadow Saffron, Antirrhinum, Stock-
gilly-flo., Bellis, Pansies, some Carnations, double Violets,
Veronica, Spanish Jasmine, Musk Rose, etc.

146

DECEMBER.

To be done
In THE ORCHARD, AND OLITORY GARDEN.

Prune, and Nail Wall-fruit, and Standard-trees.

You may now plant Vines, etc.

Also Stocks for Graffing, ete.

Sow, as yet, Pomace of Cider-pressings to raise
Nurseries ; and set all sorts of Kernels, Stones, etc.

Sow for early Beans, and Pease, but take heed of the
Frosts ; therefore surest to defer it till after Christmas,
unless the Winter promise very moderate.

All this Moneth you may continue to Trench Ground
and dung it, to be ready for Bordures, or the planting of
Fruit-trees, ete. :

Now seed your weak Stocks.

Turn and refresh your Autumnal Fruit, lest it taint
and open the Windows where it lyes, in a clear and
Serene day.

Fruits In Prim&, orn YET LASTING.

APPLES.

Rousseting, Leather-coat, Winter-reed, Chest-nut
Apple, Great-belly, the Go-no-further, or Cats-head,
with some of the precedent Moneth.

PEARS.

The Squib-pear, Spindle-pear, Virgin, Gascoyne-
Bergomot, Scarlet-pear, Stopple-pear, white, red, and
French Wardens (to bake or roast), etc.

147

TILE CHARM OF GARDENS

DECEMBER.

To be done
In THE PARTERRE, AND FLOWER GARDEN.

As in January, continue your hostility against Ver-
mine.

Preserve from too much Rain and Frost your choicest
Anemonies, Ranunculus’s, Carnations, etc.

_Be careful now to keep the Doors and Windows
of your Conservatories well matted, and guarded from
the piercing Air: for your Oranges, etc., are now put
to the test: Temper the cold with a few Char-coal
govern’d as directed in November, etc.

Set Bay-berries, etc., dropping ripe.

Look to your Fountain-pipes, and cover them with
fresh and warm litter out of the stable, a good thickness
lest the frosts crack them; remember it in time,
and the Advice will save far both trouble and charge.

FLowers In Prime, or YET LASTING.

Anemonies some, Persian, and Common Winter
Cyclamen, Antirrhinum, Black Hellebor, Laurus tinus,
single Prim-roses, Stock-gilly-flo., Iris Clusii, Snow-
flowers, or drops, Yucca, etc.

148

PART IV

GARDEN MOODS

I
TOWN GARDENS:

Few people will deny the peace of mind a sheet of
green grass can give, but few people, one imagines,
trouble to think how they are preserved in large Towns
and Cities. If it were not for Societies many little open
spaces would years ago have been covered with streets of
houses, many fair trees have fallen, none have been
planted, and those growing have been neglected and
allowed to die. Of the many Societies whose work has
been to preserve for the Public pleasure grounds, good
trees, parks, and flower gardens, not one deserves
such praise as the Metropolitan Public Gardens
Association, whose great work has been carried on since
1882.

When one considers that in Hampstead over six
hundred acres have been preserved by energetic Com-
mittees from the hands of builders it is easy to see how
great is the debt of London to those who voluntarily
work for this and other Open Space Societies.

It is not, however, by these large tracts of open
country that the towns and cities alone benefit.
Seats, fountains, flower beds, and pavements have been
placed in old church-yards and disused burial-grounds
opened for the benefit of the public. One has only to
look at the map of the Metropolitan Public Gardens
Association to see how wonderful their work has been
and still is.

151

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

To dwellers in Towns the sight of flowers in the streets
is like a breath of the country. The long line of flower-
sellers in the High Street, Kensington, one group of
women in Piccadilly Circus, in Oxford Circus, in other
spots where the place of their flower baskets brightens
all the neighbourhood, are doctors, though they do not
know it, of high degree. They bring the message of the
changing year. They are a perpetual flower calendar,
people to whom a reverence is due. One looks in Picca-
dilly Circus for the first Snowdrops, the little knots of
their delicate white faces peering over the edge of the
flower baskets. From the tops of omnibuses the first
Violets are seen. Anemones have their turn, and
Mimosa, and Cowslips, and Roses soon glow in the
midst of the traffic, and elegant Carnations in their
silver grass, and great piles of Asters. So we may read
the year. All through the grey and desolate Winter
these flower women hold their own, through cold and
rain, and pale Winter sun they keep the day alive with the
glowing colours of flowers. I often wonder, as I see
them sit there so patiently, if they know the joy they
give the passer-by, or if they are more like the rocks on
whom flowers grow by nature. They are a curious race,

hese flower-women, untidy, with a screw of hair twisted
ap under a battered hat of black straw, with faded
hawls wrapped round them, and the weapons of their
craft arranged about them—jam jars of water, wire,

bass, rows of little sticks on the end of which button- |

holes are stuck. And they have wonderful contri-
vances for keeping their money, ancient purses rusty
like many of themselves, in which greasy pennies and
wet sixpences wallow in litters of dirty paper. I would
not vouch for the truth of all they say, for it would ap-
pear from their words that every flower in their baskets
is but just picked, or only that second from the market.
152

“MOM NULLOM ‘MOOI NI SVIIVZY

TOWN GARDENS

And they regard such evidence as withered and wet
flower stalks with half-humorous scorn. For all they
may not be well favoured, and a pretty flower-woman is
as rare as a dead donkey, still, for me, they have a certain
dingy dignity, or rather a natural picturesque quality as
of lichen on the pavements.

These people are the town’s gardens of odd corners,
while another tribe of them are perambulating gardens
bringing sudden colour into the soberest of streets.
There are those who carry enormous baskets on their
heads, and cry in some incomprehensible tongue words
intended to convey a message such as “All fresh.”
To see a gorgeous glowing mass of Daffodils sway down
the street borne triumphantly aloft like the litter of
some Princess is one of those sights to repay many grey
days. Then the brothers to this tribe are those who carry
from street to street Ferns and Lilies on carts, drawn
often by a patient ass. I own feeling a distrust for
these men, they do not dispense their goods with much
love. They are not eloquent, as are many flower
women in praise of the beauties of the India plant, or
the Shuttle-cock Ferns. I feel that they are interlopers in
the business, and have failed at the hardware trade, or
have no capacity for the selling of rush baskets, or the
grinding of scissors. At the heels of all those who sell
flowers in the streets are the out-cast members of the
tribe, men with brutal faces who follow lonely women in
unfrequented streets trying to thrust dead plants upon
them, and cursing if they are not bought. And there are
the aged crones who sit by the railings of little squares
and hold out a tray of boot laces, matches, a few very
suspicious-looking Apples, and, in the corner, a bunch of
dead flowers—a kind of esthetic appeal.

Your true flower-lover will search as carefully among
their baskets for the object of his desire as will the

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

collector the musty curiosity shops for prizes for his
collection. There comes the time when the first Snow-
drops, their stalks tied with wool, appear here and there
and may be brought home as rare prizes. A word here
of flower vases. Clear glass is the only form of vessel for
any kind of flower. I feel certain of that. No crock,
no form of pottery gives out greater the real value to
your cut flowers. The stalks are part of the beauty of
the flower, the submerged leaf as lovely as the leaf above.
And, above and beyond all things, glass shows at once if
your water is pure, and if your vase is full. Nowadays
beautiful striped glass vases are made and sold so cheaply
that there is no excuse for the old, and often ugly, pot
vases so many people use. I own to a certain liking to
seeing roses in old China bowls, but have a lurking sus-
picion that I am Philistine in this.

There is, of course, a distinction between Town Gardens
and gardens in Towns. The one being the open free
spaces dedicated to the pleasure of Duke and tramp alike:
the other the hidden and hallowed spots where the town
dweller fights soot, grime, smoke, and lack of sun, and
fights them in many cases wonderfully well. One finds,
though, that many people fancy that only Ivy, cats, and
dustbins will flourish in the heart of a smoky City. This
is not the case. Broom, Lilac, Trumpet Flower, Travel-
ler’s Joy, many kinds of Honeysuckle, Passion Flower,
Tulip Tree, many kinds of Cherry and Plum Trees bear-
ing beautiful blossoms, Barberry, and Almond Trees—
all these will grow well and strongly even in the worst
parts of London. Five kinds of Honeysuckle will
flourish ; they are:

Lonicera Lepebouri Lonicera Serotinum
Pe Flexuosam 55 Belgicum
ee Brachypoda aurea

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TOWN GARDENS

Besides these, pink and white Brambles, Meadowsweet,
Weigela, and Rhododendrons all grow fairly easily.

One of the first sights the traveller notices on approach-
ing any large town is the numerous and gay back gardens
of the little houses. The contents of these gardens are a
true index to the inhabitants of the houses. Where one
garden boasts little but old packing-cases, drying linen,
a few stalks of hollyhocks, and one or two giant sun-
flowers, the very next will show borders full of all varie-
ties of flowers in season, an eloquent picture of what may
be done with a little trouble. The consolation and
pleasure these little town gardens give is out of all pro-
portion to their size. The man who can come home toa
villa, however badly built and hideous, and it often
appears that some competition in ugliness has won
suburban prizes, can find a delight all good gardeners
know in working his plot of land.

One thing we can see at a glance, that the good in-
fluence of one well-kept garden in a row will very soon
have its effect. There is one street I know within the
bounds of London, a street of new houses with little
gardens in front of them running down to the pavement.
I watched this street with interest from its very begin-
ning. At first it was a thing of beauty, the men at work
on the buildings, the scaffolding against the sky, the
horses and carts waiting with loads of brick, the gradual
growth of the houses from foundation to roof. Even the
ugliest building is beautiful in the course of construction,
the poles and ladders hiding the coarse design. Then
there came a day when the street was finished. It is not
an entire street, but about half, being a row of twenty or
so houses built in flats, three flats in each house. When
the men left and the houses stood naked, after the plan
of the builder, looking pitiful and commonplace, the
new red brick was raw, the little balconies very white and

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

staring, the windows like blind eyes. Every ground-
floor flat had the disadvantage of less light and air than
the others, but it was the possessor of about nine feet of
land between the door and the pavement. For a long
time I waited to see what would become of this tenant-
less row of houses. I gained a kind of affection for them,
and walked past the white signboards once or twice a
week reading always “ To Let ” written on the windows,
painted on the notice board, pasted on papers across the
doors. The melancholy aspect of these houses appealed
to me; they had a look of dumb anxiety as if they longed
to hear the sound of voices in their empty rooms. At
last I saw one day three huge furniture vans drawn up in
front of the houses, and during the next two weeks more
vans arrived and there was a sound of hammering in the
street, and a smell of unpacking. Men came there with
boxes and parcels, and tradesmen began to drive up in
carts and motor-cars. I felt that those houses still
standing empty had a jealous look in their windows, like
little girls who had been left to sit out at a dance. The
notice boards were all shifted to their front gardens,
their bell wires still hung unconnected from holes by the
front door.

The thing I was really waiting to see happened at
Number Two. The builder, after finishing the houses
had, I suppose, come to the conclusion that a little help
from Nature would do no harm. Some good fairy
prompted him to plant Almond and May Trees alternate-
ly in the front gardens. To each house an Almond and a
May. I had waited eagerly, determining by some fan-
tastic twist that the spirit of the new houses would first
make her appearance in one of these trees. So far the
street had possessed no character except that vague
rawness that all new places wear. The great event
occurred at Number Two. Very delicately an Almond

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TOWN GARDENS

tree put out the first blossom. The life of the street
began. I did not wonder about the favoured owners of
the ground floor of Number Two. I knew.

Not long after the Almond tree had bloomed a cart
drew up before Number Two, and three men began to
wheel barrow loads of earth into the front garden. They
were directed by a gentleman of some age, but of cheerful
countenance. He smiled as each load of earth was neatly
placed. He looked at the earth as if he already saw it
covered with flowers. In his mind’s eye he was arrang-
ing a surprise for the street.

The next event of notice in the street was the appear-
ance of Number Two garden, a blaze of flowers set in a
desert of red brick. A balcony of Number Sixteen, far
down the road, entered into friendly competition.
Numbers Five and Nine worked like slaves. Three
followed suit with carpet-bedding on a tiny scale. A
Laburnam and a Lilac sprang like magic from the soil of
Number Ten. Then, one day, the whole of Number One
burst into flower from top to toe. The tenant of each
floor having apparently been secretly at work to surprise
the rest. Two, who had started, and was indeed the
father of the street, put forth more strenuous efiorts.

To-day I am certain of a pleasant walk, and ean come
out of a wilderness of bricks and mortar to my charming
oasis flowering in the land. I wonder if the people who
live in those flats and who compete with each other in a
friendly rivalry of blossom realise what they are doing
for the hundreds who pass by in the day and are cheered.

The Association I have named before, the Metro-
politan Public Gardens Association, give in their state-
ment for 1907 a list of their window garden competitions
for that year. One sees that many of the poorer paris of
London have taken the idea, and this note I quote from
South Hackney shows the result: “Twelve entries.

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Eight prizes of the total amount of One Pound, Ter
Shillings. Remarks: Clean, fresh-looking, more creepers
than last year; example set is improving character of
roads, as others, not competitors, have started gardens.”

Any one who knows the dreary and desolate appear-
ance of town streets, especially in those parts where life
is lived at the hardest, and surroundings are of the most
sordid, will encourage a work which induced in one year
over five hundred people in London slums to take an
interest in growing flowers.

The Spectator, of September 6, 1712, contains a charming
essay upon the English Garden, and the writer drawsa
attention to Kensington Gardens in the following words :

**T shall take notice of that part in the upper gar-
dens at Kensington, which was at first nothing but a
Gravel Pit. It must have been a fine Genius for gar-
dening, that could have thought of forming such an
unsightly Hollow into so beautiful an Area, and to
have hit the eye with so uncommon and agreeable a
Scene as that which it is now wrought into. To give
this peculiar spot of ground the greater effect, they
have made a very pleasing contrast ; for as on one side
of the Walk you see this hollow Bason, with its several
little Plantations lying so conveniently under the Eye
of the Beholder ; on the other side of it there appears a
seeming Mound, made up of trees rising one higher
than another in proportion as they approach the
Centre. A Spectator who has not heard this account of
it, would think this Circular Mount was not only a real
one, but that it had been actually scooped out of that
hollow space which I have before mentioned. I never
yet met with anyone who has walked in this Garden,
who was not struck with that Part of it which I have

mentioned.”
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TOWN GARDENS

The writer finishes his essay with a simple and rather
- delightful passage :

“You must know, Sir, that I look upon the Pleasure
which we take in a Garden, as one of the innocent
Delights in human Life. A Garden was the Habitation
of our first Parents before the Fall. It is naturally apt
to fill the mind with Calmness and Tranquillity, and
to lay all its turbulent Passions at rest. It gives us a
great Insight into the Contrivance and Wisdom of
Providence, and suggests innumerable subjects for
Meditation. I cannot but think the very Com-
placency and Satisfaction which a man takes in these
Works of Nature, to be a laudable, if not a virtuous
Habit of Mind.”

Our opinion has not altered in these two hundred years,
The enjoyment of a garden is certainly one of the most
innocent delights in human life, the enjoyment of
the garden he mentions in particular is one of the most
innocent pleasures in London. Kensington Gardens
have inspired many people, the classic of them is un-
doubtedly Mr. J. M. Barrie’s “ Little White Bird.”
The patron Saint of them is, and I think ever will be,
** Peter Pan.”? One has only to walk down the Babies
Mile to hear games from Peter Pan going on in all direc-
tions. This peculiar spirit haunted the Gardens long
before the days of Mr. Barrie, and whispered much of his
charming story in the ears of a bewigged gentleman—
Mr. Tickell, by name—who, in a poem of some consider-
able length, sang Kensington’s praises. Those tiny
fairy trumpets sounding in the walks of Kensington
sounded a tune which has never left the air, and
one fancies the creator of Peter Pan catching sight of
a dim ghost now and again, the ghost of Mr. Tickell,
Joseph Addison’s friend, as he walks in full-bottomed

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wig, his wide skirted coat, and sees the fairies too. He
begins :

Where Kensington high o’er the neighb’ring lands
*Midst greens and sweets, a regal fabric stands,
And sees each spring, luxuriant in her bowers,

A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers,

The dames of Britain oft in crowds repair

To groves and lawns, and unpolluted air.

Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies,
They breathe in sunshine, and see azure skies ;
Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread,
Seems from afar a moving tulip-bed,

Where rich biscades and glossy damasks glow,
And chints, the rival of the show’ry bow.

Their midnight pranks the sprightly fairies play'’d
On every hill, and danced in every shade.
‘But, foes to sunshine, most they took delight
In dells and dales conceal’d from human sight :
There hew’d their houses in the arching rock ;
Or scoop’d the bosom of the blasted oak ;

There is no doubt about it that these are the very same
_ fairies who are still at work in the Gardens, and who have
admitted Mr. Barrie into their confidence. All gardens
have ghosts, and Kensington Gardens, I think, more
ghosts than any other. What a club it must be to be-
long to, to visit when all London is asleep. Here’s Mr.
Tickell with his version of the Peter Pan story :

No mortal enter’d, those alone who came
Stolen from the couch of some terrestrial dame
For oft of babes they robb’d the matron’s bed. ’

But beyond these, the vaguest hints, Mr. Tickell does
not carry. His story has no likeness to the immortal
tale of Peter Pan, but has, in common with it, the same
knowledge that there are fairies in the Gardens living

just as both he and Mr. Barrie know so well under the
160

IN HYDE PARK.

TOWN GARDENS
roots of trees. And then there are the children. It is
they who are the sweetest flowers of the town gardens.

If any man wants an argument in favour of keeping
every available space open in towns and cities let him go
into some crowded neighbourhood and watch the chil-
dren playing in the gutters of the streets. Then let him
find one of those places, a disused burial ground, or the
garden of an old square, which has been preserved, and
kept open, and laid out for the benefit of the children, and
he will see the difference at once. There are two such
places easy for the Londoner to visit, the one Browning
Hall Garden, now a garden, once the York Road Burial
Ground, Walworth, the other Meath Gardens, eleven
acres of public garden, once The Victoria Park Cemetery,
Bethnal Green.

They say that one half of London doesn’t know how
the other half lives. They do not know, but worse still
they don’t care. It is equally true that half the people
who profess to care for flowers are ignorant of the won-
derful flower-beds carefully grown for their pleasure
within a two-penny ’bus ride of most parts of London.
The row of beds facing Park Lane; the flower walk (where
the babies walk, too) in Kensington Gardens ; the flower
walk in Regent’s Park, the Houses at Kew, are sights as
well worth an afternoon’s excursion as any other form of
amusement. Most people almost unconsciously absorb
the colour of cities, vaguely realising grey streets, red
streets, white streets, spaces of grass and trees, big blots
of colour—like the huge beds of scarlet geraniums in
front of Buckingham Palace, but they do not trouble to
get the value of their impressions. People look on the
way from Hyde Park Corner to the Marble Arch as a
convenient means of crossing London instead of one of
the most interesting and delightful experiences to be had.
They go crazy over trees and sky in the country, when

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

they have at their doors sights the country can never
equal. The sun in late autumn setting behind the trees
of Hyde Park and glowing over the murky smoke-laden
skies is a sight for the gods. Smoke has its disadvan-
tages, but it certainly gives one esthetic joys unknown
in clear skies, for instance alone the reflection of the
lights of Piccadilly on the evening sky.

After all, the time to see the wonder of town gardens
is at night. The streets are empty of people. Here and
there a few night workers walk the lonely streets, a
policeman tramps his beat, the huge carts bringing the
provisions for the city lumber along with sleepy carters
swaddled in sacks perched high among the heaps of
baskets. Here and there men with long hoses are wash-
ing down the roads. ‘The Parks and Gardens lie bathed
in peace, mysterious shadows make velvet caves sheltered
by leaves. Those trees standing close to the road are lit
by the electric lamps and fringe the street with vivid
green. Only the flowers seem really awake, alive, in a
tremendous dream city. Along the lines of houses,
blinds down, shutters closed, a window box here and
there breaks the monotony and seems to be the only real
thing there. If it is Spring, then from Hyde Park
Corner to the Kensington High Street, all along the side
of the Park, behind the railings are regiments of Crocus
flowers, spikes of Narcissus, and of Daffodil. Their
sweetness fills the air, their very presence fills the town
with gentleness, and purifies and softens its grimness.
Far above, in some citadel of flats, a solitary light burns,
some one is at work, or ill, or watching. Above all hang
the blazing stars.

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II
THE EFFECT OF TREES

Or the pleasure and affect of trees no one speaks so
wisely as Bacon. Although those who have a feeling
for garden literature know his essay on Gardens as the
classic of its kind, still many do not recall his thoughts
when the planning of a garden is on hand. Too much,
I think, is given by the man who is about to make a
garden, to his own particular hobby, and many a man
wonders why his garden gives him not all the pleasure
he expected. You will hear of a man talk of his new
Rose beds, of the nursery for Carnations he is in the pro-
cess of making, of the placing of his Violet frames, of
his ideas for a rock garden (I think the distressful feeling
for a rockery of clinkers is dead), but you will seldom
hear of a man who deliberates quietly for effects of
trees, or who thinks of planting fruit trees as ornaments,
but always he places them in his kitchen garden, and
ignores their value in their other proper places.

Bacon rejoices in his arrangement of gardens for every
month of the year, and dwells, rightly, just as much on
the pleasure of his trees as in the ordering of his flower
beds. Naturally he had not such a large selection of
flowers from which to choose as we have to-day, but
to-day we neglect the beauty of many trees, and es-
pecially the beauty of hedges.

Are there sights in any garden more beautiful that
the Almond tree and the Peach tree in blossom, or the

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

sweet trailing Sweetbriar? Bacon would have us
notice these, make a feast of these. Also he recom-
mends the beauty of the White Thorn in leaf, the Cherry
and the Plum trees in blossom, the Cherry tree in fruit,
the Lilac tree, the wonder of the Apple tree, and the
Medlar.

Then, again, Bacon touches on a point all too little
counted: the perfume of the garden. He says: “‘ And
because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air
(where it comes and goes like the warbling of musick)
than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that
delight than to know what be the flowers and plants
that do best perfume the air.

“Roses, damask and red, are fast flowers of their
smells ; so that you may walk by a whole row of them
and find nothing of their sweetness; yea, though it be in
a morning’s dew. Bays likewise yield no smell as they
grow; Rosemary little; nor Sweet Marjorum.

“ That which above all others yield the sweetest smell
in the air is the Violet, especially the White Double Violet
which comes twice a year; about the middle of April,
and about Bartholomew-tide. Next to that is the Musk
Rose; then the Strawberry lezves dying, which yield
a most excellent cordial smell. Then the flowers of the
Vines ; it is a little dust, like the dust of a Bent, which
grows upon the cluster, in the first coming forth: then
the Sweet Briar, then Wallflowers, which are very
delightful to be set under a parlour or lower chamber
window. Then Pinks and Gilly-flowers, especially the
matted Pink and Clove Gilly-flower: then the flowers of
the Lime tree ; then the Honeysuckles, so they be some-
what afar off.

“Of Bean flowers I speak not, because they are field
flowers.

« But those which perfume the air most delightfully,

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THE EFFECT OF TREES

not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and
crushed, are three, that is Burnet, Wild Thyme, and
Water Mints. Therefore, you are to set whole alleys
of them to have the pleasure when you walk or tread.
1 would add to these one or two more flowers whose
perfume is easily yielded. The Heliotrope, which at
night will scent a garden; and Stocks, very rich and
sweet scented ; Tobacco Plant, a heavy sensuous smell ;
Madonna Lilies, seeming almost to breathe; Evening
Primroses; and, after rain when the sun is warm, the
leaves of Geraniums, a faint musky smell, very attrac-
tive. But of all these the garden holds one perfume
more delicious, a scent that, to me at least, is the Queen
of Garden s“ents since it is the breath of the whole garden
herself. After a Summer’s day when it has been hot
and the lawn has been cut, and the Sun has well baked
the earth, if there should come rain in the evening, a
soft warm rain pattering at first so that it seems each
leaf of flower and tree becomes a drum sounding with
rain beats, then it seems the garden breathes deep and
draws in great draughts of the delicious coolness. Then
after the rain the night comes warm again, and all warm
earth smells, and the new cut grass smells also, and
every tree and flower join force upon force until the
air is filled with a perfume which for want of better
names I would call the Odour of Gratitude.”
Furthermore, Bacon speaks of the garden—‘‘ The
garden is best to be square, encompassed on all four
sides with a stately arched hedge.” One rich hedge is
there at Bishopsbourne, which it is traditionally supposed
was planted by Richard Hooker, of whom Walton writes :
“It is a hedge of over one hundred feet in length, from
twelve to fourteen feet in height, and some ten feet
thick. It is one of the finest Yew hedges in England,
a wonderful colour, an amazing strength and beauti-
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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

ful, when it is clipped and trimmed, to look upon.” Of
the pleasure and comfort of such hedges, of the health
to be gained by regarding them, many people have
spoken. There is, surely, something in the tough
green life of the Yew, something in its staunchness that
conveys a feeling of strength to the mind. I feel this
in different degree with every kind of tree, partly no
doubt from moments of particular association, from
memories that become attached to scenes as they will
(curious how scents, arrangements of colour, outlines
against a sky, will call up things and thoughts which
for the moment have no connection with them. I never
see Oranges but I think of a dark passage lined with
books, and a cupboard built round with books in shelves.
In the cupboard are dishes of fruit, and shapes, all tied
up in linen, of fruit cheeses, as damson cheese, and crab-
apple cheese, and a cheese made of Quinces and Medlars).

I remember a graveyard in a little Swiss village
where every grave had a tiny weeping willow bending
over it. It had, for us, infinitely more pathos than the
sombreness of many English graveyards. There was a
rushing torrent below, for the church and its grave-
yard was-on a height over a river, and the voice of the
river sang in the quiet graveyard, like a strong spirit
singing in the pride of vigour to those asleep. The
little willows bent and shivered in the breeze, looking
small and pathetic against the strong small church.
Outside the church, all along one wall was a seat very
smooth and worn, it faced the graves and the tiny
trees, and behind it, on the wall of the church, was a
great Wisteria with clusters of pale purple flowers.
There were no other trees there, or to be seen from the
seat, but these little bending weeping trees. And close
by, a hundred yards from the church gate, was the
undertaker’s shop, part farm, part garden, part stocked

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THE EFFECT OF TREES

with elm planks. As I passed by the son was making a
coffin out in the middle of the road on trestles. Look-
ing back one could see the young man bending earnestly
over his work, the sound of his saw ripping the air.
Behind him was the grey stone of the church and the
forest of little shivering trees over the graves. A little
below, just across the river over a covered bridge, was a
beer-garden where a family was sitting drinking beer
out of tall mugs. They sat, father, mother, sons and
daughters, all dressed in black, under Chestnut trees
cut down very close and clipped to make alleys of shade.
And a little behind them was a forest rising on a hill
with great masses of trees all shades of green, and glowing
in the light of an afternoon sun. But of all this I carry
mostly the memory of those little trees, quiet weeping
sentinels, very pathetic.

Trees, especially isolated groups of trees, in towns
and cities have a wonderful fascination. The very
idea that they burst into bud and leaf in the midst of
all the smoke and grime, and the noise and hurry, is
health-giving. It brings repose, it brings hope. I
believe the trees in town squares get more love than
any country trees. They mean so much. It seems so
good of them to fight, and to come out year by year
clean and fresh and green, and in Winter when they are
bare they make a delicate webwork of twigs against
the background of soot-covered houses. Then in the
Spring when they turn faintly purple there is a haze
across the square, and it seems that even the pigeons
and the horses on the cab rank feel it, but cannot
scarcely believe it. Then, perhaps there is an Almond
tree in the square and it will suddenly break out into
the most exquisite finery, like the daintiest of women,
making the square gay and full of joy. The Spring

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has come. It is almost unbelievable. And people
passing through the square who have forgotten all
about the Spring look up suddenly and smile, and say:
** Look at the Almond tree. Spring is here.” Those
who know the country turn their minds inwards and
remember that the brown owls have begun to hoot,
that the gossamer is floating, that, here and there
yellow and white butterflies are flitting, looking strangely
out of season, that the raven is building, and the rooks
too, and that all sorts of birds they had forgotten are
seen in the land. ©

After that the big trees in the square become hazy
with bursting bud, and one morning, as if some message
had been whispered overnight, the far side of the square
is only to be seen through a screen of the tenderest
green. Bit by bit the leaves comes out, get bright,
clean washed by showers, get dingy with the soot. Then
comes the fall of the leaf and the crisp curl of it as it
changes colour, and the far side of the square begins to
show again through bronze-coloured leaves, At last
the Winter comes and all that is left is the tracery of
boughs and twigs, and heaps of dead, beautiful-coloured
leaves beneath the trees. These still provide an in-
terest, for the wind comes and picks them up and
whirls them right up into the air in all sorts of amazing
dances and games.

In the Winter one last beauty comes. The day has
been leaden, sad-coloured, bitterly cold. All the cab-
men on the rank stamp with their feet, and swing their
arms to keep themselves warm, and there is a little
mist where all the horses breathe. And people coming
through the square have forgotten the Almond tree,
and the look of the big trees when the hot sun splashed
gold on their leaves, and they say, looking at the sky,
** See how dark it is, it is going to snow.”’ The snow

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THE EFFECT OF TREES

comes; the sky is darker; the trees stick up looking
black, like drawings in pen and ink. Flakes, white
flakes, twenty, forty, then a rush—a thousand; the sky
full of tiny white flakes, the air full of them whirling
down. All sounds begin to be muffled. Horses hoofs
beat with a thud on the ground. The sound of voices
in the air is deadened. The voices of men encouraging
horses sound sharp now and again, or a whip cracks
like a shot. The square is covered with snow, every
twig is outlined in white, black patches of bark show
here and there, and emphasise the dead whiteness.
When it has stopped snowing and a watery light comes
from the sun all the trees gleam wonderfully, looking
like fairy trees. And people passing through the
square making beaten tracks in the snow saying, “ It
is Winter.”

In a country garden there is a tree stands on the end
ofalawn. It is an Acacia tree, old, gnarled, and twisted,
with Ivy round it, deep Ivy in which thrushes build
year after year; there is a stone near by on which the
thrushes break the shells of snails, the “tap, tap,’ of
the birds at work is one of the peaceful sounds that
break the silence of the garden.

Under the tree is an oblong mark of pressed grass
greener than the rest of the lawn, where the garden-
roller rests. And there is a seat under the tree, and a
wooden foot-rest by it.

Touch the tree and you go back at once to a picture
of a boy, the boy who helped to plant it over a hundred
and fifty years before. If you look from the tree across
the lawn to the house you will see the very door by
which he came out with his father to plant the tree.

The house and the tree have grown old together, both
of them have mellowed with the garden and wear a look

169 Xx

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

of old security and calm, and have an air of wise old
age.

Up and down the five white steps from the garden
path to the house more than five generations have
passed, men in wide-skirted coats and full wigs hanging
about their ears in great corkscrew curls, men in pow-
dered wigs, rolled stockings, square buckled shoes,
men in stocks and immense collars, and big frills to
their shirts making them look like gentlemanly fish,
down to the man who comes out to day who looks a
little old-fashioned, and is square-built like the house,
and who parts his hair like the men in Leech’s pictures,
and who wears a rim of whisker round his face. And
troops of ladies have passed out by that door into the
garden in hoops, and sacques, and towers of hair, and
crinolines. But no lady comes out now to cut the
Lavender hedge, or snip at the Roses. The man is
alone. But when he sits alone under the tree, with a
spud by his side ready to uproot Plantains from his
lawn, he can see troops of the garden ghosts sitting
round him under the Acacia tree.

Sometimes there seems to be a sound of the ghostly
click of bowls on the lawn, for it is a bowling-green
banked up on three sides (the fourth bank has been done
away with long ago), and there is a company of gentle-
men in their wide shirt sleeves playing bowls. Above
them, on the raised terrace next to the house where
there is a broad path, a group of old people sit by little
tables and drink wine, and smoke, and gossip. And
behind them are tall Hollyhocks, and Roses and a
tangle of old-fashioned flowers such as Periwinkles
and Sweet Williams, and Pinks. The Acacia tree,
which grows on the lawn beyond the bowling green, is
quite small.

The old man who dreams of these ghosts in his garden

170

THE EFFECT OF TREES

recognises them readily because they have stepped out
of pictures on his walls, and when they are not haunting
the garden are demurely hanging on the oak panels in
the old rooms.

Then he can see, if he chooses, a picture of the garden
when the acacia tree is quite tall, but still elegant and
slender, and in this picture an old, old lady walks down
the garden paths. She is dressed in a large hooped .
skirt with panniers, and has high-heeled shoes, and al
perfect tower of hair on her head, and over that a calash
hood like the hood over a waggon except that it is black.
She carries an ebony stick in a silk-mittened hand, a
hand knotted with gout and covered with the mourning
rings of her friends. She it was who added largely to
the garden, and took in two acres more of land, and
planted a row of Elms and Beech trees. She kept the
garden as bright and gay as the samplers she worked her-
self. She had a mania for set beds, and her Tulips were
the talk of the county. A Jong bed of them ran from
the house along one bank of the bowling-green to the
orchard, and it was arranged in pattern of colours, lines,
squares, interlaced geometrical designs of flaming red and
scarlet, pink and yellow and white and dull purple.
She it was who caused the sundial to be placed in the
garden and who found the motto for it, and designed the
four triangular beds to go round it, and placed a hedge
of Lavender and Rosemary all about it in a square.

The tap of her stick on the paths is one of the ghostly
sounds that haunt the place, and sometimes it is difficult
to know whether it is a woodpecker, or a thrush breaking
open a snail, or her stick that makes such a sharp crisp
sound on the Summer air.

There is another sound, too, that the Acacia tree
knows well. It is the click of glasses under its boughs.
On a table placed under the tree is an array of beautiful

171

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

cut-glass decanters and a number of glasses which reflect
in the polished mahogany surface. Round the table
four gentlemen sit with white wigs and elegant lace falls
at their throats, and ruffles at their wrists. It is a hot
Summer afternoon, and so still that not a Rose leaf of
those spread on the lawn stirs. A large white sheet lies
on the lawn covered with thousands of rose petals left
to dry in the sun, and when they are dry, and have under-
gone a careful mixture with spices, and have herbs added
to them by the mistress of the house, they will be placed
in china bowls in all the rooms, and will give out a subtle
delicious odour. -

The man who is dreaming in his garden can see the four
gentlemen as plain as life raising their glasses and touch
them before drinking the silent toast. And it is difficult
to tell whether it is the gardener striking on his frames by
accident, or the chink of glasses that sounds so clearly
under the Acacia tree.

Now, in another picture the garden holds, things are
somewhat altered. Instead of the big Tulip bed on the
lawn there are a number of small cut beds with long beds
behind them on either side of a new gravel walk. In-
stead of the older fashioned borders there are startling
colour schemes of carpet-bedding in which the flowers
are made to look more like coloured earths than any-
thing. In the long beds, instead of the profusion of
Hollyhocks, Sunflowers and bushes of Roses, a primness
reigns. A row of blue Lobelia backed by a row of white
Lobelia, then scarlet Geraniums, then Calceolarias,
then crimson Beet plants, every ten yards a Marguerite
Daisy sticks up out of the middle of the bed. Only one
rambling border remains, and that is hidden from the
view of the house windows, but can just be seen from the
seat under the Acacia tree. In it Phlox and Red-hot
Pokers, Asters, Anemonies, Moss Rose, and French

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THE EFFECT OF TREES

Marigolds grow profusely, and some merciful sentiment
has allowed an old twisted Apple tree to remain there.

The old bowling-green is still beautifully kept, the
grass is smooth and fair, not a Daisy or Plantain is there
to mar the splendour of the turf. The Acacia tree, now
grown old and venerable, spreads out fine branches, and
gives delightful shade. Here and there new arches of
rustic woodwork, in horrible designs, stretch over the
paths, their ugliness partly hidden by climbing Roses of
the Seven Sisters kind, or Clematis, or Honeysuckle, or
Jasmine. Many trees in the garden are old enough to
exchange memories of a hundred years ago ; the orchard
alone boasts a venerable congregation of old trees, some
grey with lichen, some bowed down with the result of
full crops.

New ghosts walk the garden paths in crinolines and
Leghorn hats, and side curls, talking to gentlemen with

- glossy side whiskers, peg-top trousers, and tartan waist-
coats.

On the bowling-green the new game is laid out, and
ladies and gentlemen talk learnedly of bisques, and the
correct weight of croquet mallets. There is a fresh
sound for the garden, the smack of croquet balls.

And now nearly all the ghosts vanish, and the old man
who is sitting under the Acacia tree looks around and
sees his garden as it is to-day, fuller of flowers than ever it
was, with the hideous set borders done away with, with
the little rustic arches pulled down and a pergola, pro-
perly built, in their place, and all of the horrors of Early
Victorian gardening gone for good, the plaster nymphs
and cupids, the tree called a “‘ Monkey Puzzler,” the
terrible rockery of clinkers and bad bricks. Here, as in
the house, taste has triumphed over fashion. Inside the
oak panels that had been covered over with hideous
wallpapers are brought to light. The wool mats have

173

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

vanished, the glass domes over clocks, the worsted bell-
pulls, the druggets and the rep curtains all gone for
good.

Outside, wonders have been worked in the garden.
New beds filled with the choicest Roses and Carna-
tions. Water is now properly conveyed by a sprinkler.
The old water-butt, slimy and falling to pieces, gone to
give place to a well filled concrete tank of water, kept
clean and sweet.

One more ghostly sound left, a sound the lonely man
unconsciously listens for as he sits under the tree. On
one bough, low growing and strong, shows the marks
deep cut where once depended the ropes of a swing.
In his ears he can sometimes hear the shouts of children
and the creak of the swing ropes, sounds he used to
hear in his childhood. And mingled with the children’s
laughter he can hear, very faintly, a boy’s voice, his own.

Such is the story of an hundred English Gardens,
where trees will tell secrets, and the lawn holds memories,
and the paths echo with footsteps out of the past.

* * * * *

The influence literature has on the mind is nowhere
more traceable than in a garden. A dozen thoughts
spring to the mind gathered out of the store cupboards
of remembered reading at the sight of flowers, trees,
sunlit walks, dark alleys. Trees call up romantic meet-
ings, hollow trunks where lovers have posted their
letters, dark shades where vows have been made, smooth
trunks on which are carven twin hearts pierced by a
single arrow and crowned with initials cut into the bark.
Gloomy recesses under spreading boughs remind one of
the hiding places of conspirators, of fugitives.

Sometimes, on a winter’s night, to look into the garden
and see the trees toss and shake with an angry wind, or
stand bare, bleak, and black against the sparkle of a

174

THE EFFECT OF TREES

frosty sky, some written thing comes quickly into the
brain almost as if the printed letters stood out clear.
There is one scene of winter and trees comes often to me
very full and clear. It is from the beginning of ** Martin
Chuzzlewit,”’ and heralds the entrance in the story of the
immortal Mr. Pecksniff.

“ The fallen leaves, with which the ground was strewn,
gave forth a pleasant fragrance, and, subduing all
harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels, created a
repose in gentle unison with the light scattering of
seed hither and thither by the distant husbandman,
and with the noiseless passage of the plough as it turned
up the rich brown earth and wrought a graceful pattern
in the stubbled fields. On the motionless branches of
some trees autumn berries hung like clusters of coral
beads, as in those fabled orchards where the fruits
were jewels; others, stripped of all their garniture,
stood, each the centre of its little heap of bright red
leaves, watching their slow decay; others again still
wearing theirs, had them all crunched and crackled up,
as though they had been burnt. About the stems of
some were piled, in ruddy mounds, the apples they
had borne that year; while others (hardy evergreens
this class) showed somewhat stern and gloomy in
their vigour, as charged by nature with the admonition
that it is not to her more sensitive and joyous favourites
she grants the longest term of life. Still athwart their
darker boughs the sunbeams struck out paths of deeper
gold; and the red light, mantling in among their
swarthy branches, used them as foils to set its brightness
off, and aid the lustre of the dying day.

«“A moment, and its glory was no more. The sun
went down beneath the long dark lines of hill and cloud
which piled up in the west an airy city, wall heaped on
wall, and battlement on battlement; the light was

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

all withdrawn; the shining church turned cold and
dark ; the stream forgot to smile ; the birds were silent ;
and the gloom of winter dwelt in everything.

«« An evening wind uprose too, and the slighter branches
cracked and rattled as they moved, in skeleton dances,
to its moaning music. The withering leaves, no longer
quiet, hurried to and fro in search of shelter from its
chill pursuit; the labourer unyoked the horses, and,
with head bent down, trudged briskly home beside them ;
and from the cottage windows lights began to glance
and wink upon the darkening fields.

* * * *” *

**It was small tyranny for a respectable wind to go
wreaking its vengeance on such poor creatures as the
fallen leaves; but this wind, happening to come up
with a great heap of them just after venting its humour
on the insulted Dragon, did so disperse and scatter
them that they fled away, pell-mell, some here, some
there, rolling over each other, whirling round and round
upon their thin edges, taking frantic flights into the
air, and playing all manner of extraordinary gambols
in the extremity of their distress. Nor was this good
enough for its malicious fury; for not content with
driving them abroad, it charged small parties of them,
and hunted them into the wheelrights saw-pit, and
below the planks and timbers in the yard, and, scatter-
ing the sawdust in the air it looked for them under-
neath, and when it did meet with any, whew! how it
drove them on and followed on their heels !

«‘The scared leaves only flew the faster for all this,
and a giddy chase it was; for they got into unfre-
quented places, where there was no outlet, and where
their pursuer kept them eddying round and round ‘at
his pleasure ; and they crept under the eaves of houses,
and clung tightly to the sides of hayricks like bats ;

176

‘INOANO SNUAM¥D DINVLOM AHL NI

THE EFFECT OF TREES

and tore in at open chamber windows, and cowered
close to hedges; and, in short, went anywhere for
safety. But the oddest feat they achieved was, to
take advantage of the sudden opening of Mr. Pecksniff’s
front door, to dash wildly down his passage, with the
wind following close upon them, and finding the back
door open, incontinently blew out the lighted candle
held by Miss Pecksniff, and slammed the front door
against Mr. Pecksniff, who was at that moment enter-
ing, with such violence, that in the twinkling of an eye,
he lay on his back at the bottom of the steps. Being
by this time weary of such trifling performances, the
boisterous rover hurried away rejoicing, roaring over
moor and meadow, hill and flat, until it got out to sea,
where it met with other winds similarly disposed, and
made a night of it.”
* * * * *

Is not this wonderful and immortal passage as much
a part of the Charm of Gardens as the most delectable
poetry on the perfumed air of a summer night ?

Often, when the logs are crackling on the hearth, one
hears those hunted leaves come banging on the window
panes, those gaunt trees tossing in the wind. When
all the garden lies cold and bare and stripped of green,
the trees roar out an answer to the wind, an hundred
garden voices swell the storm, and you sit happy by your
fireside and dream new colours for the garden beds ; and
where a white frost sparkles on the earth, and trees lift
up bare fingers to the sky, you see deep wealth of green,
and jewelled borders brim full of spring flowers, and
there a set of bulbs you have nursed, come out sweet in
green sheathes, and here a tree, now naked, clothed in
young green.

That for the night. For the morning, trailing clouds
of mist over the trees like fairy shawls alive with dew-

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

diamonds, each dew-drop reflecting its tiny world. The
trees, the world, the garden still asleep, or half asleep,
until the sun throws off the counterpane of clouds and
springs into the skies.

It is at that time, before the sun is awake, the trees
look strange as sleeping things look strange, with a
counterfeit of death, so still arethey. And in the Spring
when the orchard is a pale ghost before the sun is up, a
man would swear it had been covered up at night in
silver smoke, or gossamer, or fairy silk that the sun tears
into weeping shreds that drip and drip and give the
grass a bath.

But of the effect of trees as a spiritual support no man
is at variance with another. That they give courage,
and help and hope, that the green sight of them is
good as being reminder that Heaven is kind, and that
the Winter is not always, no man doubts but, perhaps,
fears to voice, feeling his neighbour will call out at
him for a worshipper of Pan and of strange gods. But
to the garden dweller, or to him who must perforce make
his garden of one tree in a dusty court, and of one glass
of flowers on his desk, these things have voices, and they
are kindly voices, saying, ‘‘ Despair not,” and ‘“* Regard
me how I grow upright through the seasons,” and also
‘* Give shade and shelter to all things and men equally as
I do, without distinction or difference, and if the grass
gives a couch, fair and embroidered with flowers, so do I
give a roof of infinite variety, and a shade from the sun,
and a shelter from the wind.” And again, ‘“ If a man
know a tree to love it he will understand much of men,
and of birds, and beasts and of allliving things. And of
greater things too, for in the branches is other fruit than
the fruit of the tree. Just as the rainbow is set in the
sky for a promise, so is fruit in a tree set there ; and the :
leaves show how orderly is the Great Plan; and the

178

THE EFFECT OF TREES

branches show the strength of slender things, and of
little things, so that a man may know how Heaven has
its roots in earth, and its crest in the clouds. Andaman
who holds to earth with one hand, and reaches at the
stars with the other, in that span he encompasses all that
may be known if he but see it. But men are blind, and do
not see the sky but as sky, and do not see the stars but
as balls of fire, or the green grass but as a carpet, or the
flowers but as a combination of chemical accidents. But
over all, and through all, and in all is God, Who still
speaks with Adam in the Garden.”

These things are to be learnt of trees both great and
small, withered and young, sapling and Oak of centuries.
And they are to be learnt also in the dust on a butter-
tly’s wing ; or of a blade of grass ; or ofa hemp seed. But
men are deaf, and hear no voice but the voice of water
in a rushing stream; and no sound but the sound of
leaves stirring when the wind rests in a tree; and no
voice speaking in a blaze of flowers who sing praises
night and day in scented voices.

A tree is not dumb, and the Creeping Briar is not
dumb, and the Rose has a voice like the voice of a woman
rejoicing that she is fair. But men are dumb, for though
their hearts speak, all tongues are not touched with fire.

So may trees be a solace in trouble, and secrets may
be whispered to bushes of Rosemary and Lavender, who
will yield their secret solace of peace, as the tree yields
strength. All these things are written in a garden in
coloured letters of gold, and green, and crimson, in blue
and purple, orange and grey, and they are written for a
purpose. And a man may seek diligently for the secret
of this great book and find nothing if he seek with his
head alone. He will tell of the growth of trees, their
years, their nature, their sickness. He will learn of the
power of the sap which flows down from the tips of

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

leaves to the great tree roots all snug in the soil ; and he
will learn of the veins in the leaves, and the properties of
the gum of the bark, yet will he never learn that of whick
the tree speaks always, night and day—praising.

Of what is the colour of green that the earth’s best
page is made of it? Of what is the colour of young
green that it brings, unbidden, tender thoughts ? It is
more than the gold of Corn, and the brown of ploughed
earth, and the glory of flowers. By it comes peace to the
eyes, and through the eyes to the heart of man, so that
men say of youth and the times of youth that they are
salad days; and of old age, if so be it is a fine old age,
that it is green. It is the colour of the body as blue is
the colour of the soul. The sky and the sea are blue,
and they are things of mystery, deep and profound, and
because of their great depth and profundity they are
blue. The grass and the trees, and the leaves of flowers,
and blades of young Corn are green. They are mysterious
things but they are nearer to man, and he has them to his
hand to be near them, and get quick comfort of them.

And Daisies are the stars of the grass, as stars are the
Daisies of Heaven ; and if a man look long at the stars
set out erderly in the sky he may become fearful, for
God may seem far off and difficult ; yet if he be near he
may pick a Daisy and take his fill of comfortable things,
for God will seem near and His voice in the Daisy.

Yet many a man will walk over a field of grass pressing
the Daisies -with his feet, and take no heed of them, or of
the stars over above his head ; and the night and the day
will be to him but light and darkness, and the stars but
lanterns to show him home, and the Daisies but flowers
of the ficld. But if he be a man who sees all, and
in everything can feel the finger and pulse of God, his
staff will blossom in his hand, and he will go on his way
rejoicing.

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THE EFFECT OF TREES

In this way can man regard the trees in his garden,
and speak with them, loving them, and learning of them,
for leari.ing is all of love. And he may yet be an ordi-
nary man, not poet, or artist, but he must be mystic be-
cause he has the true sight. Many a man, stockbroker,
clerk, painter, labourer, soldier, or whatever he seems to
be, has his real being in these moments, and they are
revealed through love or sorrow, but not by hard learn-
ing or text-books,

18]

Il
A LOVER OF GARDENS

THERE are many who say this and that of Sir John
Mandeville, his Travels ; that he was not ; that he was a
Frenchman ; that no one knows who he was. For years
he was to me an English Knight who lived at St. Albans,
and from there set out to travel over all the world seek-
ing adventure, and relating the peculiarities of his
journey in fascinating, if slightly imaginative, language.
I rejoiced when he saw a board from the Noah’s Ark,
when he talked with the Cham of Tartary ; and told of the
wonders of Ind. But comes along this and that expert
who upset the figure of the gallant Knight, and heave
him from horse to ground as a dummy figure, and burn
him for firewood as a fallen idol. And why? It ap-
pears that Sir John is no more a real being than Homer,
or A‘sop, or any other of those personal names for great
bundles of collected literature ; and is a literature all by
himself, and a series of impudent thieves who stole
travellers’ tales and jotted them together in a personal
narrative. For all that I believe in a figure of the blind
Homer, and the impudent slave A’sop who played
tricks on his master, and I firmly believe in a stalwart
figure of Sir John Mandeville, Knight, “ albeit,” he says,
“ T be not worthy, that was born in England, in the town
of St. Albans, and passed the sea in the year of our Lord
Jesu Christ, 1822, in the day of St. Michael.”

There is one thing, a touch of character, put in, may-

182

A LOVER OF GARDENS

be, by the skilful editor of these travels, that makes us
lean to the man as being a real person. It is his love of
Gardens, and his pains to tell of them, and the stories
of trees, and legends. And whether one who confessed
to the fraud of putting these travels together—Jean de
Bourgogne, by name—was a keen gardener or herbalist,
or whether it was a literary habit of the fourteenth
century (which, when I come to think of it, is so), some-
how I feel that there is a garden-loving spirit in forming
the book, and for that I love the man.

In his wanderings Sir John meets many things, and
of these I beg leave to choose here and there one or two
of his anecdotes when they touch an idea such as gar-
deners love. The first is of the True Cross, and the story
of its origin. All of Sir John I have read in Mr. Pol-
lard’s edition, than which nothing could be more satis-
factory and clear expressed.

Or THE Cross

** And the Christian men, that dwell beyond the sea,
in Greece, say that the Tree of the Cross, that we call
Cypress, was one of that tree that Adam ate the apple
off ; and that find they written. And they say also, that
their Scripture saith, that Adam was sick, and said to his
son Seth, that he should go to the angel that kept Para-
dise, that he would send him the oil of mercy, for to
anoint with his members, that he might have health.
And Seth went. But the angel would not let him come
in ; but said to him, that he might not have of the oil of
mercy. But he took him three grains of the same tree,
that his father ate the apple off ; and bade him, a soon
as his father was. dead, that he should put these three
grains under his tongue, and grave him so; and so he
did. And of these three grains sprang a tree, as the

183

THE CHARM OF GARDENS
angel said it should, and bare a fruit, through the which
fruit Adam should be saved.

‘** And when Seth came again, he found his father near
dead. And when he was dead, he did with the grains
as the angel bade him ; of the which sprung three trees,
of the which the Cross was made, that bare good fruit and
blessed, our Lord Jesu Christ.”

184

AMMMNAS “ONTAdS AO AIM TAL

IV
OF THE CROWN OF THORNS

** Ann if all it be so, that men say, that this crown is of
thorns, ye shall understand that, it was of jonkes of the
sea, that is to say, rushes of the sea, that prick as sharply
as thorns. For I have seen and beholden many times
that of Paris and that of Constantinople ; for they were
both one, made of rushes of the sea. But man have
departed them in two pats: of the which one part is at
Paris, and the other part is at Constantinople. And I
have one of those precious thorns that seemeth like a
White Thorn; and that was given to me for great
speciality. For there are many of them broken and
fallen into the vessel that the crown lieth in; for they
break for dryness when the men move them to show to
great lords that come hither.

‘* And ye shall understand, that our Lord Jesu, in that
night that he was taken, he was led into a garden; and
there he was first examined right sharply ; and there
the Jews scorned him, and made him a crown of the
branches of the Albespine, that is White Thorn, that
grew in that same garden, and set it on his head, so fast
and so sore, that the blood ran down by many places of
his visage, and of his neck, and of his shoulders. And
therefore hath the White Thorn many virtues, for he
that beareth a branch on him thereof, no thunder or no
manner of tempest may dere him ; nor in the house that
it is in may no evil ghost enter nor come into the place

185 2A

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

that it is in. And in that same garden, Saint Peter
denied our Lord thrice.

«« Afterward was our Lord led forth before the bishops
and the masters of the law, into another garden of
Annas; and there also he was examined, reproved,
and scorned, and crowned eft with a Sweet Thorn, that
men clepeth Barbarines, that grew in that garden, and
that hath also many virtues.

“And after he was led into a garden of Caiphas, and
then he was crowned with Aglantine.

«And after he was led into the chamber of Pilate,
and there he was examined and crowned. And the
Jews set him in a chair, and clad him in a mantle ;
and there made they the crown of jonkes of the sea;
and there they kneeled to him, and scorned him, saying,
*‘ Ave, Rex Judeoram!’ That is to say, ‘ Hail, King
of Jews!’ And of this crown, half is at Paris, and
the other half at Constantinople.”

* * * * *

From these fanciful byways Sir John goes on his way
looking, as before, for curious things, and for marvels
of trees and fruits. He tells of the fine plate of gold
writ by Hermogenes, the wise man who foretold the
birth of Christ. He passes the Isles of Colcos and of
Lango where the daughter of Ypocras is yet in the form
of a dragon. And he goes by the town of Jaffa— for
one of the sons of Noah, that bright Japhet, founded
it, and now it is called Joppa. And ye shall under-
stand, that it is one of the oldest towns of the world,
for it was founded before Noah’s flood. And yet
there sheweth in the rock, there as the iron chains were
fastened, that Andromeda, a great giant was bounden
with, and put in prison before Noah’s flood, of the
which giant, is a rib of his side that is forty foot long.”

Then he finds in Egypt some curious Apples.

186

Vv
OF APPLES

*Atso in that country and in others also, men find
long Apples to sell, in their season, and men clepe them
Apples of Paradise; and they be right sweet and of
good savour. And though ye cut them in never so
many gobbets or parts, over-thwart or endlong, ever-
more ye shall find in the midst the figure of the Holy
Cross of our Lord Jesu.

«And men find there also the Apple of the tree of
Adam, that have a bite at one of the sides; and there
be also small Fig trees that bear no leaves, but Figs
upon the small branches; and men clepe them Figs of
Pharoah.”

Sir John, on his constant look out lets no oddment
pass him by, and the more peculiar the better. It
appears he would rather see a well in a field—‘ that
our Lord Jesu Christ made with one of his feet, when
he went to play with other children”—than many
things political or notable to the country. And he
will never come to a country but he will mention the
state of its trees and fruits, these, naturally, being
important items to the traveller of his day who might
at any moment have to fall back on the natural fruits
of the field for his food. So, when he goes by the
desert to the valley of Elim, he notes the seventy-two

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Palm trees there growing—“ the which Moses found
with the children of Israel.”

Then he comes by Mount Sinai, and there he finds the
convent by the spot where was the burning bush ; and
the Church of Saint Catherine is there—“ in the which
be many lamps burning; for they have of oil of Olives
enough, both to burn in their lamps and to eat also.
And that plenty they have by the miracle of God ; for the
raven and the crows and the choughs and other fowls of
the country assemble them there every year once, and fly
thither as in pilgrimage ; and everych of them bringetb a
branch of the Bays or of the Olive in their beaks instead
of offering, and leave them there; of which the monks
make great plenty of oil. And this is a great marvel.”

188

VI
OF THE FIRST GARDENER

Now Sir John, who had a great feeling for our first
father Adam, came frequently on stories of him and of
places where he lived. And he went from Bathsheba,
the town founded, as he says—‘“‘ by Bersabe, the wife of
Sir Uriah the Knight,”—and journeyed to the city of
Hebron. ‘‘ And it was clept sometime the Vale of
Mamre, and sometimes it was clept the Vale of Tears,
because that Adam wept there an hundred year for the
death of Abel his son, that Cain slew.”

There, in this Vale of Hebron, where Sir John says
Abraham had his house, and is buried, as are Adam and
Eve, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Leah, and Rebecca, is also the
first dwelling-place of Adam after the Fall.

** And right fast by that place is a cave in the rock,
where Adam and Eve dwelled when they were put out of
Paradise ; and there got they their children. And in the
same place was Adam formed and made, after that some
men say (for men were wont for to clept that place the
field of Damascus, because that it was in the lordship of
Damascus), and from thence he was translated into
Paradise of delights, as they say ; and after that he was
driven out of Paradise he was there left. And the same
day that he was put in Paradise, the same day he was
put out, for anon he sinned. There beginneth the Vale
of Hebron, that dureth nigh to Jerusalem. There the
Angel commanded Adam that he should dwell with his

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

wife Eve, of the which he gat Seth; of which tribe,
that is to say kindred, Jesu Christ was born.”
* * * * *

Here then is the legend of the first Garden in which
Adam delved, and lived by the sweat of his brow.
Again Sir John tells us of a place where he noticed the
trees, especially the Dry tree, and it can be seen how
much a lover of Gardens and of growing things he was,
and how he looked for and noticed these things and set
them down. :

This Dry Tree was an Oak of Abraham’s time.

Or THE Dry TREE

“And there is a tree of Oak, that the Saracens clepe
Dirpe, that is of Abraham’s time; the which men clepe
the Dry tree. And they say that it hath been there.
since the beginning of the world, and was some-time green
and bare leaves, until the time that our Lord died on the
Cross, and then it dried ; and so did all the trees that
were then in the world. And some say, by their pro-
phecies, that a lord, a prince of the west side of the
world, shall win the Land of Promission, that is the Holy
Land, with the help of Christian men, and he shall do
sing a mass under that Dry tree ; and then the tree shall
wax green, and bear both fruit and leaves, and through
that miracle many Saracens and Jews shall be turned to
Christian faith ; and, therefore, they do great worship
thereto, and keep it full busily. And, albeit so, that it
dry, natheles yet he beareth great virtue, for certainly he
hath a little thereof upon him, it healeth him of the fall-
ing evil, and his horse shall not be afoundered: and
many other virtues it hath ; wherefore men hold it full
precious.”

190

VII
OF THE FIRST ROSES

TueEn Sir John tells of a field nigh to Bethlehem, called
Floridus, and here was a maiden wrongfully blamed, and
condemned to death, and to be burnt.

**-And as the fire began to burn about her, she made
her prayers to our Lord, that as wisely as she was not
guilty of that sin, that he would keep her and make it to
be known to all men, of His merciful grace. And when
she had thus said, she entered into the fire, and anon was
the fire quenched and out; and the brands that were
burning became red Rose trees, and the brands that were
not kindled became white Rose trees, full of Roses. And
these were the first Rose trees and Roses, both white and
_ red, that every any man said; and thus was this maiden
saved by the grace of God. And therefore is that field
clept the Field of God Flourished, for it was full of Roses.”

* * * * *

And later Sir John tells how he saw the Elder tree on
the which Judas hanged himself. And he tells of the
Sycamore tree that Zaccheus the dwarf climbed into.
And of a plank of Noah’s ship that a monk, by the Grace
of God, brought down from Ararat.

.Then Sir John comes to Java on his wanderings, and
by that isle is another called Pathen, and here he saw
wonderful trees, bearing bread, and honey, and wine, and
poison. Of the tree that bears the venom he says :

*“ And other trees that bear venom, against which
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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

there is no medicine, but one ; and that is to take their
proper leaves and stamp them and temper them with
water, and then drink it, and else he shall die ; for triacle
will not avail, ne none other medicine. Of this venom
the Jews had let seek of one of their friends for to
empoison all Christianity, as I have heard them say in
their confession before their dying; but thank be to
Almighty God! they failed of their purpose ; but always
they make great mortality of people.”

Yet again Sir John has marvels of other countries,
where are men who—‘ when their friends be sick they
hang them upon trees, and say that it is better that birds
that be angels of God eat them, than the foul worms of
the earth.”

And near by is the isle of Calonak, where gardeners
would indeed be evily distressed by reason of the snail—
‘that be so great, that many persons may lodge them in
their shells, as men would do in a little house.”

By taking ship Sir John goes from isle to isle discussing
the sights, and arrives at length at an isle where—‘ be
white hens without feathers, but they bear white wool as
sheep do here”; and he passes by Cassay, of the
greatest cities of the world, and goes from that city by
water to an abbey of monks,

192

&

A ROSE GARDEN IN BERKSHIRE.

VITI
OF THE ABBEY GARDEN

“From that city men go by water, solacing and disport-
ing them, till they come to an abbey of monks that is fast
by, that be good religious men after their faith and law.

‘‘In that abbey is a great garden and fair, where be
many trees of diverse manner of fruits. And in this
garden i is a little hill full of delectable trees. In that hill
and in that garden be many diverse beasts, as of apes,
marmosets, baboons, and many other diverse beasts. And
every day, when the convent of this abbey hath eaten, the
almoner let bear the relief to the garden, and he smiteth
on the garden gate with a clicket of silver that he holdeth
in his hand ; and anon all the beasts of the hill and of the
diverse places of the garden come out a 8,000 or a 4,000 ;
and they come in guise of poor men, and men give them
the relief in fair vessels of silver, clean over-gilt. And
when they have eaten, the monk smiteth efftsoons on
the garden gate with the clicket, and then anon all the
beasts return again to their places that they come from.

«And they say that these beasts be souls of worthy
men that resemble in likeness of those beasts that be fair,
and therefore they give them meat for the love of God ;
and the other beasts that be foul, they say be souls of
poor men and of rude commons.”

* * * * *

Many other marvels did Sir-John see, of which I shall

not tell; but he writes always with his eye open and
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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

easy for miracles,and talks as a gardener talks of strange
flowers and fruit, as of gourds that when they be ripe—
** men cut them a-two, and men find within a little beast,
in flesh, and bone and blood, as though it were a little
lamb without wool. And men eat both the fruit and
the beast. And that isa great marvel.” Then he writes
of the wonders of the country of Prester John, and of
trees there that men dare not eat of the fruit—‘ for it is
a thing of faerie.”

_ Of Gatholonabes, he writes, and of the sham Garden of
Eden he made, and of the birds that—“ sing full delect-
ably and moved by craft.” The fairest garden any man
might behold it was. And of the men and girls clothed
in cloths of gold full richly, that he said were angels.

And of Paradise he cannot speak, making towards the
end of the book confession.

“ Of Paradise ne can I not speak properly. For I was
not there. It is far beyond. And that forthinketh
me. And also I was not worthy.”

And so, after a little more, ends Sir John, and so I end,
though Ilove him. Yet I doubt some of his stories,

194

IX
THE OLYMPIAN ASPECT

THERE are many ways of regarding a garden of flowers ;
from the utilitarian view it is a reasonable method of
utilising a space of ground for horticultural purposes, but
I prefer to take the Olympian view and quote from “ The
Poet’s Geography,” to the effect that a garden of flowers
is—‘ A collection of dreams surrounded by clouds.”

At first sight the somewhat expansive imagery of this
definition might appear over-vague and unsatisfactory
where a very definite question, like a garden of flowers,
is concerned. But, come to see it in a lofty light, and at
once its truth stands clear. A garden is the proper
adjunct of a house, and a house, fully said, is a dream
come true, yet still surrounded by the clouds of infinite
possibilities. It is always growing, is a true home.
Like a flower it expands to every sweet whisper of the
wind. Like a flower it shuts at night, or opens to accept
the dew. It is something so elusive that only the gar-
lands of love hold it together.

The garden, to the real house, is, like the dwelling, a
place of the most subtle fancies. Every flower there,
every tree and each blade of grass holds mystery and
imagination. The Gods walk there.

The flower beds (accepting the Olympian idea) are not
mere collections of flowering herbage, but are volumes of
poetry growing in the sun. Take your hedge of Sweet
Peas, for example, and tell me what they are—no—tell

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

me who they are. There is a dream there if you like;
and while you look at them, and sniff them delicately, is
not the fussy world shut off from you by clouds. Sweet
Peas are like a bevy of winsome girls all in their everyday
frocks, scented by an odour of virginity, something in-
describably refined after the manner of the flesh, and
something lofty in their removal from the earth after the
way of the spirit. I wonder how many people fecl this.

Take it more broadly in the true Olympian spirit.
Take it that a house and garden is an Olympus to each
man and woman who is happy, and you will see that your
heaven for all its head in the clouds has its feet upon the
earth. Then what do the flowers mean? Lilies with
pale faces like a procession of nuns. Roses all queens of
regal beauty. Violets to whom the thrushes sing, deny
it if you dare. Majestic Peonies. The plants of soft
and courtly wisdom, Thyme, Rosemary, Myrtle. Laven-
der, the House-dame, prim, neat, beloved of bees and
butterflies, Quakerishly dressed in grey with a touch of
unsectarian colour, yet vaguely an ecclesiastical purple ;
rather slim, with full skirts, with the suggestion that
Cowslips are her bunches of keys, and the Dandelion her
clock.

One could go on for ever.

And then the gardener, like those half-immortals who
worked for the gods, or some like a god of old, even, with
god-like grumbles, and god-like simplicity.

They are a strange race, these gardeners, given to
unexpected meals, and sudden appearances.

** Walter !”

And after that, from some fragrant bush, or waving
forest of Asparagus, a bronzed man stands erect, as if he
had sprung from the bowels of the earth, where he had
been contemplating the mysteries of human weakness.

And how amazed they are with us and our foibles and

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THE OLYMPIAN ASPECT

follies. We remonstrate—a question of weeds, perhaps,
—and are listened to with incredulous wonder.

** Weeds ! ” says the being, “‘ weeds ! ”

He emerges more completely from the bush, showing a
hand occupied with a lot of little twigs, and a knife rather
like himself to look at—not too sharp.

As if a voice from the unknown had wafted over the
desert, he stands in wonder, looking reproachfully at
those who have interrupted his toil.

‘The weather makes them grow.” Of course it does.
We knew that. We did not come here to call Walter
to ask him what made weeds grow, but to know why he
had not weeded, at our special request, the Carnation
border.

From a cavernous pocket in a much-mended pair of
trousers of a shape never designed by mortal hands, he
produces a quantity of felt strips, and some wall nails.

We repeat our original suggestion, that the Carnation
border is choked with weeds.

* So it be!”

Then, after the great being has taken observations of
the sky, causing him to screw up one eye and wag his
head sagely as if he had communication with the unseen
powers, he admits that he has been watering the green-
house.

‘“‘ The Vines take a deal o’ time about now.”

It would be useless to remark to this calm person that
we found, only yesterday, a dozen plants dying in the
greenhouse, and all for want of water. But, from a sort
of foolhardy courage, we do say as much.

“Yes,” says the immortal, ‘they need a power of
water. A good drop is no good.”

We venture to remonstrate with him, saying, in a few
well chosen words, that it would be useful of him, then,
to give them “ a good watering while he was about it.”

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

He agrees at once. “It would do them a power of
good.”

Realising that we are drifting from the main grievance,
we return hot to the bed of Carnations. We admit to
having but just this moment come from weeding them
ourselves, and in so saying we hope to make appeal to his
better nature. Nothing of the kind.

““T noticed,” he says, ‘“‘ you sp’iled some of the layers
where you’d a-been treading.”

When we have turned away defeated, he sinks again to
his mysterious task, and it seems that the ground swal-
lows him.

Then again, in the early morning, he seems to have had
overnight talks with Mercury, or Apollo, or whoever it is
who arranges the weather, as he invariably greets us with
some curt sentence.

** Rain afore noon,” or “‘ Wind’ll be in the nor’west
afore night.” Thereby giving us to understand that
he has been given a glass of nectar in some lower servants’
hall in Olympus, and has picked up the gossip of what
Jupiter has decreed for the day. We feel, as he intends
us to feel, vastly inferior. In fact we have given way to
a habit of asking his advice on certain points, which has
proved fatal.

He doles out our fruit to us just as he likes, and we feel
quite guilty when we pick one of our own peaches from
our own walls.

‘“* I see you pick a peach last night,” he says. “* ’Tisn’t
for me to say anything, but I was countin’ on giving you
a nice dish NEXT week.”

What is there to do but hang one’s head, and plead
guilty ?

‘Boys are his pet aversion. Whether boys have in
some way a fellowship with the gods (which I suspect),
or whether they are victoriously antagonistic, it matters

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THE OLYMPIAN ASPECT

not. They are to the gardener so many creatures whom
he classes along with snails, bullfinches, rabbits and wasps
as “‘ varmints.”

One can hear him sometimes invoking a god of the
nameofGum. ‘ By Gum ! them young varmints a-been
’ere again. By Gum!”

He then makes an offering to this god in the shape of a
bonfire, the smell of which is more than most scents for
wonder.

It is when Walter makes a bonfire that he is more god-
like than ever. He stands, a thick figure, deep in the
chest, broad in the shoulder, by the pile of dead leaves,
twigs, and garden rubbish, the smoke enveloping him in
misty wreaths, and the sun flashing on his fork as he
pitches fresh fuel on the smouldering fire. A tongue of
flame, greedily licking up leaves and dry sticks, lights on
his impassive face, and a quivering orange streak along
the muscles of his arms. We are fascinated by his arms.
They contain, I believe, the history of his mortal life and
ambitions, and are a key to his hidden emotions.

On one arm is a ship under full sail, done in blue and
red tattoo. Below the ship is the word “‘ Jane ”’ ; below
that is a twist of rope. On the other arm is a heart, the
initials S.M., and an anchor.

When we were young these two arms of Walter’s were
an entire literature to us. We read him first, I think,
a pirate, very grim and horrible, and we translated “S.M.”
as Spanish Main. A little later we dropped the idea of
the pirate, and took to the notion that Walter had been
(if he was not still) a smuggler who landed cargoes of rum
from the good ship “ Jane,”’ and deposited them with the
landlord of the ‘‘ Saucy Mariner.” It is noticeable that
we left out the heart in all these romances. Then, at
some impressionable moment, Walter became a seaman
who had given his heart to Sarah Mainwaring, which

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

name we got from a man who had given us a dog, and in
spite of that we accepted it as fact. I think we once
descended so low as to think that the whole thing had no
nautical significance, and was a secret sign of some
terrible society who met for purposes of revenge. This,
of course, was the result of contemporary. reading.

Then came the great day upon which Walter was
definitely asked what the signs and pictures on his arms
did mean.

“Mind out,’’ was all the answer we got, and Walter
retired with the wheelbarrow to his citadel—the potting
shed.

It was tried again a little later, and this time met with
a little better response, because, I suppose, we had done
more than half his day’s work for him.

‘**T had them done at a fair.”

‘* And,” we asked breathlessly, ‘‘ what was the ship ? ”

“* Two shillin’s,”’ he replied, ‘‘ and I never regretted it.
Money well spent.”

‘“* Was she your ship 2”

** Mine ?” said the god.

** Was she the ship you were in when you were a
sailor ?”

“Me ?”’ said Walter. ‘‘ I aint never been a sailor.”

The blow was crushing. We retired hurt, amazed,
incredulous.

One day we tried the remaining arm, the one with
S.M., the heart, and the anchor emblazoned on it.

‘** What does S.M. mean ?”

It was a moment of terrific suspense. We had
drawn a mental picture of some wonderful creature,
half Princess, half like a schoolgirl, we sighed after.
The god was tying Carnations to wire spirals, and his
expression was limited, since he had a knife in his mouth.

““S.M. on me arm,” he said, removing the knife.

200

ert og seas

A SHEPHERD OF CONISTON.

THE OLYMPIAN ASPECT

We nodded mysteriously, full of breathless expecta-
tion.

Walter began to smile. He stood up and surveyed
us with his face alight with the memory of some great
day. To us he looked an heroic figure, even despite
the pieces of old drawing-room carpet tied to his knees
with string, and his very unkempt beard.

“You won’t exactly understand,” he said, mopping
his forehead. ‘‘ But I tell ’ee if you’ve got to mind
some-at after a day at a fair, you’d be fair mazed.
I give my word to my mother as I’d a-put sixpence
in a raffle for to try to win her a sewing machine, and
so when the fellow was making they images on my arm,
I sed to un, I sed, put me S.M., I sed, so’s Pl mind to
put in the sewing machine raffle, I sed, or else if so
be as I don’t I shall get a slice of tongue pie when I
do get home along.”

Our faces fell. Our hearts, full of romance, now
became like lead. In despair we put the last question,
a forlorn hope in the storming of his heart’s citadel.

* And the other thing on your arms, Walter? The
heart.”

** Cooriosity killed a monkey,” said he. ‘“‘ Mind cut,
I’m going round the corners.”

So was our romance killed. “Going round the
corners,” was Walter’s sign that all conversation was
closed.. ;

If one followed him “round the corners,” talk as
one might, Walter directed all his conversation to the
flowers. To hear him address the plants in the green-
house was to think him indeed a god, who by some
magic spell turned the water in the can into a life-
saving potion. To-day we think that much of the
soliloquy was done for our especial benefit.

** Just a wee drop, my pretty,” he would say to some

201 2c

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

flower. “Just a drink with lunch. That’s right.

Perk up now. By Gum, you do want your drop regular,”
you ’ardened teetotaler. Hello, hello, what’s up with

you ? Looks to me as if a snail had bided along o’ you

too frequent.”

His great hand, covered with ancient scars, would
lift the leaves tenderly, and search beneath for the
offending snail which, when found, would be held up
to view.

“ Five-and-twenty tailors !°’ he would exclaim.

He would be instantly corrected. ‘ Four-and-
twenty.”

“You got your history wrong,” he used to say.

We repeated

Four-and-twenty tailors went to catch a snail,
And the best man among them dare not touch his tail.

“Come the twenty-fifth,” Walter added. ‘“ That
be I. So here goes, Master Snail.”

With that the snail was sharply crushed underfoot,
and the soliloquy continued. He is with us still, older
in years, younger than ever in heart, with the same
immortal personality, the same atmosphere of friend-
ship with the gods about him. He listens to orders with
a smile of amusement, just as if he had been laughing
about our ways only an hour before with some inhabi-
tant of an unseen world. He carried his own peculiar
atmosphere with him of indulgent superiority and
warm-heartedness combined, just as the tortoise carries
his house on his back. If that story is unknown by
any chance, here it is.

JUPITER’S WEDDING

When the toy had once taken Jupiter in the head to

enter into a state of matrimony, he resolved for the
202

THE OLYMPIAN ASPECT

honour of his Celestial Lady, that the whole world
should keep a Festival upon the day of his marriage,
and so invited all living creatures, Tag-Rag and Bob-
Tail, to the solemnity of his wedding. They all came
in very good time, saving only the Tortoise. Jupiter
told him ’twas ill done to make the Company stay,
and asked him, ‘“‘ Why so late?” ‘ Why truly,”
says the Tortoise, ‘“‘I was at home, at my own House,
my dearly beloved House,” and House is Home, let
it be never so Homely. Jupiter took it very ill at
his hands, that he should think himself better in a Ditch
than in a Palace, and so he passed this Judgment upon
him: that since he would not be persuaded to come
out of his House upon that occasion, he should never
stir abroad again from that Day forward without his
House upon his head.

This, as may be seen at once, is the Olympian aspect
not only of the house, but of the garden as well. We
mortals do carry our Homes with us, breathing a closer,
less free air than the air of Olympus, when the reigning
monarch has merely to take a toy in the head to enter
into a state of matrimony. We, tortoise-like, are bound
and tied by a thousand pleasant associations to our
plot of earth and our patch of stars. Sooner than
attend the ceremonies of the greatest,’ we linger by
our house and in our garden, so that though we may not
boast with the great world and say that we know
“Dear old Jove,” or “that charming wife of his,
Juno,” still we know that we live on the slopes of
Olympus, and have a number of charming flowers for
society.

20%

x
EVENING RED AND MORNING GREY

Your old-fashioned man with a care to his garden will
look through the quarrel of his window to spy weather
signs. This quarrel, the lozenge-pane of a window
made criss-cross, shows in its narrow frame a deal of
Nature’s business, day and night. For your gardener
it takes the part of club window, weather glass and eye
hole onto his world. Through it day and night he
reviews the sky and the trees, the wind, the moon
and the stars. When he rises betimes there’s the sky
for him to read. When he returns for his tea there
in the pane is the sunset framed. When he goes to
bed the moon rides past and the friendly stars twinkle.
No man is asked his opinion of the weather so much
as the gardener, except, may be, the shepherd; both
men having, as it were, a Professorship in weather
given to them by the Public. It is they who have
given rise to, or even, perhaps, invented the rhymes by
_ which they go.
Evening red and morning grey,
Send the traveller on his way ;

But evening grey and morning red,
Send the traveller wet to bed.

There is a verse full of ripe experience. The even-
ing sun glows red through the lozenge-panes and into
the cottage, lights up with sparks of crimson fire the

silver lustre ornaments, makes the furniture shine again,
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EVENING RED AND MORNING GREY

gives the brass candlesticks a finger lick of fire, shines
ruddy on the tablecloth, and flashes back a friendly
scarlet message from the square of looking-glass. Or
the deep window ledge stand a row of ruddled flower
pots in which fine geraniums grow, behind them a tidy
muslin curtain stretches across the window on a tape,
on the sides of the window are hung a photograph or
two, an almanac, and a picture cut from a seed cata-
logue, above hangs a canary in a small cage. Only
the narrowest slip of window is clear, not more than
one clear pane, and it is through this that the evening
sun streams into the cottage room. In the morning
when our friend rises, if he finds the room flooded
with a clear grey light, a light matching the silver lustre
jugs, then he quotes his verse, to be sure, and passing his
neighbour says, ‘‘ A fine day, to-day.”

2

A rainbow in the morning
Is the shepherd’s warning
But a rainbow at night
~Is the shepherd’s delight.

That sign is for the shepherd and the traveller by
night, since no ordinary being is expected to watch for
rainbows by night to the detriment of his night’s rest
and his morning temper. But the shepherd must keep
a keen eye to such signs, and marks, day and night, all
the little movements of Nature, to learn her whims. As
for instance, the signs of bad weather to come:

1

That swallows will fly low and swiftly when the upper air is
charged with moisture for then insects fly low also.

2

That the cricket will sing sharply.
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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

This last, of course, in wet countries, for in dry
places, as in meadows under southern mountains, there
is a perfect orchestra of rasping crickets in the grass
But in the north, on the most silent and golden days,
they say that the chirrup of a cricket foretells rain.
Just as they say:

‘ 3

As hedgehogs do foresee evening storms
So wise men are for fortune still prepared.

This they say, because the story runs that a hedge-
hog builds a nest with the opening made to face the
mildest quarter thereabout, and the back to the most
prevalent wind.

Again, and this a sign everybody knows:

4
That distant hills look near. ‘

As indeed they do before rain, and many times one
hears—“‘ such a place is too clear to-day ”—or, ‘‘ One
can see such a land much too well,” and this means
near rain.

Like the swallows so do rooks change their flight
before rain, and so, also, do plover, for it is noticed :

5

That rooks will glide low on the wind, and drop quickly.
And plover fly in shape almost as a kite and will not rise
high, one or two of the flock being posted sentinels at the
tail of the kite formation.

Then, if the shepherd is near to a dew-pit, or any
water meadow, or passing by a roadside ditch he will
notice :

6

That toads will walk out across the road. And frogs will
206

EVENING RED AND MORNING GREY

change colour before a storm, losing their bright green and
turning to a dun brown.

To all of these signs with their significance of coming
rain your shepherd will give a proper prominence in his
mind, marking one, and then searching for another
until he is certain. His first clue on any hilly ground is ;

7

That sheep will not wander into the uplands but keep
browsing in the plain.

Having taken note of this he turns to plants, par-
ticularly to his own weather glass, the Scarlet Pimpernel,
as he sees :

8

That the Pimpernel closes her eye. That the down will
fly from off the dandelion, the colts-foot, and from thistles
though there be no wind.

Of night signs there are many, but chiefly :

9
That glowworms shine very bright.

10

That the new moon with the old moon in her lap comes before

rain.
ll

That if the rainbow comes at night
Then the rain is gone quite.

12
Near bur, far rain.

This of the bur, or halo, to be seen at times about the
moon.
For a last thing they say :
207

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

13

On Candlemas Day if the sun shines clear,
The shepherd had rather see his wife on the bier.

* * * * *
Our friend, the weather-wise gardener,—and, by the
way, there is the unkind saying :
Weatherwise, foolish otherwise—
has several things in his neighbourhood to tell him of
coming rain, as:
1
That heliotrope and marigold flowers close their petals.
2
That ducks will make a loud and insistent quacking.
3
T'hat—so they say—the cat will sit by the fire and clean her

whiskers. r
4

That the tables and chairs will creak.

5
That dogs will eat grass.

6
That moles will heave.

In the garden he too will observe the birds, more
especially that pert friend to all gardeners, the robin.
For they say :

If the robin sings in the bush

Then the weather will be coarse ;

But if the robin sings in the barn

Then the weather will be warm.
208

SSEX GARDEN

ECOT IN A SU!

A DOV.

EVENING RED AND MORNING GREY

I must confess that I have not found this come
true of robins, any more than I have found waterwag-tails
coming on the lawn to be a harbinger of rain, or that
thrushes eat more snails than worms in the dry season.
Of this last I get enjoyment enough, for there is a stone
in my garden to which the fat thrushes come dragging
snails. They give them a mighty heave, and down
come the snails, “‘ crack” on the stone, until the shell
is burst asunder and the delicious morsel is down Master
Thrush’s gullet in the twinkling of an eye. The thrush
is certainly my favourite garden bird, both for his looks
and his song, and the blackbird I like least, for they
are bundles of nerves, screaming away at the slightest
suggestion of danger. The robin is a fine impudent
fellow and friendly in a truly greedy way, following the
smallest suggestion of digging with an eye for a good’
dinner, so that if you are only pulling the earth up in
weeding you will have the brisk little gentleman at
your elbow, head cocked on one side, and an eye of the
greatest intelligence sharply fixed on you. Pigeons
I regard as an absolute nuisance, their voices sentimental
to a degree, in this way quite at variance with their
selfish, greedy and destructive characters. So they say:

If the pigeons go a benting
Then the farmers lie lamenting.

Starlings are very handsome birds but as they live
in congregations, or like regiments, one can have no
personal feeling for them, though I love to watch them
on winter evenings when they come in thousands from
the fields and fly to their roosting place, making the air
rustle with the quick beat of their wings.

The bullfinch is a gardener’s enemy, for he will strip
the fruit buds from a tree out of pure wantonness, and
yet he is a brave bird and nice to see about.

209 2D

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

All the small birds give one joy though they be
robbers or enemies to young plants, or bee eaters like
the blue-tit, or strawberry robbers, or drainpipe chokers
like the house-sparrows, or murderers of the summer
peace like the woodpecker with his quick insistent
“tap, tap.”

In royal and fine gardens, of course, one must have
two birds; the peacock and the owl, for these two
give all the air of romance needful, though I have
never myself regarded the peacock as a King of
birds, for he makes too much of a show of himself, and
his wife is a humble creature. I feel, rather, that he is
a courtier strutting up and down waiting the King’s
pleasure; a place-seeker, one who will cheer the side
that pays. As for the owl, that dusky guardian of
secrets, he is a far more solid and trustworthy fellow
than the gay peacock, and though he snores in the day-
time, his great round yellow eyes are open at the least
sound in his haunt.

This is far afield from the weather, so let us give the
remaining saying of birds that the gardener may notice.

November ice that bears a duck
Brings a winter of slush and muck.

That I hold to be very true.
There are still one or two rhymes that should be well
noted, three of the rain.

1

When it rains before seven
It will cease before eleven.

2

March dry, good rye
April wet, good wheat.
210

EVENING RED AND MORNING GREY
3

If the ash before the oak
Then we are in for a soak,
But if the oak before the ash
We shall get off with a splash.
Then they say:
Between twelve and two
You'll see what the day will do.
And again :

Cut your thistles before St. John
You will have two to every one.

And, one
The grass that grows in Janiveer
Grows no more all the year.
And also:
That flower seeds sown on Palm Sunday will come up double.
* * * * *

These are all very well, and what with one thing
and another will come true, at least as true as the
rhyme that says:

A mackerel sky
Is very wet, or very dry.

Still it is really to the wind that the gardener looks
most, and if he have a weathercock in his garden (which
with a sundial, a rain gauge, and an outside thermo-
meter he should always have) he will note each turn of
the wind. If he has no weathercock then he will read
the wind by the smoke of chimneys, or the turn of the
leaves of trees.

And, after regarding the wind, he may remember this:

When it rains with the wind in the east,
It rains for twenty four hours at least.
aul

THE CHARM OF GARDENS
And this also :

When the wind is in the south,

Tis in the rain’s mouth ;

When the wind is in the east

*Tis neither good for man nor beast.

This weather lore is naturally gleaned out of many
years, some of the sayings being of real antiquity,
others, perhaps, newly coined, though I fancy not. In
spite of them you will find every gardener has a different
manner of reading the sky and the wind, some having
it that mares-tails in the sky come after great storms,
others that they are the portent of a gale. Some, if
asked will reply to a question on the weather:

‘** With these frostises o’ nights, and the wind veered
roun’ apint west, and taking into consideration the
time o’ year, and the bad harvest’’—then follows
a long look into the heavens—“ I don’t say but what
er won't rain, but then again, I dunno, perhaps come
the breeze keeps off, us mighten have quite a tidy drop.”
This you are at liberty to translate which way you
choose, since the advice is generally followed by a
portentous wink, or, at least, some motion of an eyelid
curiously like it.

212

XI
GARDEN PROMISES

Ir is Winter, and when it is winter the earth is very
secret, but it lies like pie-crust promises waiting to be
broken. A little graveyard of the tombs of seeds and
bulbs spreads before one’s eyes. Each tomb has a
nice headstone of white with the name of the buried
life below written upon it. The virtues of the buried
are not written in so many words, but their names
suffice for that. In my imagination I see my graveyard
like this:
HERE LIES BURIED
A
ROSE COLOURED TULIP
WHO CAME ACROSS THE SEAS
FROM THE KINGDOM
oF
HOLLAND
UNDER THIS EARTH
SHE
AND ONE HUNDRED OF HER SISTERS
ARE WAITING FOR THE SPRING
WHEN THEY WILL UNFOLD THEMSELVES
FROM THEIR LONG SLEEP AND ADORN
WITH THEIR PLEASANT FACES THE SOUTH
BORDER FACING THE STUDY WINDOW

That I see most clearly written over the spot where I
tucked the hundred and one beautiful sisters in their
bed of rich brown earth, and I am looking for the

213

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

time when the graveyard shall begin to be green with
the shafts of their first leaves. Besides these, there
are the headsticks to the Carnations, but this patch
of the graveyard is different since the tufts of Carna-
tion grass make long grey lines against the brown
earth. Somewhere, in each of these grey tufts, is
hidden the beautiful germ of life that is growing,
growing all the time, and the wonderful chemical pro-
cess is at work there (for all the plants look so silent
and quiet), that is mixing colours and rejecting colours,
and is secreting wax, and preparing perfume. Of all
moments in a garden this is to me the most wonderful.
No glory of colour or variety of shape; no pageant
of ripe Summer, or tender early day of Spring appeals
to me quite in the way this silent time does, when a
thousand unseen forces are at work. I have often
wondered (being quite ignorant of the chemical side
of this) what happens to that drop of fresh colour the
bee brings like a careless artist flicking a brush. Some-
times in a Carnation of pure white, one flower, or two,
will show a crimson streak—a sport, one calls it. But
more curious still is the fringe edge of the Picotee. How,
I have often asked myself, does the colour edge find
its way to its proper place? How does the plant
manage to produce just enough of that one colour to
go round each of its flowers? I have stood by a row
of these plants that I have just planted in some new
bed, and wondered at the amazing industry going on
within them. They are fighting disease, supplying
themselves with proper nourishment, mixing colours,
and building buds and stems. It is a regular dock-
yard of a place except that there isno sound. I imagine
(quite wrongly, but merely because an instinct causes
me to do so) a lot of orderly forces like little drilled
men hard at work in green-grey suits, Those who
214

GARDEN PROMISES

work underground are not in green but are in white,
but should they go above the surface they would change
colour owing to contact with the light, and this is due
to the presence of a matter called chlorophyll in the
cells which gives plants their green colour.

The underground workers are hard at it always,
getting water from the ground, and in this water are
gases and minerals dissolved. The workmen send
this up to those in the leaves. Those who work in the
leaves are taking in supplies of carbonic acid gas from
the air, and the leaves themselves are so formed as to
get as much light as possible on one surface. When
the light meets with the carbonic acid gas in the leaves
starch is formed. This is distributed through the plant
to the actual builders.

You stand over the row of Carnations all silent,
all still, and yet here is this tremendous activity going
on, building, distributing, selecting, rejecting. A
thousand workmen making a flower.

The two sets of workers, in the roots and leaves, the
one sending up water and nitrogenous matter, the other
making starch, are manufacturing albumenoids for
more building material. And it is more easy to think
of such creatures at work since a plant, unlike an
animal, has no stomach, or heart, or bloodvessels, and
its food is liquid and gaseous.

Now of these marvels the greatest is that of the
existence of life in the plant on exactly the same initial
principles as the existence of life inman. That is the
substance known as the protoplasm. It is too amazing
for me, and too great a thing to be dealt with here,
but, as I look at my silent dockyard, there are these
protoplasms, in the cells of these plants, dividing into
halves and, so to speak, nestling with fresh cells in walls

of cellulose.
215

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Think of the work actually going on beneath our
eyes in the one matter of the starch factory in the plant,
where the chlorophyll (the green colouring matter)
separates the carbon from the carbonic acid, returns
the oxygen to the air, and mingles the carbon and the
oxygen and the hydrogen in the water and so makes this
starch.

All this goes on when we open our windows of a
morning and look out over the garden and see just a grey
line of Carnations we planted over-night. The workers
at the roots who are so busily engaged in sending up
water, are also sending with it all those things the plant
needs that they can get from the earth. Thus the
water may contain iron, nitrogen, sulphur, and potash.
All that goes from the roots to the leaves is called
-sap. This, when it comes to the leaves and all parts
of the plant exposed to the light, transpires, and so
keeps the plant cool.

The stem, on which the supreme work, the flower,
will be born, is, in the case of our Carnations, divided
into nodes and internodes, the nodes being those solid
elbows one sees. It is towards the supreme work
that our eyes are turned. It is part, if not chief part,
of the pleasure of our vigil to look forward to the day
when the first faint colour shows in the bursting bud.
It is for this moment that we wait and wear out the
chill of Winter. It is towards the idea of a resurrection
that our thoughts, perhaps unconsciously, are fixed,
to the knowledge that our garden is to be born again,
fresh and new in colour, in warmth and sunshine. The
very secret workings going on before our eyes, all that
Heavenly workshop where none are ’prentices and all
are master-hands, where the bee, and the ant, and the |
unseen insect in the air, go about their exact duties,
give one, as Autumn declines into Winter and Winter

216

‘NUCGUVD ANIHSNOLAWVHLUON V

GARDEN PROMISES

rouses into Spring, some vague conjecture of the mighty
magic of the growing world, where no particle of energy is
ever wasted.

Life in the Winter takcs on this aspect of waiting
wonderment. While the rivers are in flood, and the
fields are ruled with silver lines where the ditches are
full, and the Sun uses them for a mirror; while the
gulls are driven inland and follow the plough, and the
starlings congregate in the open fields, we prepare
our pageant of flowers against those days when the
slumber of the earth is over, and the now purple hedge-
rows are alive with tender green. St. Francis of Assisi
impressed the very sentiment on his friars, in bidding
them make scented gardens of flower-bearing herbs to
remind them of Him who is called ‘‘ The Lily of the
Valley,” and ‘‘ The Flower of the World.”

So goes my workshop through the winter days, while
a few pale ghosts of late Roses linger on the trees, sigh-
ing doubtless to themselves, like old gentlemen—* Ah,
I remember this place before Autumn pulled down all
the grcen leaves, and long before all that ground was
laid out for seed plots.” And all the while my Roses
are growing and, could one see into the colour chambers
of the trees, into those wonderful studios hidden in the
tiny cells, one would see these artists at work rivalling
the blush of morning; the flames of fire, the white soul
of innocence, the crimson of king’s robes, and the
orange flush of sunset. There are men, I suppose,
who know to a certain extent how the secretion of
these wonderful colours is arranged; why this or that
colour runs to flush a petal.to the edge, or stays to
dye only the flower’s heart. But it will ever be a
marvel to me to see how these veins flow crimson,
those hold orange, and those again hold a rich yellow.
The work that creates the colour of a Pansy, that gives

217 2E

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

to the Sweet Peas those soft tints, that shapes and
colours the trumpet flower of the Convolvulus, and
builds the long horn of the sweet-scented Eglantine,
gives one a joy to which few joys are equal, and a
feeling of security with the great unknown things by
which life is encompassed.

Looking again at the garden of promises, and think-
ing of it still as a graveyard with headstones, I see
one which is, to me, particularly pleasant. It is by
an old bush of lavender, the mother bush of my long
hedge ; I read it to be written like this:

HERE LIES
IMPRISONED IN THIS GREY BUSH
THE SCENT OF
LAVENDER
IT IS RENOWNED FOR A SIMPLE PURITY
A SWEET FRAGRANCE AND A SUBTLE
STRENGTH IT IS THE ODOUR OF
THE DOMESTIO VIRTUES AND THE
SYMBOLIO PERFUME OF A QUIET LIFH
RAIN
SHALL WEEP OVER THIS BUSH
SUN
SHALL GIVE IT WARM KISSES
WIND
SHALL STIR THE TALL SPIKES
UNTIL SUCH TIME AS IS REQUIRED
WHEN IT SHALL FLOWER AND SO
YIELD TO US ITS SECRET

There stands the bush all neatly tied, its venerable
head at the moment covered with a powdering of fine
snow, and round it the first sharp spears of Crocus
leaves show, and the fat buds of Snowdrops, and the
ready bud of the yellow Aconite. All the garden is
waiting, the Pea-sticks are prepared, the paths have
been cleaned, and I am waiting and watching the little

218

GARDEN PROMISES

things. The trees even now are whispering that it
will soon be Spring, for all they look from a distance
like a collection of dried and pressed roots sticking up
in the air, how they are drawn in purple ink against
the sky ; but one day my eyes will see a faint haze over
them as if a little mist hung about them and was caught
in the branches, and then they will change so quietly
that it is impossible to tell quite when they began to
look like very delicate green feathers, and then they
will change so suddenly that it is a shock to one’s eyes
to find them in a full flush of sticky bud and leaf, and
one says in accents of delighted surprise, ‘‘ Why, the
trees are out!”

Not every one takes pleasure in a garden during the
Winter time, many regarding it as a chill and a desolate
place in itself, and taking only an interest in the green-
houses and the Violet frames; and few would find a
pleasure in washing flower-pots by the dozen on a
rainy day, and in putting fresh ashes on the paths, and
in banking up Celery. But to the keen gardener every
inch of work in his garden is full of interest, he realises
the daily value of each thing he does, he knows of that
great silent work that is going on so near him, and so
enjoys even the burnishing of a spade, the rolling of
lawns, and loves, as I think every one does, the surgical
work of pruning the fruit trees.

Then, when the promise is fulfilled, and the world
is full of green and colour, the wondrous alchemy of the
Winter months shows its result in the glorious painting
of the flowers of Spring and Summer.

219

XII
GARDEN PATHS

You can get no symbol finer than a path, no symbol
is more used. Of necessity a path must begin some-
where and have a destination. Of necessity it must
cross certain country, overcome obstacles, or go round
them. By nature you come at new views from a path
and so obtain fresh suggestions. A path entails labour,
and by labour ease. It must have a purpose, and so
must originate in an inspiration. And yet the man
who makes a path ignores, as a rule, the high importance
of his task.

It is a peculiar thing that paths made across fields,
and made by the very people whose business it is to
reach from point to point in the shortest possible time,
are never straight. Their very irregularities reflect
the nature of man more than the nature of the ground
they cross.

So unmethodical is man by instinct that if he were
to lay out a garden in the same frame of mind in which
he crosses a field, that garden would abound in twisted,
tortuous paths, beds of irregular shapes, spasmodic
arrangements of trees, flowers, shrubs and vegetables,
a veritable hotch-potch. To overcome that he im-
prisons the wanderings of his mind, divides his garden
into regular shapes, and drives his paths pell-mell
from point to point as straight as his eye and a line
will allow him. This’planning of a garden is an absorb-

220

GARDEN PATHS

ing joy. Tocome new toa fresh place untouched by any
other hand and to work your will on it gives one all the
delights of conquest, and the pleasant fatigue of a war
in which you are bound to win. You can make your
own traditions, founding them for future ages—as,
for instance, you may so plant your trees as to force
one view on the attention. You can emulate Rome
and carry your paths straight and level. In fact, that
little new world is yours to conquer.

To me a winding path offers the more alluring pros-
pect, just as it is more pleasant to walk on a winding
road where each turn opens out a fresh vista, and the
coming of every hidden corner is in the way of an ad-
venture. I have just made such a path.

To be precise my path is eighteen feet long and two
feet and a quarter wide. It curves twice, really in a
“ sort of courteous bow in avoiding a Standard Rose
tree, and begins and ends in a little low step of Box;
this to prevent the cinders of which it is made from
mingling with gravel of the paths into which it runs.

I began it on a Monday. It is made through a Rose
bed that was too wide to work properly. At about
nine in the morning the gardener and I stood regarding
the unconscious Rose-bed with much the same gravity
as men might regard a range of hills through which a
tunnel was to be drilled.

I said, ‘“‘ This seems the best place to make a path
through the bed.”

The gardener made a serpentine movement with his
hand to indicate the possible curve of the path and
replied, after an interval: that such a place seemed as
good as any.

We then, with a certain lightening of heart after
this tremendous thought, walked into the bed and

surveyed it. This tree would have to be moved, and
221

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

that one, and these half standards shifted. Good. It
should be done.

It seems that the earth requires a little ceremonial
even when the merest scratch is to be made on her
sutface. I am sure we wheeled a barrow containing
spades, a line, and sticks with some feeling of pro-
cessional pride. The gardener then, having come to a
stop with the barrow, spat, very solemnly on his hands.
It appeared to be the exact form of vitual required. In
a few minutes we had pegged a way.

I suppose a spade is the first implement of peace ever
made by human kind. It is certainly the pleasantest
to hold. A rake is a more dandified affair, a hoe not so
well-formed. The scythe and the sickle have a store
of poetry and legend about them, but the rake and the
hoe contain no romantic virtues. Although the plough
is the recognised implement of peace in symbolical
language, it joins hands with war in that same language
—‘‘turning their swords into ploughshares ’—and
so loses much of its peaceful meaning, but the spade
remains always the sword of -the man of peace, one
weapon by which he conquers the ground and makes
the earth yield her fruits. For me the spade.

The gardener, having spat upon his hands regarded
the earth and sky as if to mark and measure the earth
and the heavens, and them to witness his first cut.
The spade, lifted for a moment, drove deep into the
earth. The soil, pressed by the steel, turned. A new
path was begun. How long is it to last ?

There are garden paths, so commenced, have made
history in their day, why not mine? Kings, Princes,
Lords, Queens, Maids of Honour, spies and honourable
men have trodden garden paths, measuring their small
length and discussing everything in the states of Love
or Country to come to some decision. The Poppies

222

GARDEN PATHS

Tarquin slew gave their message. The Pinks that
Michonis brought. to Marie Antoinette grew by some
garden path; that very bunch of Pinks in which lay a
note promising her safety, brought her death more
near. What comedies, what tragedies, vows made and
broken, kisses stolen and repented, have not had for
platform just such a path as mine.

At the first hint of broken soil a robin, pert and ready,
took up a position on a bare limb of Penzance Briar,
and began to eye us merrily just as if he, I and the
garden were all out for a day’s worm hunting.

Said I, ‘“ Dick, we are out to make a garden path,
incidentally to make history.” For I had my idea
of the “History of Paths” well at the back of my”
mind.

The robin replied (or as good as replied), “If it’s
history you’re after, it’s insects I’m here for, so we'll
come at a bargain.”

Meanwhile the gardener turned another clod.

Said the robin, “‘ I never saw any one so slow.”

Slow as we might have been we were quick enough
in imagination. For one thing there was the question
of edging. Tiles, bricks, box, stones, which was it
to be?

Half-way down the trench we had made, just at the
acute point of the greater curve, the gardener pro-
pounded the question of the edging. He leaned on his
spade, and turning to me asked if I had thought to
something to edge the path with. Now my thoughts
were far away from that idea and were hovering
like butterflies over a vision of the Path Complete. I
saw, for Springtime, a row of Daffodils nodding and
yellow in the breeze. For Summer I saw Carnations
gleaming richly, and the Roses all blooming. Over-
head the driven sky hung out blue banners of distress

223

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

as if signalling for fine weather. Plumb to earth my
thoughts came. =

“* About something to edge with ?”

Almost before I had time to speak, he continued.
I had begun with the word, “* Box.” -

Every one knows what it is to come on the rocks
in the soil of a gardener’s mind. It is, as a rule, some
old idea taken deep root which forms a rock of
resistance. Sometimes it is a rock idea about taking
Geranium cuttings, sometimes an idea about the time
for pruning fruit trees or the method of pruning them,
sometimes it concerns certain plants which he refuses to
allow will live in the garden and so lets them die. One
is never quite certain when or how the objection will
arise. I had sent out a feeler for Box and I struck a rock.

“Box !!” he said in a voice of awe, as if the gods
overhearing would be angry. ‘‘ Where am I to get
Box from? And if I was to get Box, Box don’t grow
so high,”’—he held his hand a mustard seed height from
the ground—‘“ not in ten years. It’s awkward stuff,
Box, to deal with. In a garden this size that needs an
extra man—and plenty of work for a boy too, when all
these leaves is about—growing hedges of Box or what
not is not possible. Not that I have anything to say
against Box, far from it. No. It looks well in some
places, but if you was to ask me, sir, I think it’ud be
the ruin of this Rosebed.”

Said the robin to me, ‘‘ The man’s mad.”

I answered quickly, “‘ It was merely a sudden -idea
of mine.”

He relapsed into silence for a moment. Then he said,
** flints.””

I knew it was to be a battle. I hate flints. Nasty,
ugly, tiresome eyesores. Gardeners love flints just as
many of them love Laurels and Ivy.

224

A PATH IN A ROSE GARDEN.

GARDEN PATHS

I said very rashly, ‘‘ But where are we to get flints ? ”

Of course I should have known that he had a cartload
of flints up his sleeve. He scraped his boots, walked
away, and returned with a jagged thing like one petrified
decayed tooth of a mammoth. This he thrust into the
ground, and then surveyed it with pride.

“That,” he said, ‘“‘ is something like.”

** Something like what ?”’ said I.

** A double row of these,” he said, ‘* with here and
there one of a different colour would never be equalled.”

I agreed with him sarcastically. ‘‘ Never,” said I,
“would they be equalled for utter hideousness. Far
be it from me,” I said, “to fill the hearts of my neigh-
bours with envy of this border.”

“You don’t care for them ? ”

“ Chuck it at him,”’ said the robin.

**T wouldn’t be seen dead in a path bordered with
flints,”’ I said.

More in sorrow than in anger he removed the offend-
ing flint, and we resumed work. The last time we had
used bricks for an edging they had all cracked with
the frost, so that idea was left alone. Not, of course,
that all bricks crack, but the bricks about here seem to
be very soft.

I asked if we had any tiles.

He knew of some tiles, a lot of them, nearly buried
in the earth and covered with Moss. They were an old
line running by the path inside the wall by the paddock ;
the path by the rubbish heap.

* But,” he said, having the rout of the flints in his
mind, “it would take a man all day to dig them up,
and scrape them and wash them, and then he couldn’t
say they would be any use when it was done. And
in a garden where an extra man. a

“JT will do it myself.”

225 2

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

* Fight it out,” said the robin.

More or less in silence, and really in excellent tempers,
we finished the trench that was to receive the cinders
and ashes.

I washed the tiles. There were exactly ninety of them
required. J started to wash them in the cold water
of a stable bucket, and I regarded each one as a thing
of beauty as I did it. After having done forty I began
to think it would be a good thing to give prisoners to do to
teach them discipline. After seventy, I decided to recom-
mend that particular form of torture to some Chinese
official, By the time I had finished I felt that some
medal should be struck to commemorate the event.

The gardener, at the close of that day, looked at my
heap of tiles.

I said, “‘ I have finished them.”’

He replied, ‘‘ I was just coming to lend a hand.”

To which, as I was not going to let the sun go down
upon my wrath, I answered, ‘‘ Thank you.”

I think an ash-heap is the most desolate object I
know. The dreary remains of burnt-out fires make a
melancholy sight, but I remember that as a child that
corner of the garden where stood the heaps of ashes
and ancient rubbish was as the mines of Eldorado to
me. Here, if one dug deeply enough, one found pieces
of broken pottery, in themselves equal, by power of
imagination, to any discovery of Roman remains. To
the whicened bones I found I gave names, building
from them adventures more lurid than those of Captain
Kydd. To the ashes I gave gold and jewels, delving
as if in a mine, sifting, with childlike seriousness, the
heap of fire slack, and coming on some bright bit of
glass that shone for me like a kingly diamond, I held it
to the light and renewed the ardour of my soul in its
gleaming rays. After all, are not pieces of broken glass

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GARDEN PATHS

as beautiful as many jewels if they are self-discovered
and lit by the light of joy ? That corner of the garden,
hidden by shrubs, by low-growing nut trees and shaded
by ancient Elms, has been for me the Forest of Arden,
of Sherwood, the deeps of the Jungle, an ambush, a
hiding-place, a tree covered island, each in its turn
absolutely satisfying to my mind. The sun’s rays
shooting down through the branches have found me
seated, dirty, dishevelled, but incomparably happy,—a
King with an ash heap for a throne.

To an ash heap, then, I repaired on the following
day, there to gather loads of cinders and slack for my
garden path. Already in my mind the Roses bloomed
by the path side; the tiles, evenly set, were leaned
against by blue-eyed Violas ; Carnations waved gorgeous
heads at my feet.

My friend the robin was there betimes and took upon
himself to sing a little song to cheer me. After that,
with his bright eyes glinting, he hopped upon the bed
and inspected my labours.

The gardener coming upon me glanced at the row
of neatly placed tiles.

‘** I’m glad I thought o’ they,” he said.

“ Hit him,” the robin chirruped.

* You think they look well ? ” said I.

“ As soon as I thought of they tiles,” he answered,
“ T knew I'd a thought of a grand thing.”

So he took all the idea to himself, and went on solemnly
pounding down the cinders with a heavy stone fastened
onto a stick.

And now the path is finished, and curves smooth and
sleek between the Rose trees, and answers firmly to
the tread. All day long I have been planting cuttings
of Violas alongside the path; and behind them are
rows of Carnations.

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I wonder who will walk upon my path in a hundred
years time, and if by then they, whoever they be,
will think our methods of gardening very old-fashioned
and odd. And I wonder if we shall seem at all quaint
to people who will come after us, and if our clothes will
be regarded as odd and wonderfully ugly.

Once, I remember, I saw into the past in such a vivid
way that I still feel as if I were living out of my date by
living now. It was on the occasion of some féte in the
country which was to be held in some big gardens.
Certain ladies were presiding over an entertainment that
set out to represent a series of Eighteenth Century
booths. The daughter of the house where I was stopping
had spent time, money, and taste in getting very accurate
and beautiful dresses of about 1745. They wore these,
_ powdered their hair, and placed patches on their cheeks,
and prepared baskets of lavender tied up in bundles to
sell at the fair.

I saw them one morning start for the place where the
fair was to be held. They came into the garden all dressed
and in white caps, and they walked arm-in-arm down a
path bordered with Pinks and overhung with Roses, and
the sun gleamed on their flowered gowns and on their
powdered hair. I could almost hear them say—“ La,
Mistress Barbara, but I protest it is a fine morning.”
There was nothing incongruous in sight, just these
walking flowers passing the banks of Roses, pink as their
cheeks, and the Pinks white as their powdered hair. I
felt at my side for my sword, and put up my hand to my
neck to smooth the fall of my lace ruffles, but, alas, nor
sword nor lace was there.

In the ordering of paths such as I have written there
are many ways, and some are for paths all of grass, and
some for tiles, and some for flags of stone, some for
gravel, and some for brick laid herring-bone ways,

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GARDEN PATHS

Fach has its proper and appointed place, as, for instance,
that flags of stone are proper by a balustrade where
are also stone jars to hold flowers and stone seats
arranged. And brick, which of all the others I most
prefer, as it is more warm to look at and helps the
garden by its rich colour, is good in intimate small gar-
dens as well as in big, and gives a feeling of cosiness to old-
fashioned borders, and is nice near to the house, and is
good to set tubs for trees on, or tubs filled with gay
flowers. Of grass paths, in that they are soft and inviting,
Tlike them well enough, but they are wet underfoot after
rain and dew, and need a deal of care and trimming ; but
in such cases as small set gardens with queer-shaped beds
and low Box borders, I mean bulb gardens, to be after-
wards used for carpet.bedding or for a show of some one
thing, as Begonias, or Zinnias, or Carnations, they are
without equal. They should be kept very precious, and
well free of weeds, otherwise their beauty is gone and
they have a lack-lustre air, very uncomfortable. As for
gravel, it is a good thing in place where the ground is low
and moist, for it will remain dry better than anything
if it is properly rolled and well made. Often it is not
properly curved and drained, and Moss and weeds collect
at the sides, whereby your garden will seem unkempt
and dull. Indeed the garden paths are of supreme im-
portance to the appearance of your garden, as if they be
left dirty, or covered with leaves or moss they will spoil
all the neat brightness of the flowers, and are apt to look
like an unbrushed coat on a man otherwise well dressed.
This is especially the case with broad paths and drives.
How often one has judged ofa gardener by the appear-
ance of his drive! The first glance from the gate up the
drive will give you a fair guess at the gardener and his
methods, and you can tell at once if he be a man of decent
and tidy habits, or a man to leave odd corners dirty and
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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

full of weeds. That last man is just such an one as will
burnish up his place on the eve of a garden party, and
give everything a lick and a promise, and will stand by
his greenhouses with an expression on his face of an holy
cherub when the visitors are being shown his stove plants.
That man will be for ever complaining of overwork and
will wear a face as long as a fiddle if he is asked pertinent
questions of unweeded paths. “ Such a work,” he will
say, ‘‘ should be done by an extra boy. As for me, am I
not by day and by night protecting the peas from the
birds, and the dahlias from earwigs, and the melons from
the ravages of slugs ?”” And you may know from this
that he is the type of man who loses grape scissors, and
who leaves bast about, and mislays his trowel, and
neglects to give water to your favourite plants, so that
they wither and die. No. . Look well that you get a
man who is fond of keeping himself clean, and he will
keep his paths clean, as is the case in a man I know who
started a fruit garden in the country. He, it was, who
showed me his men working on a Saturday afternoon at
cleaning up the paths. And when I stood amazed at this
he took me into the shed where the tools were kept, and
there I saw spades shining like silver, and forks burnished
wonderfully, and everything very orderly. I clapped
my hands, and looked round still in wonder, for I mar-
velled to see such neatness and order in a place that is the
shrine of disorder—as tool sheds, potting sheds, and the
like, which are a medley of stick, earth, leafmould, old
pricking-out boxes, tools, wire, and other miscellaneous
objects. And I marvelled still more to see through the
open door men at work—on the afternoon devoted to
holiday—picking leaves from the paths, and setting the
place in order.

I said, ‘‘ This is well done indeed.”

And he answered, that this was the secret of all good

230

GARDEN PATHS

gardening, pride and carefulness, and that now he had
shown them the way his men were so proud of their tool-
shed that they brought admiring friends to see it of a
Sunday afternoon. Then I knew if there was money
to be made growing fruit in England (which there is)
then this man would make it (which he does).

Now this talk of paths gives one the idea that people
do not here make enough of their paths, as the Japanese
do, for there they are skilled in small gardens, and
especially in landscape gardens on a tiny scale, making
little hills and woods, and views, lakes, streams, and rock
gardens in a space about the size of the average suburban
garden. Then they are very choice of trees, and value
the turning colour of Maples, and the droop of Wisteria,
and the shape and blossom of Plum and Cherry trees as
fine garden ornaments, while we grow our wonderful
lawns. Our lawns, indeed, are remarked by all the
world, and wherever you see the words “ English Gar-
dens ” abroad you will know that the people have made
a lawn and watered it, and are proud of its fat smcoth
surface of velvet. But we make the mistake, I think, of
growing forest trees on the edge of our lawns and do not
enough encourage the wonderful and beautiful varieties
of flowering shrubs that there be. Above all we seem to
have a passion for dank, black, lustreless Ivy, beloved only
of cats, spiders and snails. I have seen many beautiful
walls of stone and brick utterly destroyed and defaced
by ill-growing Ivy, where the bare walls would give a fine
warm background to our flowers.

The great thing in paths is to make them a little secret,
leading round trees to a fresh view, and interlacing them
in pretty and quaint ways, but we, a conservative people,
are ill-disposed to cut new paths except in new gardens,
and often leave badly designed paths for lack of a little
good courage. But we are learning by degrees, and I

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think the abominations of gardening are leaving us, such
as the monkey-puzzle tree in the centre of a round bed,
and the rows of half-moon beds cut by the side of our
lawns and filled with Geraniums and Lobelias, and the
rustic seat (horror !), and the rustic summer-house made.
of rough pieces of tree limbs badly nailed together
(horror of horrors !). Now we know more of the way to
make pergolas, and terraces, and how to build summer-
houses, and the curse of the Mid-Victorian gardening is
come to an end with the antimaccassar, and the wax
fruit under a glass case, and the sofa with horsehair
bolsters.

Of course, true gardening is the work and interest of a
lifetime, like the collecting of objects of Art, and as such
inspires much the same eager passion and healthy rivalry.
Therefore let the setting of your collection be as perfect
as possible, and those paths leading to the choice collec-
tions as fine as the velvet on which priceless enamels are
laid. Indeed enamel is a happy word, for what do
your flowers do but enamel the earth with their sweet
colours, and in pattern, choice, and variety, will surpass
all things made by man alone.

And here I take my leave of paths, that great subject
that should indeed be a book to itself, for if a man sit
down to think of paths he begins to follow one himself,
and, starting from the cradle, ends at the grave, or,
pursuing some path of history, comes into the broad high-
road of all learning, or looking up and observing the stars
finds a train of thought in following the path of a star.
in a garden path, or from it, he may meditate all these
things with right and proper circumstance of mind, for
he has flowers at his feet full of the meat of good things,
yare remembrancers of history, and exquisite things on
which to base a philosophy ; while, as for the stars, are
they not the Daisies of the Fields of Heaven ?

232

XIII
THE GARDENS OF THE DEAD

Ir is a beautiful custom that we put flowers on the
graves of our dead, and is more fraught with meaning
than many know, for it is as a symbol resurrection that
they are so placed, inasmuch as the flower that seems
to perish perishes only for a while but comes up again as
beautiful, and though it die into the soil it reappears all
fresh and lovely with no sign of the soil to mar its beauty.
But it is more beautiful to plant the graves of those we
lovewith flowers, as then we symbolise that they are alive
in our hearts and for ever flowering in our thoughts.
And the shadow of the church over them is but the
shadow of the wing of sleep. ll our lives, said a French
King, we are learning how to die; and when the time
comes we cannot help but think of that Garden of Sleep
where we must be placed along with other sleepers, there
to wait.

In England it has long been a habit to plant the more
melancholy trees and shrubs in churchyards, as Yew trees,
Myrtle, Bay, and the evergreen Oak. In this way a
sense of gloom was intended, much at variance with the
Christian doctrine that proclaims a victory over death.
But instead of this effect of sombreness the presence of
these evergreens gives an extraordinary air of quiet peace,
of something perpetually alive though at rest. Often
and often I have taken my bread and cheese into a coun-
try churchyard, and have sat down on the grass and

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THE CHARM OF GARDENS

leaned my back against some venerable monument, and
there lunched. I take it that this is no disrespect to the
dead, that the living should join company with them
even to the extent of spreading crumbs of bread over
their resting places. I take it that the smoke of a pipe
is no sacriligeous sight in the neighbourhood of tombs ;
for it is but a friendly spirit prompts it, and no violation
of the repose of these dead people. No; no more than
does the distant roar of the ship’s guns at practice dis-
turb these quiet souls.

In more than one churchyard there are the stocks
remaining where malefactors were placed, and so seated
were they that all the good folks passing in and out of
church were forced to pass, almost to touch the feet of
the wrongdoers as they trod the path to the porch. One
place I know in particular where the stocks remain, and a
goodly Yew tree having grown thick and strong behind
the seat forms a fine back to lean against. From here I
have surveyed the landscape over the tops of grey old
tombs, now all aslant over the heads of the sleepers.
Here the squire of 1640 rests facing the Cornfields once he
cut and sowed and stacked. There a lady, Christabel by
name, faces the flagged walk to the stone porch. There
is grass over them now, and the merriest Daisies grow,
and Moss covers the laughing cherubims, and Lichen has
crept into the words that set forth their marvellous
number of virtues. Spring comes here just as it comes
to other gardens, and the trees bud just as daintily, and
the young grass is every bit as green, and the first Crocus
lights his lamp, and the Dandelion flares as bravely with
his crown of gold.

There are these quaint quiet churchyards over the
length and breadth of England, where the dead lie so
comfortably under the fresh English grass. Some
are full of flowers planted by loving hands; Roseg

234

A CHURCHYARD IN THE COTSWOLDS.

THE GARDENS OF THE DEAD

grow beside the church and shower their petals over the
grey stones of the tombs, and Spring flowers have been
set in the grass to nod beside the headstones sleepily.
Others are bare and bleak, standing exposed to wind and
weather on a hillside, with stone walls about them, and a
church buffeted by every storm ; yet these are sometimes
most peaceful gardens, and Ling and Gorse scent the air,
and twisted Fir trees, and gnarled old Pines, all leaning
over, wind-bent, stand guard over the sleepers ; bees busy
in the heather, lizards green as emeralds, and the bright
butterflies give the feeling of incessant life; they give
that glorious feeling that the great pulse still beats;
that Nature all alive is yet at one with the dead.

The gardener of these our dead, what a queer man is
he! What a peculiar profession he follows! To bury
is but to plant the dead that they may flower into that
new life. And he is usually a humorous character, a
man of well-chosen words who surveys his garden of
headstones and has a word for each. He is no respecter
of persons, since in the tomb all are equal, and to see him
at work preparing a fresh place for burial is to think that
the gravedigger’s work is no melancholy task. In the
heat of summer, half buried in the grave himself, he sings
some old catch as he shovels up the earth. “ Poor little
lamb,” he may say of a dead child ; “‘ well, thee’ll bide
here against our Lord wants ’e.”

I have seen such a man, his clothes brown with grave
earth, a Daisy between his lips (something to mumble,
as he does not smoke on duty), and watched his face as
the lytchet gate clicks. His daughter, a flower herself,
is bringing his dinner, which he eats cheerfully leaning
against one side of the grave for support. This, with a
thrush singing somewhere, and the wheeze of the church
clock, and the frivolous screams of swifts make death a

comfortable picture.
235 ‘ 2G2

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

Here we have Nature triumphant, the Earth with her
children asleep in her lap. But a monstrosity has crept
into our graveyards—God’s Gardens—and in place of
flowers with their joy, their symbolical message of resur-
rection, one sees ghastly things of bead work and of wax,
enclosed in hideous glass cases with a mourning card in
the centre of them. This is not seemly nor decent in a
place where the Earth reclaims her children, where no-
thing ugly should be. It is within the reach of everyone
to buy fresh flowers and to renew those flowers from
time to time, and they should be left, if they are placed
there, to die. Away then with glass jam-jars filled with
water, with bead wreaths, and all ill-taste and hideous
distortion of grief, and let us have our offerings made as
if to the living, for our dead live in our hearts, nor torture
them with horrid and distressing objects on their graves.
I would have every churchyard a garden kept by the
pence of those who have laid their dead there to rest ;
and I would have flowers and shrubs planted and paths
made, and seats placed, so that all should be kept fair and

__ bright.

In Switzerland, where I was once, I saw the most
delightful graveyard I have ever seen. The church
stood on a bluff overlooking a river, a swift running noisy
river that sang songs of the mountains and of the big
fields and of the bustling towns, a dashing river alive
with music, loving the sound of its own voice. Above
was this church and its yard, and a little below, the vil-
lage. The church was low-built and old, with a wooder
tower on which a cock stood guard ; and it was white-
washed, and toned by sun and rain, and a clock in the
tower marked the passage of time, solemnly, “‘ tick-tock ;
tick-tock.” Along the south wall outside the chureh was
a bench, and a Wisteria over the bench, and a little jut-
ting roof over the Wisteria. This bench, time-worn as all

236

THE GARDENS OF THE DEAD

else was time-worn (as the wall was polished by several
generations of backs), faced the graveyard. If you sat on
this bench you might take a glance at a man’s life there
in one long look, for there was a mill near by, and an Inn,
and a shoemaker’s, and a forge—the blacksmith was the
undertaker, too, any one could see from the fact that he
was making a coffin. Besides these you could see moun-
tains covered with snow and wreathed in clouds; great
stretches of country, a wood, and the river. What more
can there be, saving only a sight of the sea ?

But what struck me most forcibly was the appearance
of the graveyard, for each grave had flowers growing by
it, and a little weeping willow planted to hang over it,
and there was something so pleasant to me in this that I
was filled with delight of the place as I sat there. It was
a real garden, so fresh and bright with flowers and with
ugly bead-wreaths as are so usual in foreign countries,
and now, alas! in our own. And it was so homely to
think of the elders of that place who sat looking at the
graves and meditating—very likely—on the spot where
they themselves would lie. I remembered then, as I sat
there, the description of the graveyard in David Copper-
field, and the words came almost exact into my head.

“ One Sunday night my mother reads to Peggotty and
me in there, how Lazarus was raised from the dead.
And I am so frightened that they are afterwards obliged
to take me out of bed, and show me the quiet churchyard
out of the bedroom window, with the dead all lying in
their graves at rest, below the solemn moon.

“‘ There is nothing half so green that I know anywhere
as the grass of that churchyard ; nothing half so shady
as its trees ; nothing half so quiet as its tombstones. The
sheep are feeding there, when I kneel up, early in the
morning, in my little bed in a closet within my mother’s
room, to look out at it ; and I see the red light shining on

237

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

the sun-dial, and think within myself, ‘Is the sun-dial
glad, I wonder, that it can tell the time again ?’ ”

Even as I remembered those words I looked up and
noticed a sun-dial on the wall of the church just over my
head, and, curiously enough, just that peace that those
words give to me seemed to come to me from the sight of
the sun-dial, and the repose of the scene before me.

It is good, I think, to meditate on these things, and all
who garden, who are, as it were, in touch with the soil,
must sometimes let their thoughts linger over the other
gardens where the dead are, and where Spring comes as
blithely as in any other spot.

Although the gardens that are what are called ‘‘ show-
places,” tended and nursed by a staff of men, do not
bring one into such close contact with earth as earth, still
in the greater garden is a peace no other place knows but
the graveyard. This is no morbid thought, nor over
introspective, but, I think, makes me feel more sanely
and not so fearfully of death. In the same way do the
poor keep their grave clothes ready and neat in a drawer,
with pennies sewn up in linen to put over their tired eyes,
and everything decent for the putting away of their
bodies. So does the wood of trees enclose them, and
good and polished wood in the shape of coffin-stools is
there to bear them up. And I have heard many talk of
how they wished to lie facing the porch of the church ;
and others who wished they might be near by the gate so
that folks.passing in and out might remember them.

This may seem a subject not quite fitted to a book
which is to tell of the Charm of Gardens, and yet I am
sure lovers of gardens will know just what I mean. To
think of and know of the peace and beauty of certain
graveyards is to gain consolation and quietude such as
the knowledge and thought of all beauty gives. What a
wonderful thing it is that we can paint the earth with

238

AUTUMN COLOURS AT BONCHURCH OLD CHURCH, NEAR VENTNOR.

THE GARDENS OF THE DEAD

flowers, set here crimson, and there orange, here purple,
and there blue; range our colours from white to cream, to
deep cream, to all the shades of all the colours, to deep
impenetrable purple, more black than black, like the
dusky eyes of anemonies.

When it is night, and “the dead all lying in their
graves at rest, below the solemn moon,” the thousand
thousand Daisies of the fields have closed their eyes, and
the Buttercups’ golden glaze is mellowed by the moon-
light, still there are flowers gay in the sunshine some-
where in the world. Though the garden is chequered in
the blue-green light and heavy shadows, and the owls
hoot in their melancholy voices, still there are birds some-
where in the world singing. And though, across the way
behind the wall, white in the moonlight, lies the dark
churchyard, and all is very still there, still, I think, they,
whose names are carved there on the stones, are not in
the dark, and do not know the damp and mouldy earth,
but are somewhere in some world more light and beauti-
ful than this.

The solemnity of this type of thought is seldom given
to me by flowers; it is more the breath of trees, and the
deep places of a wood, that gives one this feeling of hush
and peace. Flowers are gay, stately, exuberant,
simple, but always joyous, as witness the pert question-
ing faces of Pansies, and the languorous droop of Roses,
the stately propriety of Lilies, the romantic splendour of
purple Clematis, and the passionate beauty of the
coloured Anemonies. In a garden are all moods, from
that given by a school of white Pinks, to the masterly
exactitude of the Red-Hot Poker, or the limpid and very
virginal appearance of Lavender. Youth itself comes in
full blood with the blossom on fruit trees; the slim
elegance of childhood with the Narcissus and the Daffodil.
Daintiness herself is in Columbine ; maidenly virtue is in

239

THE CHARM OF GARDENS

the hang-head Snowdrop. Zinnias have the melodious
colours of the East ; Jasmine and Honeysuckle hold the
spirit of the porch. Sweet Peas, all laughing and chatter-
ing, are like a bevy of young girls ; while the proud Hya-
cinth, erect up his stem, his hair tight curled, his breath
strong and sweet, is to me like some hero of the days of
‘William of Orange, a hero in a curled full-bottomed wig.
The Iris has the poetry of river banks ; the Sunflower
peering over a cottage garden wall, spells rustic ease.
Fuschias I count very Victorian, like ladies in crinolines ;
Geraniums also are prim and most polite. Wallflowers
I place as gipsy-like, a scent somehow of the wind on the
road ; while the Snapdragons have a military spirit and
grow in brightly uniformed regiments. Carnations are
courtiers, elegant, superbly dressed, yet with a refine-
ment all their own ; and Larkspurs, like charity schools
of children, all dressed alike and out for a walk, on the
tall stalk. Primulas, deep-coloured or pale, I feel some-
how to be the flowers of memory ; and Sweet Sultans are
like Scots lords in foreign clothes. There are a hundred
others, all with some little fanciful meaning to those who
grow them, but all, I think, are full of joy ; no flower is
sad. It is the trees, the voices whispering in whose
leaves bring deeper thoughts.

There are those who say that happiness would come
could we but find the Blue Rose ; and others that there
are places one must need find like El Dorado ; and others
that a magic charm will bring us the joy we desire. They
are all wrong. Happiness lies in the Rose at your hand,
El Dorado is at your door, the magic charm !—listen,
there is a thrush singing.

THE END

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND

OTHER BEAUTIFUL BOOKS
ON FLOWERS & GARDENS

EACH CONTAINING FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
fo
THE FLOWERS AND

GARDENS OF JAPAN

Painted by ELLA DU CANE
Described by FLORENCE DU CANE

Containing 50 full-page Illustrations in Colour. Square demy 8vo, cloth.
Price 20s. net. Now offered at ros. net.

Notge.—Japan has often been called the Land of Flowers, and to judge from the
beautiful illustrations in this volume, it is aptly named. The artist may be said toh ve
given us a diary of the year’s flowers from the opening of the first plum blossom to the
falling of the last maple leaf, and all are depicted in their nitural surroundings. The
illustrations also include flowering trees amid old temples, charming landscape gardens,
flower feasts, and many natural scenes of great beauty. The author, who has spent two
floral seasons in the country, not only gives an attractive description of the flowers as
they appeal to the eye of the foreigner, but has also collected and reproduced in the
book many of the native legends which show that sentiment and tradition play a large
part in the feelings with which the Japanese regard their flowers.

“This ‘gardening’ book is one of the most fascinating that has ever been published,
and is worthy of its most fascinating title.” —Morning Post,

‘‘ A charming volume, one of the most satisfactory of its kind that has appeared for
some time.”’—Pall Mall Gasette.

“The book has the best account we have seen anywhere of the way in which
Japanese gardens, including the landscape garden, are planned, planted, and made
effective.’’—Outlook.

THE FLOWERS AND
GARDENS OF MADEIRA

Painted by ELLA DU CANE
Described by FLORENCE DU CANE

Containing 24 full-page Illustrations in Colour. Square demy 8vo, cloth.
Price 7s. 6d. net.

«.—From the title of this volume it will be seen that it is not intended asa
gittebaok one island. Its aim isto help those lovers of flowers who are fortunate
enough to spend a winter in Madeira to appreciate the very varied vegetation of that~ . .
flowery land. From the author’s description of the’ never-ending succession of floral
treasures, it would appear to be perpetual summer in that favoured island, while the
so-called winter is almost the best time of year to see the gorgeous creepers for which

ira has long been famous. :
ae siiueieations suggest warmth, sunshine, and flowers, and should tempt many a

cold grey skies of an English winter, and spend his time
eet tena, ave ie fhe sacceasion of dowering trees, shrubs, and plants
which are gathered together from every part of the New and Old World.
“A charming book... . The coloured illustrations are not only instructive, but
gems of their kind .... Should be in every library.” —Garden.
“No one knows better than Miss Du Cane how to paint flowers.” —Standard,

A, & C, BLACK, LTD, « « 4 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE . . LONDON, W. 1, 0 4

x.

ROYAL PALACES AND GARDENS

By MIMA NIXON, Author of “Dutch Bulbs and Gardens”
With an Introductory Essay by DION CLAYTON CALTHROP

Containing 60 full-page Illustrations in Colour. Small crown quarto, cloth.
Price 20s. net.

‘' Sixty charming pictures of bits of the gardens of the palaces in all the countries of
Europe are reproduced in admirable colour plates in the illustrations to this handsome
volume. .. . Each picture has a long and readable note of its own that tells something
interesting about its subject. The pictures themselves are endlessly varied, and always
both pleasing and characteristic. . . . They are composed with a good sense of the charm
of a stately garden, and will please both lovers of a fine picture and those who like to see
fine flowers displayed at their best.” —Scotsman,

GARDENS OF THE GREAT MUGHALS
By Mrs. C, M. VILLIERS STUART

Containing 40 full-page Illustrations, 16 of them in Colour, also 8 Ground Plans.
Demy 8vo, cloth.
Price 12s. 6d. net.

‘‘ A most attractive and interesting book. ... This book is well worth reading, not
only by those who know India and love gardens, but by all students and practical workers
who would understand the relation and interdependence of the two crafts of architecture
and gardening. '’—-Times,

“The fragrance of the East and the glamour of past magnificence are brought to the
readers of Mrs. C. M. Villiers Stuart’s charming volume, and the many coloured plates
give an intimacy which mere letterpress is idle to suggest.'"—Review of Reviews,

THE GARDEN THAT I LOVE
Containing 16 full-page Illustrations in Colour by GEO. S. ELGOOD, R.I,

Square demy 8vo, cloth.
Price 7s. 6d. net, Now offered at 38. od.

From THE AUTHOR’s INTRODUCTION TO THIS EpitIon, ‘* What!’’ said Lamia.
«* Another Illustrated Edition !’’

"'T believe so,” I replied, trying to look as meek as I could, but betraying, I fear,
that special kind of hesitation which proceeds less from conscious guilt than from

embarrassment,
“« Have you consulted Veronica?” she asked. ‘' If you have, Iam sure she must have

informed you ‘The Garden that I Love’ will soon be as hard to put up with as the

Fiscal Question.”’ ng
Despite the opinions of Lamia and Veronica the publishers believe that this edition

will be welcomed by many who have read the book with pleasure, but have never had an
opportunity of seeing the beauty of the Garden itself,

“The illustrations are worthy of the book, which is ene of the most charming
books about a garden in the language.’’—Datly Chronicle,

“This sumptuous edition will enhance the appreciation even of this much appre-
ciated book.”’—Aberdeen Free Press,

i

A, & ©, BLACK, LTD. . . 4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE . . LONDON, W. 2.

THE HERB GARDEN

Painted by the Hon, FLORENCE AMHERST and Miss ISABELLE
FORREST

Text by FRANCES A. BARDSWELL

Containing 16 full-page Illustrations in Colour, Square demy 8vo, cloth.
Price 7s. 6d. net. Now offered at 3s. od.

‘Of course, Miss Bardswell is an enthusiast, but she is practical also. She tells how
and where to grow the hundred and one familiar old friends, and gives charm by recalling
the other hundred and one which we had nearly forgotten, and some of which have now
become rare, ... In truth, our author has done the herb garden a noble service by this
book, and made all good gardeners her debtors,''"—Daily Chronicle,

HIGHWAYS AND HEDGES
Painted by BERENGER BENGER
Text by HERBERT A. MORRAH

Containing 20 full-page Illustrations in Colour, Square demy 8vo, cloth.
Price 7s. 6d. net. Now offered at 3s, od.

‘The delicacy of Mr. Benger’s charming water-colour sketches, particularly those of
the early spring, has been so happily reproduced by the printer that merely to turn over
the plates would prove refreshment and delight to any country lover. Mr, Morrah has
written round these charming pictures with a quiet and delicate sense of their elusive grace
and their power to set in motion far-reaching currents of thought and fancy. ... There
is a sort of blend of Maeterlinck and Emerson in Mr. Morrah’s disquisitions, which in its
way is as soothing as the visions of Mr, Benger’s brush,’'—Yorkshire Post.

PLANT LIFE
By the Rev. CHAS, A. HALL, F.R.MLS.

Containing 50 full-page Illustrations in Colour by C. F, NEWALL, and
24 page Illustrations from Photographs

Square demy 8vo, cloth.
Price 20s. net. Now offered at ros.

A clearly written account of plants from the simplest microscopic forms to the most
highly organized flowering plants. Technical terms are avoided as far as possible, those
which the author is compelled to use being fully explained and led up to in a natural and
easy fashion. It is scientific without being ‘dry,’ and it is literature as well as science.
Any intelligent reader will, after a perusal of this work, have a general grasp of the

principles of botany,

A, & G, BLACK, LTD, , 1 4, § & 6 BOHO SQUARR , , LONDON, W 3,

GARDENS OF ENGLAND
Painted by BEATRICE PARSONS
Described by E. T. COOK

Containing 20 full-page Illustrations in Colour, Square demy 8vo, cloth,
Price 7s, 6d. net. Now offered at 3s. od.

NorE.—“‘Gardens of England” does not follow the conventional lines of recent
works, but is descriptive of the modern development of the love of picturesque horti-
culture. All who have a love of the garden and the country in their hearts are aware of
and welcome the intense interest that has been slowly asserting itself in this fair land of
ours, and this, surely, is of physical advantage to the race. In this book the sketches
show the beauty of the modern rose garden when planned with taste, the flood of colour
that comes from rambling roses over the pergola, and the brilliancy of the herbaceous
border in summer. The text follows the same lines, and, as indicating the character of
the book, there are chapters on ‘‘Cottage Gardens,” ‘Rosemary and Lavender,” “The
Rose Garden,” and the four seasons in the garden. ;

“A book of very great value. . . . Highly deserving of a place in the country-house.
. .. It is instinct with the spirit of the garden, and no one could turn its leaves, or look
at the pictures, without obtaining many a hint that could be put to practical purpose.”
—Country Life.

“Miss Parson’s pictures are almost fragrant, so truly does she realise the atmosphere
of her subjects, The volume is one which the garden lover .. . will find full of delight.”
—Truth,

ALPINE FLOWERS |
AND GARDENS

Painted and Described by G. FLEMWELL

Containing 20 full-page Illustrations in Colour, Square demy 8vo, cloth.
Price 7s. 6d. net. Now offered at 3s. od.

Note.—This is an attempt to present, in word and picture, a broad and general
view of the Swiss Alpine flora in its wild home and in the gardens established for it in
the Alps. It is an attempt to break away from the mass of specialist literature on the
subject, and to depict, not merely something of the floral wonders themselves, but some-
thing also of the unique and fascinating atmosphere which surrounds them—something
which will appeal both to those who know the Alps and to those who know only of
them. To quote from the Preface contributed by Mr. Henry Correvon, one of the
greatest living authorities on Alpine plants: ‘‘The Alpine flora has never yet been
described or offered to the public at the angle at which it is here presented tous. Here,
then, is a profoundly original work which lovers of beauty and truth cannot but applaud.

“Mr. Flemwell’s paintings will at once attract those who open this book, for he has
accomplished with singular skill the difficult task of making the Alpine air breathe
round Alpine flowers. And lovers of Alpland who do not look for a specialist technical
work on the flowers will be pleased with his letterpress, which, though botanical lore is
not lacking, studies them from rather a new angle.’ —Times.

PUBLISHED BY A. & C, BLACK, LTD.
4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1.

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