GARDENS

In the charming essay called ‘Caxtoniana’ there is a passage on gardens

which is supremely true, and which reminds us that whoever has a garden

has one chamber roofed by heaven in which the poet and philosopher can

feel at home. This passage was written beside a bay-window opening on

the stately and beautiful gardens of the great author’s home: to few is

it given to possess such; but of any garden a certain little kingdom may

be made, be it only green enough and well removed from city noise. Even

within cities, little gardens, such as may be seen in the Faubourg St

Martin and the Marais, where the population is poorest and densest, may

be charmingly pretty, and a great solace to those who care for and look

on them; and it is these little nooks and corners of gardens which give

so much of its joyous and glad aspect to the whole of Paris. The great

beauty of Rome (now since the Italian occupation irrevocably destroyed)

was in the gardens; the shadowy, noble, antique gardens, with the

embalmed breath of the past on their air, and the eternal youth of their

flowers running wild over funeral sepulchre and fortress wall. It is

their gardens which make the ancient cities and towns of Belgium so full

of repose, of friendliness, of the calm of Nature and the romance of

history. Public gardens, like public parks, may be beautiful, useful,

health-giving, pleasure-giving; but still they must ever be public

gardens: it is the private gardens, the green places dedicated to

thought and to affection, which alone are lovable, and which alone make

a home possible, even amidst the network of crowded streets.

It would be difficult for a Thoreau or a Wordsworth, for Alfred Austin

or for Alphonse Karr, to find much pleasure in a public garden even

historic as that of the Luxembourg, wondrous as those of the East, or

beautiful as that of the Borghese in Rome or the English garden of

Munich. Wherever intrusion is possible, and any movement other than that

of birds is heard, we have no garden in the fullest, sweetest sense of

the word. The lover of his garden is inevitably and essentially

exclusive. He must be so, or the magic charm of his domain is gone. It

may be a tiny plot fenced round by a privet or box hedge, or it may be

stately pleasaunces walled in by clipped yew and gay terraces; but it

must be his alone; his to wander in, to cherish, to dream through,

undisturbed. A public garden is a valuable pleasure-ground for a city;

but is no more a garden ‘roofed by heaven,’ in Bulwer-Lytton’s sense of

the word, than life in a hotel and at a _table d’hôte_ is a home.

Gardens tend sadly to become more and more artificial with the

ever-increasing artificiality of an age which, whilst demanding nature

from its art and literature, becomes itself, with every breath it draws,

farther and farther removed from nature. The great gardens of great

houses in England, esteemed the finest gardens in the world, are spoiled

for those who love them by the innumerable gardeners, by the endless and

overdone sweeping and cleaning and clipping and pruning. A garden, like

a woman may be too neat, too stiff, too _tiré à quatre éping les_. The

remorseless brooms and barrows in autumn trundle away all the lovely

carpet of golden and crimson leaves, and deprive the nightingales, when

they come in spring, of their favourite and most necessary retreat.

Sweep the paths, if you will, though even they need not be swept as

smooth as a billiard-table; but to sweep and clear away the leaves from

under the shrubberies, and from about the roots of trees, is a fatal

error, most destructive to the trees themselves.

‘Corisande’s garden,’ in ‘Lothair,’ is the ideal garden; and it is

pathetic to think that, as an ideal, it was given to the world by one

esteemed of all men the coldest and most world-hardened. But Disraeli

had a warm and enduring devotion to flowers in his nature, and their

loveliness and innocence and ‘breath of heaven’ never failed to touch

the soul which slumbered behind that glittering, artificial, and

merciless intelligence. He rightly abhorred the elaborately-patterned

beds, the dazzling assorted colours, the formal mosaic of hues, in which

the modern gardener delights. All the sweet-smelling, and what are now

called old-fashioned, flowers are hustled out of the way by the

bedding-out system and the present craze for geometrical arrangement.

Numbers of delicious flowers which were dear to the heart of Herrick,

fragrant, homely, kindly, hardy things, have been banished almost out of

all knowledge, that the pelargonium, the dahlia, the calceolaria, the

coleus, and various other scentless but fashionable flowers may fill

group and border. It is a mistake. Even the petunia and the dwarf

datura, though so sweet at sunset, cannot give such fragrance as will

yield the humble favourites of yore—the musk-plants, the clove-pinks,

the lavender, the lemon-thyme, the moss-rose, the mignonette, and many

another sweet and simple plant which is rarely now seen out of cottage

gardens.

Educated taste will spend large sums of money on odontozlossom, catleyia

and orchid, whilst it will not glance perhaps once in a lifetime at the

ruby spots on the cowslip bells and the lovely lilac or laburnum flowers

blowing in a wild west wind. It will be a sorry day for the flowers and

the nation when the cottage gardens of England disappear and leave the

frightful villa garden and the painfully mathematical allotment field

alone in their stead. An English cottage, such as Creswick and

Constable, as old Crome and David Cox saw and knew them, and as they may

still be seen, with roses clambering to the eaves, and bees humming in

the southern-wood and sweetbriar, and red and white carnations growing

beside the balsam and the dragon’s-mouth, is a delicious rural study

still linked, in memory, with foaming syllabub and ruddy cherries, and

honey-comb yellow as amber, and with the plaintive bleating of new-born

lambs sounding beyond the garden coppice. Who that knows England has not

some such picture—nay, a hundred such pictures—in his recollection?

And it is in these gardens that Shakespeare’s, Milton’s, Ben Jonson’s

‘posies’ may still be gathered; every flower and floweret of them still

known by such names as Ophelia and Perdita gave them. Even in winter

they are not wholly dreary or colourless; for there are their

holly-bushes, their hellebore, their rosethorn, their hepatica, and

their snowdrops to enliven them. In these times, when all the ‘realism’

of the lives of the poor is considered to lie in squalor, famine, crime,

drunkenness, and envy, it is pleasant to know that such cottage gardens

as these are still extant, though no longer frequent, in the land of

Shakespeare and Ben Jonson; and that often, behind the door where the

climbing white rose mounts to meet the thatch, there are still good

humour, thrift, cheerfulness and cleanliness to be found in company with

that manly content in existing circumstances which is the only form of

durable happiness or solid virtue.

Children should never be allowed to pluck flowers, even in the fields

and hedges, merely to throw them aside; they should be early taught

reverence for this floral beauty which is around them, and never be

permitted wantonly to break down boughs and branches, or fill their laps

with buttercups and daisies only to leave them withered in the sun,

discarded and forgotten. To teach the small child to care for flowers,

to place them tenderly in water when gathered, and cherish them

carefully in his nursery, is not only to give him a valuable moral

lesson, but to lead him also to a taste and feeling which will give him,

when he grows to manhood, many glad and innocent hours, and render him

thoughtful and sympathetic when he deals with those sensitive

plants,—the souls of women.

A love for flowers indicates the quickness for imagination and the

delicacy of sentiment of those in whom it is strong. It will also be

almost always accompanied by a feeling for all other kinds of natural

beauty and woodland life. It would be difficult to love the rose without

loving the nightingale, or cherish the hawthorn without caring for the

thrushes that build in it. The fatal tendency of modern life is to

replace natural by artificial beauty, where beauty is not driven out of

the way altogether. Every child who is led to feel the loveliness of the

water-lily lying on the green pond-water, or of the wild hyacinth

growing in the home-wood grasses, will, as he grows up, lend his

influence and his example to the preservation of all rural and sylvan

loveliness.

In the great world, and in the rich world, flowers are wasted with

painful prodigality. The thousands and tens of thousands of flowers

which die to decorate a single ball or reception are a sad sight to

those who love them. ‘The rooms look well to-night,’ is the utmost that

is ever said after all this waste of blossom and fragrance. It is waste,

because scarcely a glance is bestowed on them, and the myriad of roses

which cover the walls do not effectively make more impression on the eye

than the original silk or satin wall-hanging which they momentarily

replace. Growing plants may be used in thousands for decoration without

waste, but the inordinate display of cut flowers is a pitiable

destruction of which scarcely one guest in fifty is sensible. In bowls

and baskets and jars, cut flowers can live out their natural space; but

nailed on walls, or impaled on wires, they are soon faded and yellow,

and the ballroom in the morning is as melancholy a parable of the

brevity of pleasure as any moralist could desire.

Church decoration is not a whit better; flowers are wantonly sacrificed

to it, and in the winter the birds are starved through it for need of

the evergreen berries torn down in woods and gardens to adorn the altars

of men. The numbers of dead birds found in frost and snow on moor and

field have increased enormously with the increase in church decoration.

A sheaf of grain hung up for the seed-eating birds in winter, with some

trays of meal-worms put on the ground for the insectivorous birds, would

be a more useful form of piety than the cartload of branches and the

garlands of berries given to church and cathedral.

The young should be led to cherish their flowers as wisely as, and more

tenderly than, they cherish their gold and silver pieces in their

money-boxes. The exquisite beauty of even the humblest blossom can only

be appreciated by the eyes which gaze on it with attention and

affection. If the wild thyme, or the shepherd’s-purse, or the

cuckoo’s-eye, or any one of the tiny blossoms of the sward and the

hedge-row were but as rare as sapphires are, the whole world would

quarrel for them; but Nature has sown these little treasures broadcast

with lavish hand, and scarcely any one is grateful. A single flower, if

taken care of in winter, will gladden the eyes of an invalid or cripple

for days; with care and thought for it a bunch of cut flowers, if cut at

sunrise with the dew upon them, will live the week out in water in any

cool weather; but these lovely, joy-giving things are wasted with the

most reckless indifference.

Botany may be well in its way; but incomparably better is the practical

knowledge of how to make flowers grow, and infinitely better still is

the tenderness which turns aside not to tread on the wild flower in the

path, not to needlessly disturb the finch’s nest in the blossoming

broom. Of all emotions which give the nature capable of it the purest

and longest-lived pleasure, the sense of the beauty of natural things is

the one which costs least pain in its indulgence, and most refines and

elevates the character. The garden, the meadow, the wood, the orchard,

are the schools in which this appreciative faculty is cultured most

easily and enjoyably. Dostoïevsky may find food for it on the desolate

steppe, and Burns in the dreary ploughed furrow; but to do this, genius

must exist in the man who feels: it is to the ordinary sensibilities,

the medium mind, the character which is malleable, but in no way

unusual, that this training of the eye and of the heart is necessary:

and for this training there is no school so happy and so useful as a

garden.

All children, or nearly all, take instinctive delight in gardens: it is

very easy to make this delight not merely an instinctive, but an

intelligent one; very easy to make the arrival of the first crocus, the

observation of the wren’s nest in the ivy hedge, of the perennial

wonders of frost and of sunshine, of the death and the resurrection of

Nature, of the deepest interest to a young mind athirst for marvels.

Then what greater joy and triumph does the world hold than these of the

child gardener with his first bouquet of roses, his first basket of

water-cress, his first handful of sweet peas! His garden, if he be

taught to care for it in the right way, will be an unceasing happiness

to him; he will not grudge the birds a share of his cherries, for he

will value too well the songs they sing to him; he will breathe in the

fresh home balm of the dewy sweet herbs, the wet flower borders, and he

will draw in health and vigour with every breath; and if he reads his

fairy stories and his lays of chivalry under the blossoming limes,

poetry and history will keep for him in all after time something of his

first garden’s grace, something of the charm of a summer playtime.

If we did not know it as a fact, we should infer from the whole tenor of

the verse of Tennyson that green old gardens, deep in their shade and

placid in their beauty, had been about him all his life from infancy.

The garden is a little pleasaunce of the soul, by whose wicket the world

can be shut out from us. In the garden something of the Golden Age still

lingers; in the warm alleys where the bees hum above the lilies and the

stocks, in the blue shadows where the azure butterflies look dark, in

the amber haze where the lime leaves and the acacia flowers wave

joyously as the west wind passes.

The true lover of a garden counts time and seasons by his flowers. His

calendar is the shepherd’s calendar. He will remember all the events of

his years by the trees or plants which were in blossom when they

happened. ‘The acacias were in flower when we first met,’ or ‘the

hawthorns were in blossom when we last parted,’ he will say to himself,

if not to others; and no lovers are happier, or more spiritually in love

than those whose sweetest words have been spoken in a garden, and who

have fancy and feeling enough to associate their mute companions in

memory with their remembered joys. No love can altogether die which

comes back upon remembrance with every golden tuft of daffodil or every

garland of growing honeysuckle. It is the garden scene in ‘Faust,’ it is

the garden scene in ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ which embody passion in its

fullest and its fairest hours.