PART IV

GARDEN MOODS

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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 Committees 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.

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 Piccadilly 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, these

flower-women, untidy, with a screw of hair twisted up under a battered

hat of black straw, with faded shawls 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 buttonholes are stuck.

And they have wonderful contrivances 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 appear from their words that every

flower in their baskets is but just picked, or only that second from the

market. 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.

[Illustration: AZALEAS IN BLOOM, ROTTEN ROW.]

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 æsthetic appeal.

Your true flower-lover will search as carefully among their baskets for

the object of his desire as will the collector the musty curiosity shops

for prizes for his collection. There comes the time when the first

Snowdrops, 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 suspicion 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,

Traveller’s Joy, many kinds of Honeysuckle, Passion Flower, Tulip Tree,

many kinds of Cherry and Plum Trees bearing 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

„ Flexuosam

„ Brachypoda aurea

„ Serotinum

„ Belgicum

Besides these, pink and white Brambles, Meadowsweet, Weigela, and

Rhododendrons all grow fairly easily.

One of the first sights the traveller notices on approaching 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 sunflowers, the

very next will show borders full of all varieties 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

proportion to their size. The man who can come home to a 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 influence 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 beginning. 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 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 alternately in the

front gardens. To each house an Almond and a May. I had waited eagerly,

determining by some fantastic 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

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 arranging a surprise for the street.

The next event of notice in the street was the appearance 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 efforts.

To-day I am certain of a pleasant walk, and can 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 Metropolitan Public Gardens

Association, give in their statement for 1907 a list of their window

garden competitions for that year. One sees that many of the poorer

parts of London have taken the idea, and this note I quote from South

Hackney shows the result: “Twelve entries. Eight prizes of the total

amount of One Pound, Ten 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 appearance 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 draws attention to Kensington Gardens

in the following words:

“I shall take notice of that part in the upper gardens at

Kensington, which was at first nothing but a Gravel Pit. It must

have been a fine Genius for gardening, 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.”

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 Complacency 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 undoubtedly 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 directions. 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 considerable 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 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 belong 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 roots of

trees. And then there are the children. It is they who are the sweetest

flowers of the town gardens.

[Illustration: IN HYDE PARK.]

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 children 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

wonderful 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 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 disadvantages, but it certainly gives

one æsthetic 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 washing 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

Of 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 process 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 especially the beauty of

hedges.

Are there sights in any garden more beautiful than the Almond tree and

the Peach tree in blossom, or the sweet trailing Sweetbriar? Bacon would

have us notice these, make a feast of these. Also he recommends 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 Marjoram.

“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 leaves 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 somewhat afar off.

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

“But those which perfume the air most delightfully, 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. I 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 attractive. But

of all these the garden holds one perfume more delicious, a scent that,

to me at least, is the Queen of Garden scents 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 beautiful, 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 graveyard 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 with elm planks.

As I passed by the son was making a coffin out in the middle of the road

on trestles. Looking 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 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 interest, for the wind comes and picks them up

and whirls them right up into the air in all sorts of amazing dances and

games.

[Illustration: THE SEAT BENEATH THE OAK IN THE POET LAUREATE’S GARDEN.]

In the Winter one last beauty comes. The day has been leaden,

sad-coloured, bitterly cold. All the cabmen 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 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 of a lawn. 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 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 powdered

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

gentlemen 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 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 a 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 herself. She had a mania for set beds, and her Tulips were

the talk of the county. A long 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 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 undergone 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.

Instead 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 anything. 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 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 waistcoats.

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,

properly 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 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 Carnations. 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 meetings, 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 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 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 wheelwright’s saw-pit,

and below the planks and timbers in the yard, and, scattering the

sawdust in the air it looked for them underneath, and when it did meet

with any, whew! how it drove them on and followed on their heels!

[Illustration: IN THE BOTANIC GARDEN, OXFORD.]

“The scared leaves only flew the faster for all this, and a giddy chase

it was; for they got into unfrequented 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; 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

entering, 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-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 are

they. 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 all living 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 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. And a man 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 butterfly’s wing; or of a blade of grass; or of a 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 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

which 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 orderly 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

field. 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.

In this way can man regard the trees in his garden, and speak with them,

loving them, and learning of them, for learning is all of love. And he

may yet be an ordinary man, not poet, or artist, but he must be mystic

because 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 learning or text-books.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

III

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 seeking

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

appears that Sir John is no more a real being than Homer, or Æsop, 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 Æsop who played tricks on his master, and

I firmly believe in a stalwart figure of Sir John Mandeville, Knight,

“albeit,” he says, “I 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, 1322, in the day of St. Michael.”

There is one thing, a touch of character, put in, maybe, 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), somehow 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 gardeners love. The first is of the True Cross, and the

story of its origin. All of Sir John I have read in Mr. Pollard’s

edition, than which nothing could be more satisfactory and clear

expressed.

OF 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 Paradise, 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 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.”

[Illustration: THE PRIDE OF SPRING, SURREY.]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

IV

OF THE CROWN OF THORNS

“And 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 parts: 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 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 Eglantine.

“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 understand, 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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

V

OF APPLES

“Also 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, evermore 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 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

bringeth 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.”

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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

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.

OF 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 prophecies, 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 falling evil, and his horse shall not be

afoundered: and many other virtues it hath; wherefore men hold it full

precious.”

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VII

OF THE FIRST ROSES

Then 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 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.

[Illustration: A ROSE GARDEN IN BERKSHIRE.]

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VIII

OF THE ABBEY GARDEN

“From that city men go by water, solacing and disporting 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 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

3,000 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 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 is a 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 delectably 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 I love

him. Yet I doubt some of his stories.

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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 garlands 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

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

indescribably 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 feel 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. Lavender,

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 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 greenhouse.

“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.”

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.

“I 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 swallows 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 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 name of Gum. “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 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.

“I 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?”

“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.

[Illustration: A SHEPHERD OF CONISTON.]

We nodded mysteriously, full of breathless expectation.

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 I’ll 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 out, 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 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

friendship 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 inhabitant 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