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A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 F. FRANKFORT MOORE 
 
[Frontispiece] 
 
 THE CASTLE GATEWAY AND KEEP 
 
A 
 
 GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 A MEDLEY IN QUIETUDE 
 
 BY 
 F.^FRANKFORT MOORE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "THE JESSAMT BRIDE," ETC. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 NEW XBJr YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 

 ^ v 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1920 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 
 
 OCT 27 
 ©CI.A601087 
 
o 
 
 TO 
 
 DOROTHY 
 
 ROSAMUND FRANCIE 
 
 OLIVE MARJORIE 
 
 URSULA 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The Castle Gateway and Keep .... Frontispiece 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The " Creeper-Clad Residence " 24 r 
 
 Formal Beds and Rose Border 32 V 
 
 The Peacock Arch 48 *s 
 
 The Cascade (Monoliths from Giant's Causeway in 
 
 Foreground) 64 -^ 
 
 The House Garden 80 ^ 
 
 Rose Pillar and Pergola 112 ^ 
 
 The Temple and the Templars 128 v 
 
 The Shelter of Artemis 144 v' 
 
 The Ali Baba Place 160 ►•' 
 
 A Rose Colonnade 168 w 
 
 A Lily Pond 176 - 
 
 Entrance to the Italian Garden 208 - 
 
 A Glimpse of the Italian Garden 224 ^ 
 
 The Entrance to a Greenhouse 240 1/ 
 
 A Stone Seat 264 v 
 
 The Herbaceous Terrace 272 1/ 
 
 Constructing the Peach Alley 296 I 
 
 vii 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
A GARDEN OF 
 PEACE 
 
 CHAPTER THE FIRST 
 
 Dorothy frowns slightly, but slightingly, at the 
 title; but when challenged to put her frown into 
 words she has nothing worse to say about it than 
 that it has a certain catchpenny click — the world is 
 talking about The Peace and she has an impression 
 that to introduce the word even without the very 
 definite article is an attempt to derive profit from a 
 topic of the hour — something like backing a horse 
 with a trusty friend for a race which you have 
 secret information it has won five minutes earlier — 
 a method of amassing wealth resorted to every day, 
 I am told by some one who has tried it more than 
 once, but always just five minutes too late. 
 
 I don't like Dorothy's rooted objection to my liter- 
 ary schemes, because I know it to be so confoundedly 
 well rooted; so I argue with her, assuring her that 
 literary men of the highest rank have never shown 
 any marked reluctance to catch the pennies that are 
 thrown to them by the public when they hit upon a 
 
 ll 
 
12 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 title that jingles with the jingle of the hour. To de- 
 scend to an abject pleasantry I tell her that a taking 
 title is not always the same as a take-in title ; but, for 
 my part, even if it were 
 
 And then I recall how the late R. D. Blackmore 
 (whose works, by the way, I saw in a bookseller's at 
 Twickenham with a notice over them — " by a local 
 author ") accounted for the popularity of Lorna 
 Doone: people bought it believing that it had some- 
 thing to do with the extremely popular engagement 
 — " a Real German Defeat," Tenniel called it in his 
 Punch cartoon — of the Marquis of Lome and the 
 Princess Louise. And yet so far from feeling any 
 remorse at arriving at the Temple of Fame by the 
 tradesman's entrance, he tried to get upon the same 
 track again a little later, calling his new novel Alice 
 Lorraine: people were talking a lot about Alsace- 
 Lorraine at the time, as they have been doing ever 
 since, though never quite so loudly as at the present 
 moment (I trust that the publishers of the novel are 
 hurrying on with that new edition) . 
 
 But Dorothy's reply comes pat: If Mr. Blackmore 
 did that, all she can say is that she doesn't think any 
 the better of him for it; just what the Sabbatarian 
 Scotswoman said when the act of Christ in plucking 
 the ears of corn on the Sabbath Day was brought 
 under her ken. 
 
 " My dear," I cry, " you shouldn't say that about 
 Mr. Blackmore: you seem to forget that his second 
 name was Doddridge, and I think he was fully justi- 
 fied in refusing to change the attractive name of his 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 18 
 
 heroine of the South Downs because it happened to 
 catch the ears (and the pence) of people interested in 
 the French provinces which were pinched by the 
 Germans, who added insult to injury by transforming 
 Alsace-Lorraine to Elsass-Lothringen. And so far 
 as my own conscience is concerned " 
 
 " Your own what? " cried Dorothy. 
 
 " My own conscience — literary conscience, of 
 course." 
 
 "Oh, that one? Well?" 
 
 " I say, that so far as — as — as I am concerned, I 
 would not have shrunk from calling a book A Garden 
 in Tipperary if I had written it a few years ago when 
 all England and a third of France were ringing with 
 the name Tipperary. 
 
 " Only then it would have been a Garden of War, 
 but now it suits you — your fancy, to make it a Garden 
 of Peace." 
 
 " It's not too late yet; if you go on like this, I think 
 I could manage to introduce a note of warfare into it 
 and to make people see the appropriateness of it as 
 well ; so don't provoke me." 
 
 " I will not," said Dorothy, with one of her per- 
 plexing smiles. 
 
 And then she became interesting; for she was ready 
 to affirm that every garden is a battlefield, even when 
 it is not run by a husband and his wife — a dual 
 system which led to the most notorious horticultural 
 fiasco on record. War, according to Milton, origi- 
 nated in heaven, but it has been carried on with great 
 energy ever since on earth, and the first garden of 
 
14 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 which there is a literary record maintained the heav- 
 enly tradition. So does the last, which has brought 
 forth fruit and flowers in abundance through the 
 slaughter of slugs, the crushing of snails, the immola- 
 tion of leather- jackets, the annihilation of earwigs, 
 and is now to be alluded to as a Garden of Peace, if 
 you please. 
 
 Dorothy can be very provoking when she pleases 
 and is wearing the right sort of dress; and when she 
 has done proving that the most ancient tradition of 
 a garden points to a dispute not yet settled, between 
 the man and his wife who were running it, she begins 
 to talk about the awful scenes that have taken place 
 in gardens. We have been together in a number of 
 gardens in various parts of the world: from those 
 of the Borgias, where, in the cool of the evening, 
 Lucrezia and her relations communed on the strides 
 that the science and art of toxicology was making, 
 on to the little Trianon where the diamond necklace 
 sparkled in the moonlight on the eve of the rising of 
 the people against such folk as Queens and Cardinals 
 — on to the gardens of the Temple, where the roses 
 were plucked before the worst of the Civil Wars of 
 England devastated the country — on to Cherry 
 Orchard, near Kingston in the island of Jamaica, 
 where the half-breed Gordon concocted his patriotic 
 treason which would have meant the letting loose of 
 a jungle of savages upon a community of civilisation, 
 and was only stamped out by the firm foot of the 
 white man on whose shoulders the white man's burden 
 was laid, and who snatched his fellow-countrymen 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 15 
 
 from massacre at the sacrifice of his own career; for 
 party government, which has been the curse of Eng- 
 land, was not to be defrauded of its prey because Gov- 
 ernor Eyre had saved a colony from annihilation. 
 These are only a few of the gardens in which we have 
 stood together, and Dorothy's memory for their asso- 
 ciations is really disconcerting. I am disconcerted; 
 but I wait, for the wisdom of the serpent of the 
 Garden comes to me at times — I wait, and when I 
 have the chance of that edgeways word which some- 
 times I can't get in, I say, — 
 
 " Oh, yes, those were pleasant days in Italy among 
 the cypresses and myrtles, and in Jamaica with its 
 palms. I think we must soon have another ramble 
 together." 
 
 " If it weren't for those children — but where should 
 we go? " she cried. 
 
 " I'm not sure," I said, as if revolving many memo- 
 ries, " but I think some part of the Pacific Slope " 
 
 " Gracious, why the Pacific Slope, my man? " 
 
 " Because a Pacific Garden must surely be a 
 Garden of Peace ; and that's where we are going now 
 with the title-page of a book that is to catch the 
 pennies of the public, and resemble as nearly as I 
 can make it — consistent with my natural propensity 
 to quarrel with things that do not matter in the least 
 — one of the shadiest of the slopes of the Island 
 Valley of Avilion — 
 
 " Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
 Nor ever wind blows loudly, for it lies 
 
16 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
 And bowery hollows, crown'd with summer sea." 
 
 Luckily I recollected the quotation, for if I had not 
 been letter-perfect I should have had a poor chance 
 of a bright future with Dorothy. 
 
 As it was, however, she only felt if the big tomato 
 was as ripe as it seemed, and said, — 
 
 " ' Orchard-lawns.' H'm, I wonder if Tennyson, 
 with all his * careful-robin ' observation of the little 
 things of Nature was aware that you should never 
 let grass grow in an apple orchard." 
 
 " I wonder, indeed," I said, with what I considered 
 a graceful acquiescence. " But at the same time I 
 think I should tell you that there are no little things 
 in Nature." 
 
 " I suppose there are not," said she. " Anyhow, 
 you will have the biggest tomato in Nature in your 
 salad with the cold lamb. Is that the bell ? " 
 
 " It is the ghost-tinkle of the bell of the bell-wedder 
 who was the father of the lamb," said I poetically. 
 
 " So long as you do not mention the mother of the 
 lamb when you come to the underdone stratum, I 
 shall be satisfied," said she. 
 
 PS.— (1.30)— And I didn't. 
 
 PPS.— (1.35)— But I might have. 
 
CHAPTER THE SECOND 
 
 This town of ours is none other than Yardley Parva. 
 Every one is supposed to know that the name means 
 " The Little Sheltered Garden," and that it was given 
 this name by a mixed commission of Normans and 
 Romans. The Normans, who spoke a sort of French, 
 gave it the first syllable, which is the root of what 
 became jardin, and which still survives in the " back- 
 yard " of American literature ; meaning not the back- 
 yard of an English home, where broken china and 
 glass and other incidental rubbish are thrown to work 
 their way into the bowels of the earth, but a place of 
 flowers and beans and pumpkins. The surname, 
 Parva, represents the influence of the Romans, who 
 spoke a sort of Latin. Philologists are not whole- 
 hearted about the " ley," but the general impression 
 is that it had a narrow escape from being " leigh," an 
 open meadow; ley, however, is simply "lee," or a 
 sheltered quarter, the opposite to " windward." 
 
 Whatever foundation there may be for this phil- 
 ology — whether it is derived from post hoc evidence 
 or not — every one who knows the place intimately 
 will admit that if it is not literally exact, it should 
 be made so by the Town Council ; for it is a town of 
 sheltered little gardens. It has its High Street: and 
 
 17 
 
18 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 this name, a really industrious philologist will tell 
 you, is derived, not from its occupying any elevated 
 position, but from the fact that the people living on 
 either side were accustomed to converse across the 
 street, and any one wishing to chat with an opposite 
 neighbour, tried to attract his attention with the usual 
 hail of "hie there!"; and as there was much cross- 
 questioning and answering, there was a constant 
 chorus of "hie, hie!" so that it was really the gibe 
 of strangers that gave it its name, only some fool of 
 a purist seven or eight hundred years ago acquired 
 the absurd notion that the word was " High " instead 
 of "Hie!" So it was that Minnesingers' Lane 
 drifted into Mincing Lane, I have been told. It had 
 really nothing to do with the Min Sing district of 
 China, where the tea sold in that street of tea-brokers 
 came from. Philology is a wonderful study; and no 
 one who has made any progress in its by-paths should 
 ever be taken aback or forced to look silly. 
 
 The houses on each side of the High Street are 
 many of them just as they were four or five hundred 
 years ago. Some of them are shops with bow fronts 
 that were once the windows of parlours in the days 
 when honest householders drank small ale for break- 
 fast and the industrious apprentices took down the 
 shutters from their masters' shops and began their 
 day's work somewhere about five o'clock in midsum- 
 mer, graduating to seven in midwinter. There are 
 now some noble plate-glass fronts to the shops, but 
 there are no apprentices, and certainly no masters. 
 Scores of old, red-tiled roofs remain, but they are no 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 19 
 
 more red than the red man of America is red. The 
 roofs and the red man are of the same hue. Sixty 
 years ago, when slate roofs became popular, they 
 found their way to Yardley Parva, and were reck- 
 oned a guarantee of a certain social standing. If you 
 saw a slate roof and a cemented brick front you might 
 be sure that there was a gig in the stable at the back. 
 You can now tell what houses had once been tiled by 
 the pitch of the roofs. This was not altered on the 
 introduction of the slates. 
 
 But with the innovations of plate-glass shop-fronts 
 and slate roofs there has happily been no change in 
 the gardens at the back of the two rows of the houses 
 of the High Street. Almost every house has still its 
 garden, and they remain gay with what were called 
 in my young days " old-fashioned flowers," through 
 the summer, and the pear-trees that sprawl across 
 the high dividing walls in Laocoon writhings — the 
 quinces that point derisive, gnarled fingers at the old 
 crabs that give way to soundless snarls against the 
 trained branches of the Orange Pippins — the mulber- 
 ries that are isolated on a patch of grass — all are 
 to-day what they were meant to be when they were 
 planted in the chalk which may have supplied Roman 
 children with marbles when they had civilized them- 
 selves beyond the knuckle-bones of their ancestors' 
 games. 
 
 I cannot imagine that much about these gardens 
 has changed during the changes of a thousand years, 
 except perhaps their shape. When the Anglo-Saxon 
 epidemic of church-building was running its course, 
 
20 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 the three-quarters-of-a-mile of the High Street did 
 not escape. There was a church every hundred yards 
 or so, and some of them were spacious enough to hold 
 a congregation of fifty or sixty ; and every church had 
 its church-yard — that is, as we have seen — its garden, 
 equal to the emergencies of a death-rate of perhaps 
 two every five years; but when the churches became 
 dwelling-houses, as several did, the church-yard be- 
 came the back -yard in the American sense : fruit-trees 
 were planted, and beneath their boughs the burgesses 
 discussed the merits of ale and the passing away of 
 the mead bowl, and shook their heads when some 
 simpleton suggested that the arrow that killed Rufus 
 a few months before was an accidental one. There 
 are those gardens to-day, and the burgesses smoke 
 their pipes over the six-thirty edition of the evening 
 paper that left London at five-fifteen, and listen to 
 stories of Dick, who lost a foot at the ford of the 
 Somme, or of Tom, who got the M.C. after Mons, 
 and went through the four years without a scratch, 
 or of Bob, who had his own opinion about the taking 
 of Jerusalem, outside which two fingers of his left 
 hand are still lying, unless a thieving Arab appro- 
 priated them. 
 
 There the chat goes on from century to century on 
 the self -same subject — War, war, war. It is certain 
 that men left Yardley Parva for the First Crusade; 
 one of the streets that ran from the Roman road to 
 the Abbey which was founded by a Crusading Nor- 
 man Earl, retains the name that was given to it to 
 commemorate the capture of Antioch when the news 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 21 
 
 reached England a year or so after the event ; and it 
 is equally certain that Yardley men were at Bosworth 
 Field, and Yardley men at Tournai in 1709 as well 
 as in 1918 — at the Nile in 1798 as well as in 1915; and 
 it is equally certain that such of them as came back 
 talked of what they had seen and of what their com- 
 rades had done. The tears that the mothers proudly 
 shed when they talked of those who had not come 
 home in 1918 were shed where the mothers of the 
 Crusaders of 1099 had knelt to pray for the repose 
 of the souls of their dear ones whose bones were 
 picked by the jackals of the Lebanon. On the site 
 of one of the churches of the market-place there is 
 now built a hall of moving pictures — Moving Pictures 
 — that is the whole sum of the bustle of the thousand 
 years — Moving Pictures. The same old story. Life 
 has not even got the instinct of the film-maker: it 
 does not take the trouble to change the scenes of the 
 exploits of a thousand — ten thousand — years ago, and 
 those of to-day. Egypt, the Nile, Gaza, Jerusalem, 
 Damascus, Mesopotamia. Moving pictures — walk- 
 ing shadows — walking about for a while but all hav- 
 ing the one goal — the Garden of Peace ; those gardens 
 that surrounded the churches, where now the apple- 
 trees bloom and fruit and shed their leaves. 
 
 These little irregular back-gardens are places of 
 enchantment to me and I think I like those behind 
 the smallest of the shops, which are not more than 
 thirty feet square, rather than those higher up the 
 town, of a full acre or two. These bigger ones do not 
 suggest a history beyond the memory of the gardeners 
 
22 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 who trim the hedges and cut the grass with a ma- 
 chine. The small and irregular ones suggest a good 
 deal more than a maiden lady wearing gloves, with 
 a basket on her arm and a pair of snipping shears 
 opening its jaws to bite the head off every bloom that 
 has a touch of brown on its edge. But with me it is 
 not a matter of liking and not liking; it is a matter 
 of liking and liking better — it is the artisan's opinion 
 of rival beers (pre-war) : all good but some better 
 than others. The little gardens behind the shops are 
 lyrics; the big ones behind the villas are excellent 
 prose, and excellent prose is frequently quite as prosy 
 as excellent verse. They are alive but they are not 
 full of the joy of living. The flowers that they bring 
 forth suggest nice girls whose education is being care- 
 fully attended to by gentlemen who are preparing for 
 Ordination. Those flowers do not sing, and I know 
 perfectly well that if they were made to sing it would 
 be to the accompaniment of a harmonium, and they 
 would always sing in tune and in time: but they 
 would need a conductor, they would never try any- 
 thing on their own — not even when it was dark and 
 no one would know anything about it. Somehow 
 these borders make me think of the children of Blun- 
 dell's Charity — a local Fund which provides for the 
 education on religious principles of fifteen children 
 born in wedlock of respectable parents. They occupy 
 a special bench in the aisle of one of the churches, and 
 wear a distinctive dress with white collars and cuffs. 
 They attend to the variations of the Sacred Service, 
 and are always as tidy and uninteresting as the 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 23 
 
 borders in the wide gardens behind the houses that are 
 a quarter of a mile beyond the gardens of the High 
 Street shops. 
 
 But it is in these wide gardens that the earliest 
 strawberries are grown, and to them the reporter of 
 the local newspaper goes in search of the gigantic 
 gooseberry or the potato weighing four pounds and 
 three ounces; and that is what the good ladies with 
 the abhorred shears and the baskets — the Atropussies, 
 in whose hands lie the fates of the fruits as well as of 
 the flowers — consider the sum of high gardening: the 
 growth of the abnormal is their aim and they are as 
 proud of their achievement as the townsman who took 
 to poultry was of his when he exhibited a bantam 
 weighing six pounds. 
 
 Now I hold that gardens are like nurseries — nurs- 
 eries of children, I mean — and that all make an appeal 
 to one's better nature, that none can be visited with- 
 out a sense of pleasure even though it may be no more 
 than is due to the anticipation of getting away from 
 them; therefore, I would not say a word against the 
 types which I venture to describe as I have found 
 them. The worst that I can say of them is that they 
 are easily described, and the garden or the girl that 
 can be described will never be near my heart. Those 
 gardens are not the sort that I should think of marry- 
 ing, though I can live on the friendliest of terms with 
 them, particularly in the strawberry season. They do 
 not appeal to the imagination as do the small and 
 irregular ones at the rear of the grocer's, the sta- 
 tioner's, the fishmonger's, the bootmaker's, or the 
 
24 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 chymist's — in this connection I must spell the name 
 of the shop with a y : the man who sits in such a garden 
 is a chymist, not a chemist. I could not imagine a 
 mere chemist sniffing the rosemary and the tansy and 
 the rue au naturel: the mere chemist puts his hand 
 into a drawer and weighs you out an ounce of the 
 desiccated herbs. 
 
 In one of Mr. Thomas Hardy's earlier novels — I 
 think it is The Mayor of Casterbridge — he describes 
 a town, which is very nearly as delightfully drowsy 
 as our Yardley Parva, as one through which the bees 
 pass in summer from the gardens at one side to those 
 at the other. In our town I feel sure that the bees 
 that enter among the small gardens of sweet scents 
 and savours at one end of the High Street, never 
 reach the gardens of the gigantic gooseberry at the 
 other; unless they make a bee-line for them at the 
 moment of entering; for they must find their time 
 fully occupied among the snapdragons of the old 
 walls, the flowers of the veronica bushes, and the but- 
 tons of the tall hollyhocks growing where they please. 
 
 When I made, some years ago, a tour of Wessex, 
 I went to Casterbridge on a July day, and the first 
 person I met in the street was an immense bee, and 
 I watched him hum away into the distance just as 
 Mr. Hardy had described him. He seemed to be 
 boasting that he was Mr. Hardy's bee, just as a Pres- 
 byterian Minister, who had paid a visit to the Holy 
 Land to verify his quotations, boasted of the reference 
 made to himself in another Book. 
 
 " My dear friends," said he, " I read in the Sacred 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 25 
 
 Book the prophecy that the land should be in heaps; 
 I looked up from the page, and there, before my very 
 eyes, lay the heaps. I read that the bittern should 
 cry there; I looked up, and lo! close at hand stood 
 the bittern. I read that the Minister of the Lord 
 should mourn there: I was that Minister/* 
 
 But there are two or three gardens — now that I 
 come to think of it there are not so many as three — 
 governed by the houses of the " better-class people " 
 (so they were described to me when I first came to 
 Yardley Parva), which are everything that a garden 
 should be. Their trees have not been cut down as 
 they used to be forty years ago, to allow the flowers 
 to have undisputed possession. In each there are 
 groups of sycamore, elm, and silver birch, and their 
 position makes one feel that one is on the border of 
 a woodland through which one might wander for 
 hours. There are tulip-trees, and a fine arbutus on 
 an irregular, slightly-sloping lawn, and a couple of 
 enormous drooping ashes — twenty people can sit in 
 the green shade of either. In graceful groups there 
 are laburnums and lilacs. Farther down the slope is 
 a well-conceived arrangement of flower-beds cut out 
 of the grass. Nearly everything in the second of these 
 gardens is herbaceous; but its roses are invariably 
 superb, and its lawn with a small lily pond beside it, 
 is ideal. The specimen shrubs on a lower lawn are 
 perfect as regards both form and flower, and while 
 one is aware of the repose that is due to a thoughtful 
 scheme of colour, one is conscious only of the effect, 
 never being compelled to make use of the word artis- 
 
26 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 tic. As soon as people begin to talk of a garden being 
 artistic you know that it has failed in its purpose, 
 just as a portrait-painter has failed if you are im- 
 pressed with the artistic side of what he has done. 
 The garden is not to illustrate the gardener's art any 
 more than the portrait is to make manifest the 
 painter's. The garden should be full of art, but so 
 artfully introduced that you do not know that it is 
 there. I have heard a man say as if he had just 
 made a unique discovery, — 
 
 " How extraordinary it is that the arrangements 
 of colour in Nature are always harmonious! " 
 
 Extraordinary ! 
 
 Equally extraordinary it is that 
 
 " Treason doth never prosper ; what's the reason ? 
 For if it prospers none dare call it treason." 
 
 All our impressions of harmony in colour are de- 
 rived from Nature's arrangements of colour, and 
 when there is no longer harmony there is no longer 
 Nature. Is it marvellous that Nature should be har- 
 monious when all our ideas of harmony are acquired 
 from Nature? A book might be written on this text 
 — I am not sure that several books have not been 
 written on it. It is the foundation of the analysis of 
 what may be called without cant, " artistic impres- 
 sion." It is because it is so trite that I touch upon it 
 in my survey of a Garden of Peace. We love the 
 green of the woodland because it still conveys to us 
 the picture of our happy home of some hundreds of 
 thousands of years ago. We find beauty in an oval 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 27 
 
 outline because our ancestors of the woodland spent 
 some happy hours bird-nesting. Hogarth's line of 
 beauty is beautiful because it is the line of human life 
 — the line that Nature has ever before her eyes — the 
 line of human love. The colours of countless fruits 
 are a delight to us because we have associated those 
 colours for tens of thousands of years with the delight 
 of eating those fruits, and taking pleasure in the tints 
 of the fruits; we take pleasure in the tints of flowers 
 because they suggest the joys of the fruits. The 
 impression of awe and fear that one of Salvator 
 Rosa's " Rocky Landscapes " engenders is due to our 
 very distant ancestors' experience of the frequent 
 earthquakes that caused these mighty rocks to be 
 flung about when the surface of our old mother Earth 
 was not so cool as it is to-day, as well as to the 
 recollection of the very fearsome moments of a much 
 less remote ancestor spent in evading his carnivorous 
 enemies who had their dens among these awful rocks. 
 From a comparatively recent pastoral parent we have 
 inherited our love for the lawn. There were the 
 sheep feeding in quiet on the grass of the oasis in the 
 days when man had made the discovery that he could 
 tame certain animals and keep them to eat at his 
 leisure instead of having to spend hours hunting them 
 down. 
 
 But so deep an impression have the thousands of 
 years of hunting made upon the race, that even among 
 the most highly civilised people hunting is the most 
 popular of all employments, and the hunter is a hero 
 while the shepherd is looked on as a poor sort. 
 
28 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Yes, there are harmonies in Nature, though all 
 makers of gardens do not appreciate them; the dis- 
 cordant notes that occasionally assail a lover of Nature 
 in a garden that has been made by a nurseryman are 
 due to the untiring exertions of the hybridiser. It is 
 quite possible to produce " freaks " and " sports " 
 both as regards form and colour — " Prodigious mix- 
 tures and confusion strange." I believe that some 
 professional men spend all their time over experiments 
 in this direction, and I have no doubt that some of 
 them, having perpetrated a " novelty," make money 
 out of it. Equally sure I am that the more conscien- 
 tious, when they hit upon a novelty that they feel to 
 be offensive, destroy the product without exhibiting 
 it. They have not all the hideous unscrupulousness 
 of Dr. Moreau — the nearest approach to a devil try- 
 ing to copy the Creator who made man in His own 
 image. Dr. Moreau made things after his own like- 
 ness. He was a great hybridiser. (Mr. H. G. Wells, 
 after painting that Devil for us, has recently been 
 showing his skill in depicting the God.) 
 
 Now, every one knows that the garden of to-day 
 owes most of its glory to the judicious hybridiser, 
 but I implore of him to be merciful as he is strong. I 
 have seen some heartrending results of his experi- 
 ments which have not been suppressed, as they should 
 have been. I am told that a great deal in the way of 
 developing the natural colours of a certain group of 
 flowers can be done by the introduction of chemicals 
 into their drinking water. It is like poisoning a well ! 
 By such means I believe an unscrupulous gardener 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 29 
 
 could turn a whole border into something resembling 
 a gigantic advertisement card of aniline dyes. 
 
 But I must be careful in my condemnations of such 
 possibilities. There is a young woman named Rosa- 
 mund, who is Dorothy's first-born, and she is ready 
 at all seasonable times to give me the benefit of her 
 fourteen years' experiences of the world and its ways, 
 and she has her own views of Nature as the mother 
 of the Arts. After listening to my old-fashioned rail- 
 ings against such chromatic innovations as I have 
 abused, she maintained a thoughtful silence that sug- 
 gested an absence of conviction. 
 
 " Don't you see the awfulness of re-dying a flower 
 — the unnaturalness of such an operation? " I cried. 
 
 ' Why, you old thing, can't you see that if it's done 
 by aniline dyes it's all right — true to Nature and all 
 that?" 
 
 " Good heavens ! that a child of mine — Dorothy, 
 did you hear her? How can you sit there and smile 
 as if nothing had happened? Have you brought her 
 up as an atheist or what? " 
 
 " Every one who doesn't agree with all you say isn't 
 a confirmed atheist," replied Dorothy calmly. " As 
 for Rosamund, what I'm afraid of is that, so far from 
 being an atheist, she is rather too much in the other 
 direction — like ' Lo, the poor Indian.' She'll explain 
 what's in her mind if you give her a chance. What 
 do you mean, my dear, by laying the emphasis on 
 aniline dyes? Don't you know that most of them 
 are awful? " 
 
 " Of course I do, darling," said Rosamund. " But 
 
30 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 I've been reading about them, and so — well, you see, 
 they come from coal tar, and coal is a bit of a tree 
 that grew up and fell down thousands of years ago, 
 and its burning is nothing more than its giving back 
 the sunshine that it — what is the word that the book 
 used ? — oh, I remember — the sunshine that it hoarded 
 when it was part of the forest. Now, I think that if 
 it's natural for flowers to be coloured by the sunshine 
 it doesn't matter whether it's the sunshine of to-day. 
 or the sunshine of fifty thousand years ago; it comes 
 from the sun all the same, and as aniline dyes are the 
 sunshine of long ago it's no harm to have them to 
 colour flowers now." 
 
 " Daddy was only complaining of the horrid ones, 
 my dear," said the Mother, without looking at me. 
 '* Isn't that what you meant? " she added, and now she 
 looked at me, and though I was suspicious that she 
 was smiling under her skin, I could not detect the 
 slightest symptom of a smile in her voice. 
 
 " Of course I meant the hideous ones — magenta 
 and that other sort of purple thing. I usually make 
 my meaning plain," said I, with a modified bluster. 
 
 " Oh," remarked Rosamund, in a tone that sug- 
 gested a polite negation of acquiescence. 
 
 There was another little silence before I said, — 
 
 " Anyhow, it was those German brutes who de- 
 veloped those aniline things." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; they could do anything they pleased with 
 coal tar," said Dorothy. " But the other sort could 
 do anything he pleased with the Germans — and he 
 did!" 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 31 
 
 " The other sort? " said I inquiringly. 
 
 " Yes, the other sort — the true British product — 
 the Jack Tar," said Dorothy; and Rosamund, who 
 has a friend who is a midshipman in the Royal Navy, 
 clapped her hands and laughed. 
 
 It is at such moments as this that I feel I am not 
 master in my own house. Time was when I believed 
 that my supremacy was as unassailable as that of the 
 Lord High Admiral; but since those girls have been 
 growing up I have come to realise that I have been 
 as completely abolished as the Lord High Admiral — 
 once absolute, but now obsolete — and that the duties 
 of office are discharged by a commission. The Board 
 of Admiralty is officially the Lords Commissioners 
 for discharging the office of Lord High Admiral. 
 
 I hope that this menage will be maintained. The 
 man who tries to impose his opinions upon a house- 
 hold because he is allowed to pay all the expenses, is 
 — anyhow, he is not me. 
 
CHAPTER THE THIRD 
 
 I believe I interrupted myself in the midst of a visit 
 to one of the gardens of the " better-class people " 
 who live in the purely residential end of the High 
 Street. These are the people whose fathers and 
 grandfathers lived in the same houses and took a 
 prominent part in preparing the beacons which were 
 to spread far and wide the news that Bonaparte had 
 succeeded in landing on their coast with that marvel- 
 lous flotilla of his. And from these very gardens 
 more than two hundred and fifty years earlier the 
 still greater grandfathers had seen the blazing 
 beacons that sent the news flying northward that the 
 Invincible Armada of Spain was plunging and roll- 
 ing up the Channel, which can be faintly seen by the 
 eye of faith from the tower of the Church of St. Mary 
 sub-Castro, at the highest part of the High Street. 
 The Invincible Armada! If I should ever organise 
 an aggressive enterprise, I certainly would not call it 
 " Invincible." It is a name of ill omen. I cannot for 
 the life of me remember where I read the story of 
 the monarch who was reviewing the troops that he 
 had equipped very splendidly to go against the Ro- 
 mans. When his thousand horsemen went glittering 
 by with polished steel cuirasses and plumed helmets 
 
 32 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 33 
 
 — they must have been the Household Cavalry of the 
 period — his heart was lifted up in pride, and he called 
 out tauntingly to his Grand Vizier, who was a bit 
 of a cynic, — 
 
 " Ha, my friend, don't you think that these will 
 be enough for the Romans? " 
 
 " Sure," was the reply. " Oh, yes, they will be 
 enough, avaricious though the Romans undoubtedly 
 are." 
 
 This was the first of the Invincible enterprises. 
 The next time I saw the word in history was in asso- 
 ciation with the Spanish Armada, and to-day, over 
 a door in my house, I have hung the carved ebony 
 ornament that belonged to a bedstead of one of the 
 ships that went ashore at Spanish Point on the Irish 
 coast. Later still, there was a gang of murderers 
 who called themselves " Invincibles," and I saw the 
 lot of them crowded into a police-court dock whence 
 they filed out to their doom. And what about the 
 last of these ruffians that challenged Fate with that 
 arrogant word? What of Hindenburg's Invincible 
 Line that we heard so much about a few months ago ? 
 "Invincible!" cried the massacre-monger, and the 
 word was repeated by the arch-liar of the mailed fist 
 in half a dozen speeches. Within a few months the 
 beaten mongrels were whimpering, not like hounds, 
 but like hyenas out of whose teeth their prey is 
 plucked. I dare say that Achilles, who made brag a 
 speciality, talked through his helmet about that opera- 
 tion on the banks of the Styx, and actually believed 
 himself to be invincible because invulnerable; but his 
 
34 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 mother, who had given him the bath that turned his 
 head, would not have recognised him when Paris had 
 done with him. 
 
 The funny part of the Hindenburg cult — I sup- 
 pose it should be written " Kult " — was that there 
 was no one to tell the Germans that they were doing 
 the work of necromancy in hammering those nails into 
 his wooden head. Everybody knows that the only 
 really effective way of finishing off an enemy is to 
 make a wooden effigy of him and hammer nails into 
 it (every sensible person knows that as the nails are 
 hammered home the original comes to grief). The 
 feminine equivalent of this robust operation is equally 
 effective, though the necromancers only recommended 
 it for the use of schools. The effigy is made of wax, 
 and you place it before a cheerful fire and stick pins 
 into it. It has the advantage of being handy and 
 economical, for there are few households that cannot 
 produce an old doll of wax which would otherwise 
 be thrown away and wasted. 
 
 But the Germans pride themselves on having got 
 rid of their superstition, and when people have got 
 rid of their superstition they have got rid of their 
 sense of humour. If they had not been so hasty in 
 naming their invincible lines after Wagner's operas 
 they would surely have remembered that with the 
 Siegfried, the Parsifal, and the rest there was bound 
 to be included Der Fliegende Hollander, the pet 
 name of the German Cavalry: they were the first to 
 fly when the operatic line was broken; and then — 
 Gotterdammertmg Hellroter! 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 35 
 
 And why were the Bolsheviks so foolish as to forget 
 that the Czar was " Nicky " to their paymaster, 
 William, and that that name is the Greek for " Vic- 
 ory "? Having destroyed Nicky, how could they look 
 for anything but disaster? 
 
 The connection of these jottings with our gardens 
 may not be apparent to every one who reads them. 
 But though the sense of liberty is so great in our Gar- 
 den of Peace that I do not hold myself bound down 
 to any of the convenances of composition, and though 
 I cultivate rather than uproot even the most flagrant 
 forms of digression in this garden, yet it so happens 
 that when I begin to write of the most distinguished 
 of the gardens of Yardley Parva, I cannot avoid 
 recalling that lovely Saturday when we were seated 
 among its glorious roses, eating peaches that had just 
 been plucked from the wall. We were a large and 
 chatty company, and among the party that were 
 playing clock golf on a part of a lovely lawn of the 
 purest emerald, there did not seem to be one who 
 had read the menace of the morning papers. Our 
 host was a soldier, and his charming wife was the 
 daughter of a distinguished Admiral. At the other 
 side of the table where the dish of peaches stood there 
 was another naval officer, and while we were swap- 
 ping stories of the Cape, the butler was pointing us 
 out to a telegraph messenger who had come through 
 the French window. The boy made his way to us, 
 taking the envelope from his belt. He looked from 
 one of us to the other, saying the name of my 
 vis-a-vis — " Commander A ? " 
 
36 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 "I'm Commander A " said he, taking 
 
 the despatch envelope and tearing it open. 
 He gave a whistle, reading his message, and 
 rose. 
 
 " No reply," he told the messenger, and then 
 turned to me. 
 
 " Great King Jehoshaphat ! " he said in a low tone. 
 " There is to be no demobilisation of the Fleet, and 
 all leave is stopped. I'm ordered to report. And 
 you said just now that nothing was going to happen. 
 Good-bye, old chap! I've got to catch the 6.20 for 
 Devonport! " 
 
 We had been talking over the morning's news, and 
 I had said that the Emperor was a master of bluff, 
 not business. 
 
 " I'm off," he said. " You needn't say anything 
 that I've told you. After all, it may only be a pre- 
 cautionary measure." 
 
 He went off; and I never saw him again. 
 
 The precautionary measure that saved England 
 from the swoop that Germany hoped to bring off as 
 successfully as Japan did hers at Port Arthur in 
 1904, was taken not by the First Lord of the Ad- 
 miralty, but by Prince Louis of Battenberg, who was 
 hounded out of the Service by the clamorous gossip 
 of a few women who could find no other way of 
 proving their power. 
 
 And the First Lord of the Admiralty let him go; 
 while he himself returned to his " gambling " — he so 
 designated the most important — the most disastrous 
 — incident of his Administration — " a legitimate gam- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 37 
 
 ble." A legitimate gamble that cost his country over 
 fifty thousand lives! 
 
 Within a month of the holding of that garden party 
 our host had marched away with his men, and within 
 another month our dear hostess was a widow. 
 
 That garden, I think, has a note of distinction 
 about it that is not shared by any other within the 
 circle taken by the walls of the little town, several 
 interesting fragments of which still remain. The 
 house by which it was once surrounded before the de- 
 sire for " short cuts " caused a road to be made 
 through it, is by far the finest type of a minor Eliza- 
 bethan mansion to be found in our neighbourhood. 
 It is the sort of house that the house-agents might, 
 with more accuracy than is displayed in many of their 
 advertisements, describe as " a perfect gem." It has 
 been kept in good repair both as regards its stone 
 walls and its roof of stone slabs during the three hun- 
 dred — or most likely four hundred years of its exist- 
 ence, and it has not suffered from that form of 
 destruction known as restoration. It had some nar- 
 row escapes in its time, however. An old builder 
 who had been concerned in some of the repairs shook 
 his head sadly when he assured me that a more pig- 
 headed gentleman than the owner of the house at 
 that time he had never known. 
 
 " He would have it done with the old material," 
 he explained sadly. " That's how it comes to be like 
 what it is to-day." And he nodded in the direction 
 of the exquisitely-weathered old Caen blocks with the 
 
38 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 great bosses of house-leek covering the coping. " It 
 was no use my telling him that I could run up a nine- 
 inch brick wall with proper coping tiles that would 
 have a new look for years if no creepers were allowed 
 on it, for far less money ; he would have the old stone, 
 and those squared flints that you see there." 
 
 "Some people are very obstinate, thank God!" 
 said I. 
 
 " I could have made as good a job of it as I did 
 of St. Anthony's Church — you know the new aisle in 
 St. Anthony's, sir," said he. 
 
 I certainly did know the new aisle in St. Anthony's ; 
 but I did not say that I did in the tone of voice in 
 which I write. It is the most notorious example of 
 what enormities could be perpetrated in the devastat- 
 ing fifties and sixties, when a parson and his church- 
 wardens could do anything they pleased to their 
 churches. 
 
 In a very different spirit was the Barbican of the 
 old Castle of Yardley repaired under the care of a 
 reverential, but not Reverend, director. Every stone 
 was numbered and put back into its place when the 
 walls were made secure. 
 
 The gardens and orchards and lawns behind the 
 walls which were reconstructed by the owner whose 
 obstinacy the builder was lamenting, must extend 
 over three or four acres. Such a space allows for a 
 deep enough fringe of noble trees, giving more than 
 a suggestion of a park-land which had once had sev- 
 eral vistas after the most approved eighteenth cen- 
 tury type, but which have not been maintained by 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 39 
 
 some nineteenth century owners who were fearful of 
 being accused of tolerating anything so artificial as 
 design in their gardens. But the " shrubberies " have 
 been allowed to remain pretty much as they were 
 planted, with magnificent masses of pink may and 
 innumerable lilacs. The rose-gardens and the mixed 
 borders are chromatic records of the varying tastes of 
 generations. 
 
 What made the strongest appeal to me when I 
 was wandering through the grounds a year or two 
 before that fatal August afternoon was the beauty of 
 the anchusas. I thought that I had never seen finer 
 specimens or a more profuse variety of their blues. 
 One might have been looking down into the indigo 
 of the water under the cliffs of Capri in one place, 
 and into the delicate ultramarine spaces of the early 
 morning among the islands of the iEgean in another. 
 
 I congratulated one of the gardeners upon his 
 anchusas, and he smiled in an eminently questionable 
 way. 
 
 " Maybe I'm wrong in talking to you about them," 
 I said, looking for an explanation of his smile. " Per- 
 haps it is not you who are responsible for this bit." 
 
 " It's not that, sir," he said, still smiling. "I'm 
 ready to take all the responsibility. You see, sir, I 
 was brought up among anchusas: I was one of the 
 gardeners at Dropmore." 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 " If I want to know anything about growing 
 anchusas I'll know where to come for information," 
 I said. 
 
40 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 The great charm about these gardens, as well as 
 those of the Crusaders' planting now enjoyed by 
 the people of the High Street, is that among the 
 mystery of their shady places on^ would not be 
 surprised or alarmed to come suddenly upon a nymph 
 or a satyr, or even old Pan himself. It does not 
 require one to be 
 
 " A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn," 
 
 to have such an impression conveyed to one, any 
 more than it is necessary for one to be given over 
 exclusively to a diet of nuts and eggs to enjoy, as I 
 hope we all do, a swing on a bough, or, as we grow 
 old, alas ! on one of those patent swings made in Paris, 
 U.S.A., where one gets all the exuberance of the 
 oscillation without the exertion. Good old Pan is not 
 dead yet, however insistently the poet may announce 
 his decease. He will be the last of all the gods to go. 
 We have no particular use for Jove, except as the 
 mildest form of a swear word, nor for Neptune, unless 
 we are designing a fountain or need to borrow an 
 emblem of the Freedom of the Seas — we can even 
 carry on a placid existence though Mercury has fallen 
 so low as to be opposite " rain and stormy " on the 
 barometric scale, but we cannot do without our Pan 
 — the jolly, wicked old fellow whom we were obliged 
 to incorporate in our new theological system under 
 the name of Diabolus. It was he, and not the much- 
 vaunted Terpsichore, who taught the infant world 
 to dance, to gambol, and to riot in the woodland. 
 He is the patron of the forest lovers still, as he was 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 41 
 
 when he first appeared in the shape of an antelope 
 skipping from rock to rock while our arboreal an- 
 cestors applauded from their boughs and were 
 tempted to give over their ridiculous swinging by 
 their hands and tails and emulate him on our com- 
 mon mother Earth. 
 
 Is there any one of us to-day, I wonder, who has 
 not felt as Wordsworth did, that the world of men 
 and cities is too much with us, and that the shady 
 arbours hold something that we need and that we 
 cannot find otherwhere? The claims of the myster- 
 ious brotherhood assert themselves daily when we re- 
 turn to our haunts of a hundred thousand years ago: 
 we can still enjoy a dance on a woodland clearing, and 
 a plunge into the sparkling lake by which we dwelt 
 for many thousand years before some wretch found 
 that the earth could be built up into caves instead of 
 dug into for domestic shelter. 
 
 Let any one glance over the illustrated advertise- 
 ments in Country Life and see how frequently the 
 " old world gardens " are set forth as an irresistible 
 attraction of " a desirable residence." The artful ad- 
 vertisers know that the appeal of the old world is 
 still all-powerful, especially with those who have been 
 born in a city and have lived in a city for years. 
 Around Yardley there has sprung up quite recently 
 a colony of red-brick and, happily, red-roofed villas. 
 Nearly all have been admirably constructed, and with 
 an appreciation of the modern requirements in which 
 comfort and economy are combined. They have all 
 gardens, and no two are alike in every particular; 
 
42 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 but all are trim and easily looked after. They pro- 
 duce an abundance of flowers, and they are embow- 
 ered in flowering shrubs, every one of which seems 
 to me to be a specimen. More cheerful living-places 
 could not be imagined ; but it is not in these gardens 
 that you need look for the cloven vestiges of a faun 
 or the down brushed from the butterfly wings of a 
 fairy. Nobody wants them there, and there is no 
 chance of any of these wary folk coming where they 
 are not wanted. If old Pan were to climb over one of 
 these walls and his footprints were discovered in the 
 calceolaria bed, the master of the house would put 
 the matter in the hands of the local police, or write a 
 letter signed " Ratepayer " to the local Chronicle, in- 
 quiring how long were highly-taxed residents to be 
 subjected to such incursions, and blaming the " au- 
 thorities " for their laxity. 
 
 But there is, I repeat, no chance of the slumbers 
 of any of the ratepayers being disturbed by a blurred 
 vision of Proteus rising from the galvanised cistern, 
 or by the blast of Triton's wreathed horn. They will 
 not be made to feel less forlorn by a glimpse of the 
 former, and they would assuredly mistake the latter 
 for the hooter of Simpson's saw-mill. 
 
 " The authorities " look too well after the villas, 
 and the very suggestion of " authorities " would send 
 Proteus and Triton down to the deepest depths they 
 had ever sounded. They only come where they are 
 wanted and waited for. It takes at least four gen- 
 erations of a garden's growth to allow of the twisted 
 boughs of the oak or the chestnut turning into the 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 43 
 
 horns of a satyr, or of the gnarled roots becoming 
 his dancing shanks. 
 
 It was one of the most intelligent of the ratepayers 
 of these bright and well-kept " residences " who took 
 me to task for a very foolish statement he had found 
 in a novel of mine (6d. edition) which he said he had 
 glanced at for a few minutes while he was waiting 
 for a train. I had been thoughtless enough to make 
 one of the personages, an enterprising stockbroker, 
 advocate the promotion of a company for the salvage 
 of the diamonds which he had been told Queen Guine- 
 vere flung into the river before the appearance of 
 the barge with the lily maid of Astolat drifting to the 
 landing-place below the terrace. 
 
 " But you know they were not real diamonds — only 
 the diamonds of the poet's imagination," he said. 
 
 " I do believe you are right," said I, when I saw 
 that he was in earnest. And then the mongoose story 
 came to my mind. " They were not real diamonds," 
 I said. " But then the man wasn't a real company 
 promoter." 
 
CHAPTER THE FOURTH 
 
 Two hundred years is not a long time to look back 
 upon in the history of Yardley Parva: but it must 
 have been about two hundred years ago that there 
 were in the High Street some houses of distinction. 
 They belonged to noblemen who had also mansions 
 in the county, but who were too sociable and not 
 sufficiently fond of books to be resigned to such iso- 
 lation from their order as a mansion residence made 
 compulsory. In the little town they were in touch 
 with society of a sort: they could have their whist or 
 piquet or faro with their own set every afternoon, 
 and compare their thirsts at dinner later in the day. 
 
 One of these modest residences of a ducal family 
 faces the street to-day, after suffering many vicissi- 
 tudes, but with the character of its facade unimpaired. 
 The spacious ground-floor has been turned into shops 
 — it would be more correct to say that the shops had 
 been turned into the ground-floor, for structurally 
 there has been no drastic removal of walls or beams. 
 It has not been subjected to any violent evisceration, 
 only to a minor gastric operation — say for appendi- 
 citis. On the upper floors the beautiful proportions 
 of the rooms remain uninjured, and the mantelpieces 
 and the cornices have also been preserved. 
 
 44 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 45 
 
 The back of this house gives on to a part of the 
 dry moat from which the screen-wall of our Castle 
 rises, for Yardley had once a Castle of its own, and 
 picturesque remnants of the Keep, the great gate- 
 way, and the walls remain with us. Forty feet from 
 the bed of the moat on this side the walls rise, and 
 the moat must have been the site of the gardens of 
 the ducal house, curving to right and left for a couple 
 of hundred yards, and his lordship saw his chance for 
 indulging in one of the most transfiguring fads of 
 his day by making two high and broad terraces against 
 the walls, thereby creating an imposing range of those 
 hanging gardens that we hear so much of in old gar- 
 dening books. The Oriental tradition of hanging 
 gardens may have been brought to Europe with one 
 of those wares of Orientalism that were the result of 
 the later crusades; for assuredly at one time the re- 
 ported splendours of Babylon, Nineveh, and Eck- 
 batana in this direction were emulated by the great 
 in many places of the West, where the need for the 
 protection of the great Norman castles was begin- 
 ning to wane, and the high, bare walls springing from 
 the fosses, dry and flooded, looked gaunt and grim 
 just where people wanted a more genial outlook. 
 
 Powis Castle is the best example I can think of in 
 this connection. No one who has seen the hanging 
 gardens of these old walls can fail to appreciate how 
 splendidly effective must have been the appearance 
 of the terraces of Yardley when viewed from the moat 
 below. But in the course of time, as the roads im- 
 proved, making locomotion easier, the ducal mansion 
 
46 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 was abandoned in favour of another some miles nearer 
 the coast, and the note of exclusiveness being gone 
 from the shadow of the Castle walls, the terraces 
 ceased to be cultivated ; the moat being on a level with 
 the High Street, it became attractive as a site of every- 
 day houses, until in the course of time there sprang 
 up a row, and then a public-house or two, and cor- 
 porate offices and law-courts that only required a 
 hanging garden at assize times, when smugglers and 
 highwaymen were found guilty of crimes that made 
 such a place desirable — all these backed themselves 
 into the moat until it had to be recognised as a public 
 lane though a cul-de-sac as it is to-day. At the foot 
 of the once beautiful terraces outhouses and stables 
 were built as they were needed, with the happiest 
 irregularity, but joined by a flint wall over which 
 the straggling survivors of the trees and fruits of the 
 days gone by hang skeleton branches. One doorway 
 between two of the stables opens upon a fine stair- 
 way made of solid blocks of Portland stone, leading 
 into a gap in the screen-wall of the Castle, the ter- 
 race being to right and left, and giving access to the 
 grounds beyond, the appreciative possessor of which 
 writes these lines. Sic transit gloria. Another stone 
 stairway serves the same purpose at a different place ; 
 but all the other ascents are of brick and probably 
 only date back to the eighteenth century. They lead 
 to some elevated but depressing chicken-runs. 
 
 I called the attention of our chief local antiquarian 
 to the succession of broad terraces and suggested their 
 decorative origin. He shook his head and assured 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 47 
 
 me that they were ages older than the ducal residence 
 in the High Street. They belonged to the Norman 
 period and were coeval with the Castle walls. When 
 I told him that I was at a loss to know why the Nor- 
 man builder should first raise a screen-wall forty feet 
 up from a moat, to make it difficult for an enemy to 
 scale, and then go to an amazing amount of trouble 
 to make it easily accessible to quite a large attacking 
 force by a long range of terraces, he smiled the smile 
 of the local antiquarian — a kindly toleration of the 
 absurdities of the tyro — saying, — 
 
 "My dear sir, they would not mind such an attack. 
 They could always repel it by throwing stones down 
 from the top — it's ten feet thick there — yes, heavy 
 stones, and melted lead, and boiling water." 
 
 I did not want to throw cold water upon his re- 
 searches as to the defence of a mediaeval stronghold, 
 so I thanked him for his information. He disclaimed 
 all pretensions to exclusive knowledge, and said that 
 he would be happy to tell me anything else that I 
 wanted to learn about such things. 
 
 I could not resist expressing my fear to him, as we 
 were parting, that the Water Company would not 
 sanction the domestic supply from the kitchen boiler 
 being used outside the house for defensive purposes; 
 but he stilled my doubts by an assurance that in those 
 days there was no Water Company. This was well 
 enough so far as it went, but when I asked where the 
 Castle folk got their water if there was no Company 
 to supply it, he was slightly staggered, I could see; 
 but, recovering himself, he said there would certainly 
 
48 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 have been a Sussex dew-pond within the precincts, 
 and, as every one knew, this was never known to dry- 
 up. 
 
 I did not say that in this respect they had something 
 in common with local antiquarians ; but asked him if 
 it was true that swallows spent the winter in the mud 
 at the bottom of these ponds. He told me gravely 
 that he doubted if this could be; for there was not 
 enough mud in even the largest dew-pond to accom- 
 modate all the swallows. So I saw that he was as 
 sound a naturalist as he was an antiquarian. 
 
 By the way, I wonder how White of Selborne got 
 that idea about the swallows hibernating in the mud 
 at the bottom of ponds. When so keen a naturalist 
 as White could believe that, one feels tempted to ask 
 what is truth, and if it really is to be found, as the 
 swallows are not, at the bottom of a well. One could 
 understand Dr. Johnson's crediting the swallow the- 
 ory, and discrediting the story of the great earth- 
 quake at Lisbon, for he had his own lines of credence 
 and incredulity, and he was what somebody called " a 
 harbitrary gent "; but for White to have accepted and 
 promulgated such an absurdity is indeed an amazing 
 thing. 
 
 But, for that matter, who, until trustworthy evi- 
 dence was forthcoming a few months ago, ever 
 fancied that English swallows went as far south as 
 the Cape of Good Hope? This is now, however, an 
 established fact; but I doubt if White of Selborne 
 would have accepted it, no matter what evidence was 
 claimed for its accuracy. Several times when aboard 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 49 
 
 ship off the Cape I have made pets of swallows that 
 came to us and remained in the chief saloon so long 
 as there was a fly to be found ; and once in the month 
 of October, on the island of St. Helena, I watched 
 the sudden appearance of a number of the same birds ; 
 but it was never suggested that they had come from 
 England. I think I have seen them at Madeira in 
 the month of January, but I am not quite certain 
 about my dates in regard to this island; but I know 
 that when riding through Baines' Kloof in South 
 Africa, quite early in January, swallows were flying 
 about me in scores. 
 
 What a pity it seems that people with a reputation 
 for wisdom were for so long content to think of the 
 swallows only as the messengers of a love poem: the 
 ** swallow sister — oh, fleet, sweet swallow," or the 
 " swallow, swallow, flying, flying south " — instead of 
 piling up data respecting the wonder of their ways! 
 The same may be said of the nightingale, and may 
 the Lord have mercy on the souls of those who say it ! 
 
 Are we to be told to be ready to exchange Itylus 
 for a celluloid tab with a date on it? or Keats's Ode 
 for a corrected notation of the nightingale's trills? 
 At the same time might not a poet now and again 
 take to heart the final lines — the summing up of the 
 next most beautiful Ode in the language — 
 
 " Beauty is Truth, Truth beauty "? 
 
 Every fact in Nature seems to me to lead in the 
 direction of poetry, and to increase the wonder of 
 that of which man is but an insignificant part. We 
 
50 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 are only beginning to know a little about the part 
 we were designed to play in Nature, but the more we 
 know the more surprised, and, indeed, alarmed, we 
 must be when by a revelation its exact position is 
 made known to us. We have not yet learned to live. 
 We have been fools enough to cultivate the forgetting 
 of how to do things that we were able to do thou- 
 sands of years ago. The half of our senses have been 
 atrophied. It is many years since we first began to 
 take leave of our senses and we have been at it ever 
 since. It is about time that we started recognising 
 that an acquaintance with the facts of Nature is the 
 beginning of wisdom. We crystallised our ignorance 
 in phrases that have been passed on from father to 
 son, and quoted at every opportunity. We refer to 
 people being " blind as a bat," and to others being — 
 as " bold as a lion," or " harmless as a dove." Did 
 it never strike the inventor of any of these similes 
 that it would be well before scattering them abroad 
 to find out if they were founded on fact? The eye- 
 sight of the bat is a miracle. How such a creature 
 can get a living for the whole year during the sum- 
 mer months is amazing. The lion is a cowardly brute 
 that runs away yelling at the sight of a rhinoceros 
 and submits without complaint to the insults of the 
 elephant. A troop of doves will do more harm to 
 a wheat-field in an hour than does a thunderstorm. 
 
 And the curious thing is that in those quarters 
 where one would expect to find wisdom respecting 
 such incidents of Nature one finds foolishness. Ten 
 centuries of gamekeepers advertise their ignorance in 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 51 
 
 documentary evidence nailed to the barn doors; they 
 have been slaughtering their best friends all these 
 years and they continue doing so. 
 
 After formulating this indictment I opened my 
 Country Life, and found in its pages a confirmation 
 of my evidence by my friend F. C. G., who is prov- 
 ing himself in his maturity as accomplished a Natur- 
 alist as, in his adolescence, he was a caricaturist in the 
 Westminster Gazette. These are his lines: — 
 
 THE GAMEKEEPER'S GIBBET 
 
 Two stoats, a weasel, and a jay, 
 
 In varied stages of decay, 
 
 Are hanging on the gibbet-tree 
 
 For all the woodland folk to see, 
 
 And tattered rags swing to and fro 
 
 Remains of what was once a crow. 
 
 What were their crimes that when they died 
 
 The Earth was not allowed to hide 
 
 Their mangled corpses out of sight, 
 
 Instead of dangling in the light? 
 
 They didn't sin against the Law 
 
 Of " Nature red in tooth and claw," 
 
 But 'gainst the edicts of the keeper 
 
 Who plays the part of Death the Reaper, 
 
 And doth with deadly gun determine 
 
 What creatures shall be classed as vermin. 
 
 Whether we gibbets find, or grace, 
 
 Depends on accident of place, 
 
 For what is vice in Turkestan 
 
 May be a virtue in Japan. 
 
 F. C. G. 
 
52 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 And what about gardeners? Why, quite recently 
 I was solemnly assured by one of the profession that 
 I should " kill without mercy " — those were his words 
 — every frog or toad I found in a greenhouse! 
 
 But for that matter, don't we remember the harsh" 
 decrees of our pastors and masters when as children 
 we yielded to an instinct that had not yet been atro- 
 phied, and slaughtered all the flies that approached us. 
 I remember that, after a perceptor's reasoning with 
 me through the medium of a superannuated razor- 
 strop, I was told that to kill a bluebottle was a sin. 
 Now science has come to the rescue of the new gen- 
 eration from the consequences of the ignorance of the 
 old, and the boy who kills most flies in the course of 
 a season is handsomely rewarded. What is pro- 
 nounced a sin in one generation is looked on as a vir- 
 tue in the next. 
 
 I recollect seeing it stated in a Zoology for the Use 
 of Schools, compiled by an F.R.S., with long quota- 
 tions from Milton at the head of every chapter, that 
 the reason why some fishes of the Tropics were so 
 gorgeously coloured was to enable them to be more 
 easily seen by the voracious enemy that was pursu- 
 ing them. That was why God had endowed the glow- 
 worm with his glow — to give him a better chance of 
 attracting the attention of the nightingale or any 
 other bird that did not go to roost before dark ! And 
 God had also given the firefly its spark that it might 
 display its hospitality to the same birds that had been 
 entertained by the glow-worm! My informant had 
 not mastered the alphabet of Nature. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 53 
 
 Long after I had tried to see things through Dar- 
 win's eyes I was perplexed by watching a cat trying 
 to get the better of a sparrow in the garden. I no- 
 ticed that every time it had crouched to make its 
 pounce the cat waved its tail. Why on earth it should 
 try to make itself conspicuous in this way when it was 
 flattening itself into the earth that was nearest to it 
 in colour, and writhing towards its prey, seemed to 
 me remarkable. Once, however, I was able to watch 
 the cat approach when I was seated beyond where 
 the sparrow was digging up worms, and the cat had 
 slipped among the lower boughs of an ash covered 
 with trembling leaves. 
 
 There among the trembling leaves I saw another 
 trembling leaf — the soothing, swaying end of my 
 cat's tail; but if I had not known that it was there 
 I should not have noticed it apart from the moving 
 leaves. The bird with all its vigilance was deceived, 
 and it was in the cat's jaws in another moment. 
 
 And I had been calling that cat — and, incidentally, 
 Darwin — a fool for several years! I do not know 
 what my Zoologist " for the Use of Schools " would 
 have made of the transaction. Would he have said 
 that a cat abhorred the sin of lying, and scorned to 
 take advantage of the bird, but gave that graceful 
 swing to its tail to make the bird aware of its men- 
 acing proximity? 
 
 I lived for eleven years in a house in Kensington 
 with quite a spacious garden behind it, and was blest 
 for several years by the company of a pair of black- 
 birds that made their nest among the converging twigs 
 
54 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 of a high lilac. No cat could climb that tree in spring, 
 as I perceived when I had watched the frustrated at- 
 tempts of the splendid blue Persian who was my con- 
 stant companion. Of course I lived in that garden 
 for hours every day during the months of April, May, 
 June, and July, and we guarded the nest very closely, 
 even going so far as to disturb the balance of Nature 
 by sending the cat away on a visit when the young 
 birds were being fledged. But one month of May 
 arrived, and though I noticed the parent blackbirds 
 occasionally among the trees and shrubs, I never once 
 saw them approaching the old nest, which, as in pre- 
 vious seasons, was smothered out of sight in the fol- 
 iage about it, for a poplar towered above the lilac, 
 and was well furnished. 
 
 I remarked to my man that I was afraid our black- 
 birds had deserted us this year, and he agreed with 
 me. But one day early in June I saw the cat look 
 wistfully up the lilac. 
 
 " He hasn't forgotten the nest that was there," I 
 said. " But I'm sure he'll find out in which of the 
 neighbouring gardens the new one has been built." 
 
 But every day he came out and gazed up as if into 
 the depths of the foliage above our heads. 
 
 " Ornithology is his hobby," said I, " but he's not 
 so smart as I fancied, or he would be hustling around 
 the other gardens where he should know murder can 
 be done with impunity." 
 
 The next day my man brought out a pair of steps, 
 and placing them firmly under the lilac, ascended to 
 the level of where the nest had been in former years. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 55 
 
 At once there came the warning chuckle of the black- 
 birds from the boughs of the poplar. 
 
 " Why, bless my soul ! There are four young ones 
 in the nest, and they're nearly ready to fly," sang out 
 the investigator from above, and the parents cor- 
 roborated every word from the poplar. 
 
 I was amazed. It seemed impossible that I could 
 have sat writing under that tree day after day for two 
 months, watching for signs that the birds were there, 
 and yet fail to notice them at their work either of 
 hatching or feeding. It was not carelessness or in- 
 difference they had eluded; it was vigilance. I had 
 looked daily for their coming, and there was no fine 
 day in which I was not in the garden for four hours, 
 practically immovable, and the nest was not more 
 than ten feet from the ground, yet I had remained 
 in ignorance of all that was going on above my head ! 
 
 With such an experience I do not think that it 
 becomes me to sneer too definitely at the stupidity 
 of gamekeepers or farmers. It is when I read as I 
 do from week to week in Country Life of the labor- 
 ious tactics of those photographers who have brought 
 us into closer touch with the secret life of birds than 
 all the preceding generations of naturalists succeeded 
 in doing, that I feel more charitably disposed toward 
 the men who mistake friends for foes in the air. 
 
 Every year I give prizes to the younger members 
 of our household to induce them to keep their eyes 
 and their ears open to their fellow-creatures who may 
 be seen and heard at times. The hearing of the 
 earliest cuckoo meets with its reward, quite apart 
 
56 - A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 from the gratifying of an aesthetic sense by the quot- 
 ing of Wordsworth. The sighting of the first swal- 
 lows is quoted somewhat lower on the chocolate ex- 
 change, but the market recovers almost to a point 
 of buoyancy on hearing the nightingale. The cuckoo 
 is an uncertain customer and requires some looking 
 after; but the swallows are marvellously punctual. 
 We have never seen them in our neighbourhood be- 
 fore April the nineteenth. For five years the Twenty- 
 first is recorded as their day. The nightingale does 
 not visit our garden, which is practically in the middle 
 of the town ; but half a mile away one is heard almost 
 every year. Upon one happy occasion it was seen as 
 well as heard, which constituted a standard of recog- 
 nition not entertained before. 
 
 I asked for an opinion of the bird from the two 
 girls who had had this stroke of luck. 
 
 Each took a different standpoint in regard to its 
 attainments. 
 
 " I never heard anything so lovely in all my life," 
 said Rosamund, aged ten. " It made you long to — 
 to — I don't know what. It was lovely." 
 
 " And what was your opinion, Olive? " I asked of 
 the second little girl. 
 
 My Olive branch looked puzzled for a few min- 
 utes, but she had the sense to perceive that compara- 
 tive criticism is safe, when a departure from the 
 beaten track is contemplated. Her departure was 
 parabolic. 
 
 " I didn't think it half as pretty a bird as Miss 
 Midleton's parrot," she said with conviction. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 57 
 
 Miss Midleton's parrot is a gorgeous conglomera- 
 tion of crimson and blue, like the 'at of 'arriet, that 
 should be looked at through smoked glasses and heard 
 not at all. 
 
 I think that I shall have Olive educated to take her 
 place in a poultry run; while Rosamund looks after 
 the rose garden. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 My antiquary came to me early on the day after 
 I had asked him for information about the hanging 
 gardens. 
 
 " I've been talking to my friend Thompson on the 
 subject of those hanging gardens of the Duke's," said 
 he; " and I thought that you would like to hear what 
 he says. He agrees with me — I fancied he would. 
 The Duke had no power to hang any one in his gar- 
 dens, Thompson says ; and even if he had the power, 
 the pear-trees that we see there now weren't big 
 enough to hang a man on." 
 
 " A man — a man! My dear sir, I wasn't thinking 
 of his hanging men there: it was clothes — clothes — 
 linen — pants — shirts — pajamas, and the like." 
 
 " Oh, that's quite another matter," said he. 
 
 I agreed with him. 
 
CHAPTER THE FIFTH 
 
 In a foregoing page I brought those who are ready 
 to submit to my guidance up to the boundary wall of 
 my Garden of Peace by the stone staircases sloping 
 between the terraces of the old hanging gardens of 
 the Castle moat. With apologies for such a furtive 
 approach I hasten to admit them through the entrance 
 that is in keeping with their rank and station. I bow 
 them through the Barbican Entrance, which is of it- 
 self a stately tower, albeit on the threshold of mod- 
 ernity, having been built in the reign of Edward II., 
 really not more than six hundred years ago. I feel 
 inclined to apologise for mentioning this structure of 
 yesterday when I bring my friends on a few yards to 
 the real thing — the true Castle gateway, gloriously 
 gaunt and grim, with the grooves for the portcullis 
 and the hinges on which the iron-barbed gate once 
 swung. There is no suggestion in its architecture of 
 that effeminacy of the Perpendicular Period, which 
 may be seen in the projecting parapet of the Barbi- 
 can, pierced to allow of the molten lead of my an- 
 tiquary being ladled out over the enemy who has not 
 been baffled by the raising of the drawbridge. Molten 
 lead is well enough in its way, and no doubt, when 
 brought up nice and warm from the kitchen, and al- 
 
 58 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 59 
 
 lowed to drop through the apertures, it was more or 
 less irritating as it ran off the edge of the helmets 
 below and began to trickle down the backs of an 
 attacking party. The body-armour was never skin- 
 tight, and molten lead has had at all times an annoy- 
 ing way of rinding out the joinings in a week-day coat 
 of mail; we know how annoying the drip of a neigh- 
 bour's umbrella can be when it gets through the de- 
 fence of one's mackintosh collar and meanders down 
 one's back. — No, not a word should be said against 
 molten lead as a sedative; but even its greatest ad- 
 mirers must allow that as a medium of discourage- 
 ment to an enemy of ordinary sensitiveness it lacked 
 the robustness of the falling Rock. 
 
 The Decorative note of the Perpendicular period 
 may have been in harmony with such trifling as is 
 incidental to molten lead, but the stern and uncom- 
 promising Early Norman gate would defend itself 
 only with the Rock. That was its character; and 
 when a few hundredweight of solid unsculptured stone 
 were dropped from its machicolated parapet upon 
 the armed men who were fiddling with the lock of the 
 gate below, the people in the High Street could hardly 
 have heard themselves chatting across that thorough- 
 fare on account of the noise, and tourists must have 
 fancied that there was a boiler or two being repaired 
 by a conscientious staff anxious to break the riveting 
 record. 
 
 Everything remains of the Castle gateway except 
 the Gate. The structure is some forty feet high and 
 twelve feet thick. The screen- wall was joined to it 
 
60 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 on both sides, and when you pass under the arch and 
 through a more humble doorway in the wall you are 
 at the entrance to my Garden of Peace. 
 
 This oaken door has a little history of its own. For 
 several years after I came to Yardley Parva I used 
 to stand opposite to it in one of the many narrow lanes 
 leading to the ramparts of the town. I knew that the 
 building to which it belonged, and where some humble 
 industry was carried on, embodied the ancient church 
 of Ste. Ursula-in-Foro. The stone doorway is illus- 
 trated in an old record of the town, and I saw where 
 the stone had been worn away by the Crusaders sharp- 
 ening the barbs of their arrows on it for luck. I had 
 three carefully thought-out plans for acquiring this 
 door and doorway; but on consideration I came to the 
 conclusion that they were impracticable, unless an- 
 other Samson were to come among us with all the ex- 
 perience of his Gaza feat. 
 
 I had ceased to pass through that ancient lane; it 
 had become too much for me ; when suddenly I noticed 
 building operations going on at the place; a Cinema 
 palace was actually being constructed on the conse- 
 crated site of the ancient church! Happily the door 
 and the doorway were not treated as material for the 
 housebreaker; they were removed into the cellar of 
 the owner of the property, and from him they were 
 bought by me for a small sum — much less than I 
 should have had to pay for the shaped stones alone. 
 The oak door I set in the wall of my house, and the 
 doorway I brought down my garden where it now 
 features as an arch spanning one of the paths. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 61 
 
 But my good fortune did not end here; for a few 
 years later a fine keystone with a sculptured head of 
 Ste. Ursula was dug up in the little garden behind 
 the site of the tiny church, and was presented to me 
 with the most important fragments of two deeply- 
 carved capitals such as one now and again sees at the 
 entrance to a Saxon Church ; and so at last these pre- 
 cious relics of mediaeval piety are joined together after 
 a disjunctive interval of perhaps five or six hundred 
 years, and, moreover, on a spot not more than a few 
 hundred feet from where they had originally been 
 placed. 
 
 Sir Martin Conway told some years ago of his re- 
 markable discovery in the grounds of an English 
 country house, of one of the missing capitals of Theo- 
 docius, with its carved acanthus leaves blown by the 
 wind and the monogram of Theodocius himself. A 
 more astounding discovery than this can hardly be 
 imagined. No one connected with it was able to say 
 how it found its way to the place where it caught the 
 eye of a trustworthy antiquarian; and this fact sug- 
 gested to me the advisability of attaching an engraved 
 label to such treasure trove, giving their history as far 
 as is known to the possessors. The interest attaching 
 to them would be thereby immensely increased, and it 
 would save much useless conjecture on the part of 
 members of Antiquarian Societies. Some people seem 
 to think that paying a subscription to an Antiquarian 
 Society makes one a fully qualified antiquarian, just 
 as some people fancy that being a Royal Academician 
 makes one a good painter. 
 
62 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 The great revival in this country in the taste for 
 the Formal Garden and the Dutch Garden has 
 brought about the introduction of an immense number 
 of sculptured pieces of decoration; and one feels that 
 in the course of time our gardens will be as well fur- 
 nished in this way as those of Italy. The well-heads 
 of various marbles, with all the old ironwork that one 
 sees nowadays in the yards of the importers, are as 
 amazing as the number of exquisite columns for per- 
 golas, garden seats of the most imposing character, 
 vases of bronze as well as stone or marble, and wall 
 fountains. And I have no doubt that the importers 
 would make any purchaser acquainted with the place 
 of origin of most of these. Of course we know pretty 
 well by now where so many of the treasures of the 
 Villa Borghese are to be found; but there are hun- 
 dreds of other pieces of sixteenth and seventeenth 
 century Italian work that arrive in England, and 
 quite as many that go to the United States, without 
 any historical record attached to them. I do hope 
 that the buyers of these lovely things will see how 
 greatly their value and the interest attaching to them 
 would be increased by such memoranda of their 
 origin. 
 
 The best symbol of Peace is a ploughshare that 
 was once a sword ; and surely a garden that has been 
 made in the Tiltyard of a Norman Castle may be 
 looked on as an emblem of the same Beatitude. That 
 is how it comes that every one who enters our garden 
 cries, — 
 
 " How wonderfully peaceful ! " 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 63 
 
 I have analysed their impression that forces them 
 to say that. The mild bustle of the High Street of 
 a country town somehow imposes itself upon one, for 
 the simple reason that you can hear it and observe it. 
 The bustle of London is something quite different. 
 One is not aware of it. You cannot see the wood for 
 the trees. It is all a wild roar. But when our High 
 Street is at its loudest you can easily distinguish one 
 sound from another. 
 
 Then the constant menace of motor-cars rushing 
 through the High Street leaves an impression that 
 does not vanish the moment one turns into the passage 
 of the barbican; and upon it comes the sight of the 
 defensive masonry, which is quite terrific for the mo- 
 ment; then comes the looming threat of the Norman 
 gateway which gives promise of no compromise! It 
 is not necessary that one should have a particularly 
 vivid imagination to hear the clash and clang of arm- 
 oured men riding forth with lances and battleaxes; 
 and when one steps aside out of their way, the rest is 
 silence and the silence is rest. 
 
 " How wonderfully peaceful! " every one cries. 
 
 And so it is. 
 
 You can hear the humming of a bee — the flick of a 
 swallow's wing, the tinkle of the fountain — a delight- 
 ful sound like the counting out of the threepenny 
 pieces in the Church Vestry after a Special Collec- 
 tion — and the splash of a blackbird in its own partic- 
 ular bath. These are the sounds that cause the silence 
 to startle you. " Darkness visible," is Milton's phrase. 
 But to make an adaptation of it is not enough to ex- 
 
64 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 press what one feels on entering a walled garden from 
 a street even of a country town. There is an out- 
 break of silence the moment the door is closed, and 
 it is in a hushed tone that one says, when one is able 
 to speak, — 
 
 " How wonderfully peaceful! " 
 
 I think that a garden is not a garden unless it is 
 walled. Perhaps a high hedge of yew or box conveys 
 the same impression as a built-up wall; but I am not 
 quite certain on this point. The impression has re- 
 mained with us since the days when an Englishman's 
 home was his castle and an Englishman's castle his 
 home. What every one sought was security, and a 
 consciousness of security only came when one was 
 within walls. In going through a country of wild 
 animals one has a kindred feeling when the fire is 
 lighted at nightfall. Another transmitted instinct is 
 that which forces one to look backward on a road 
 when the sound of steps tells one that one is being 
 followed. The earliest English gardens of which any 
 record remains were walled. In the illustrations to 
 the Romaunt of the Rose, we see this; and possibly 
 the maze became a feature of the garden in order to 
 increase the sense of security from the knife of an 
 enemy whose slaughter had been overlooked by the 
 mediaeval horticultural enthusiast, who sought for 
 peace and quiet on Prussian principles. 
 
 I think it was the appearance of the walls that 
 forced me to buy my estate of a superficial acre. Cer- 
 tainly until I saw them I had no idea of such a pur- 
 chase. If any one had told me on that morning when 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 05 
 
 I strolled up the High Street of Yardley Parva while 
 the battery of my car was being re-charged after the 
 manner of those pre-magneto times, that I should take 
 such a step I would have laughed. But it was a day 
 of August sunshine and there was an auction of fur- 
 niture going on in the house. This fact gave me en- 
 tree to the " old-world garden " of the agent's adver- 
 tisement, and when I saw the range of walls ablaze 
 with many-coloured snapdragons above the double 
 row of hollyhocks in the border at their foot, I " found 
 peace," as the old Revivalists used to phrase the senti- 
 ment, only their assurance was of a title to a mansion 
 in the skies, while I was less ambitious. I sought 
 peace and ensued it, purchasing the freehold, and I 
 have been ensuing it ever since. 
 
 The mighty walls of the old Castle compass us 
 about as they did the various dwellers within their 
 shelter eight hundred years ago. On one side they 
 vary from twelve feet to thirty in height, but on the 
 outer side they rise from the moat and loom from 
 forty to fifty feet above the lowest of the terraces. 
 At one part, where a Saxon earthwork makes a long 
 curved hillock at the farther end of the grounds, the 
 wall is only ten feet above the grassy walk, but forty 
 feet down on the other side. The Norman Conqueror 
 simply built his wall resting against the mound of 
 the original and more elementary fortification. Here 
 the line of the screen breaks off abruptly; but we can 
 see that at one time it was carried on to an artificial 
 hill on the summit of which the curious feature of a 
 second keep was built — the well-preserved main keep 
 
66 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 forms an imposing incident of the landscape in the 
 opposite direction. 
 
 The small plateau which was once enclosed by the 
 screen-wall is not more than three acres in extent; 
 from its elevation of a couple of hundred feet it over- 
 looks the level country and the shallow river-way for 
 many miles — a tranquil landscape of sylvan beauty 
 dominated by the everlasting Downs. Almost to the 
 very brink of the lofty banks of the plateau on one 
 side we have an irregular bowling-green, bordered by 
 a row of pollard ashes. From a clause in one of my 
 title deeds I find that three hundred years ago the 
 bowling-green was in active existence and played a 
 useful part as a landmark in the delimitation of 
 the frontier. It is brightly green at all seasons; 
 and the kindly neighbouring antiquarian confided 
 in me how its beauty was attained and is main- 
 tained. 
 
 " Some time ago an American tourist asked the man 
 who was mowing it how it came to be such a fine green, 
 and says the man, ' Why, it's as easy as snuffling : all 
 you've got to do is to lay it down with good turf at 
 first and keep on cutting it for three or four hundred 
 years and the thing is done.' Smart of the fellow, 
 wasn't it? " 
 
 " It was very smart," I admitted. 
 
 Our neighbour showed his antiquarian research in 
 another story as well as in this one. It related to the 
 curate of a local parish who, in the unavoidable ab- 
 sence of his vicar, who was a Rural Dean, found him- 
 self taking a timid breakfast with the Bishop of the 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 67 
 
 Diocese. He was naturally a shy man and he was 
 shying very highly over an egg that he had taken and 
 that was making a very hearty appeal to him. Ob- 
 serving him, the Bishop, with a thorough knowledge 
 of his Diocese, and being well aware that the elec- 
 toral contest which had been expected a few months 
 earlier had not taken place, turned to the curate and 
 remarked 
 
 But if you've heard the story before what he re- 
 marked will not appeal to you so strongly as the egg 
 did to the clergyman; so there is nothing gained by 
 repeating the remark or the response intoned by the 
 curate. 
 
 But when our antiquarian told us both we heartily 
 agreed with him that that curate deserved to be a 
 bishop. 
 
 We are awaiting without impatience, I trust, the 
 third of this Troika team of anecdotes — the one that 
 refers to the Scotsman and Irishman who came to 
 the signpost that told all who couldn't read to inquire 
 at the blacksmith's. That story is certain to be re- 
 vealed to us in time. The antiquarian from the stable 
 of whose memory the other two of the team were let 
 loose cannot possibly restrain the third. 
 
 Such things are pleasantly congenial with the scent 
 of lavender in an old-world garden that knows noth- 
 ing of how busy people are in the new world outside 
 its boundary. But what are we to say when we find 
 in a volume of serious biography published last year 
 only as a previously unheard-of instance of the wit 
 of the " subject," the story of the gentleman who, 
 
68 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 standing at the entrance to his club, was taken for 
 the porter by a member coming out? 
 
 " Call me a cab," said the latter. 
 
 " You're a cab," was the prompt reply. 
 
 The story in the biography stops there; but the 
 original one shows the wit making a second score on 
 punning points. 
 
 " What do you mean? " cried the other. " I told 
 you to call me a cab." 
 
 " And I've called you a cab. You didn't expect 
 me to call you handsome," said the ready respondent. 
 
 Now that story was a familiar Strand story forty 
 years ago when H. J. Byron was at the height of his 
 fame, and he was made the hero of the pun (assum- 
 ing that it is possible for a hero to make a pun) . 
 
 But, of course, no one can vouch for the mint from 
 which such small coin issues. If a well-known man is 
 in the habit of making puns all the puns of his gen- 
 eration are told in the next with his name attached 
 to them. H. J. Byron was certainly as good a pun- 
 ster as ever wrote a burlesque for the old Gaiety; 
 though a good deal of the effect of his puns was due 
 to their delivery by Edward Terry. But nothing that 
 Byron wrote was so good as Burnand's title to his 
 Burlesque on Rob Roy, the play which Mrs Bateman 
 had just revived at Sadler's Wells. Burnand called 
 it Robbing Roy, or Scotched, not Kilt. The parody 
 on " Roy's Wife," sung by Terry, was exquisite, and 
 very topical, — 
 
 " Roy's wife of Alldivalloch ! 
 Roy's wife of Alldivalloch ! 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 69 
 
 Oh, while she 
 Is wife to me, 
 Is life worth living, Mr. Mallock?" 
 
 Mr. Mallock's book was being widely discussed in 
 those days, and Punch had his pun on it with the 
 rest. 
 
 " Is Life worth living? " " It depends on the 
 liver." 
 
 The Garrick Club stories of Byron, Gilbert, and 
 Burnand were innumerable. To the first-named was 
 attributed the dictum that a play was like a cigar. 
 " If it was a good one all your friends wanted a box ; 
 but if it was a bad one no amount of puffing would 
 make it draw." 
 
 The budding litterateurs of those days — and nights 
 — used to go from hearing stories of Byron's latest, 
 to the Junior Garrick to hear Byron make up fresh 
 ones about old Mrs. Swanborough of the Strand 
 Theatre. Some of them were very funny. Mrs. Swan- 
 borough was a clever old lady with whom I was ac- 
 quainted when I was very young. She never gave 
 utterance to the things Byron tacked on to her. I 
 recollect how amused I was to hear Byron's stories 
 about her told to me by Arthur Swanborough about 
 an old lady who had just retired from the stage, and 
 then, passing on to Orme Square on a Sunday eve- 
 ning, to hear " Johnny Toole," as he was to the very 
 youngest of us, tell the same stories about a dear old 
 girl who was still in his company at the Folly Theatre. 
 
 So much for the circulation of everyday anecdotes. 
 Dean Swift absorbed most of the creations of the early 
 
70 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 eighteenth century; then Dr. Johnson became the 
 father of as many as would fill a volume. Theodore 
 Hook, Tom Hood, Shirley Brooks, Albert Smith, 
 Mark Lemon, and several others whose names convey 
 little to the present generation, were the reputed par- 
 ents of the puns which enlivened the great Victorian 
 age. But if a scrupulous historian made up his mind 
 to apply for a paternity order against any one of 
 these gay dogs, that historian would have difficulty 
 in bringing forward sufficient evidence to have it 
 granted. 
 
 The late Mr. M. A. Robertson, of the Treaty De- 
 partment of the Foreign Office, told me that his 
 father — the celebrated preacher known to fame as 
 " Robertson of Brighton " — had described to him the 
 important part played by the pun in the early sixties. 
 At a dinner-party at which the Reverend Mr. Rob- 
 ertson was a guest, a humorist who was present 
 picked up the menu card and set the table on a roar 
 with his punning criticism of every plat. Robertson 
 thought that such a spontaneous effort was a very 
 creditable tour de force — doubtless the humorist 
 would have called it a tour de farce — but a few nights 
 later he was at another party which was attended by 
 the same fellow-guest, and once again the menu, 
 which happened to be exactly the same also, was 
 casually picked up and dealt with seriatim as before, 
 with an equally hilarious effect. He mentioned to the 
 hostess as a curious coincidence that he should find 
 her excellent dinner identical with the one of which 
 he had partaken at the other house ; and then she con- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 71 
 
 fided in him that the great punster had given her the 
 bill of fare that afforded him his opportunity of dis- 
 playing his enlivening trick ! Robertson gave me the 
 name of this Victorian artist, but there is no need for 
 me to reveal it in this place. The story, however, 
 allows us a glimpse into the studio of one of the word- 
 jugglers of other days; and when one has been made 
 aware of the machinery of his mysteries, one ceases 
 to marvel. 
 
 Two brothers, Willie and Oscar Wilde, earned 
 many dinners in their time by their conversational 
 abilities ; and I happen to know that before going out 
 together they rehearsed very carefully the exchange 
 of their impromptus at the dinner table. Both of 
 these brothers were brilliant conversationalists, and 
 possessed excellent memories. They were equally 
 unscrupulous and unprincipled. The only psycho- 
 logical distinction between the two was that the elder, 
 Willie, possessed an impudence of a quality which 
 was not among Oscar's gifts. Oscar was impudent 
 enough to take his call on the first night of Lady 
 Windermere's Fan smoking a cigarette, and to assure 
 the audience that he had enjoyed the play immensely; 
 but he was never equal to his brother in this special 
 line. Willie was a little over twenty and living with 
 his parents in Dublin, where he had a friendly little 
 understanding with a burlesque actress who was the 
 principal boy in the pantomime at the Gaiety 
 Theatre. She wrote to him one day making an ap- 
 pointment with him for the night, and asking him 
 to call for her at the stage door. The girl addressed 
 
72 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 the letter to " Wm. Wilde, Esq.," at his home, and 
 as his father's name was William he opened it me- 
 chanically and read it. He called Willie into his 
 study after breakfast and put the letter before him, 
 crying, "Read that, sir!" 
 
 The son obeyed, folded it up and handed it back, 
 saying quietly, — 
 
 " Well, dad, do you intend to go? " 
 
 To obtain ready cash and good dinners, Willie 
 Wilde, when on the staff of a great London news- 
 paper, was ready to descend to any scheming and any 
 meanness. But the descriptive column that he wrote 
 of the sittings of the Parnell Commission day after 
 day could not be surpassed for cleverness and in- 
 sight. He would lounge into the Court at any time 
 he pleased and remain for an hour or so, rarely 
 longer, and he spent the rest of the day amusing him- 
 self and flushing himself with brandies and soda at 
 the expense of his friends. He usually began to 
 write his article between eleven and twelve at night. 
 
 Such were these meteoric brothers before the cen- 
 trifugal force due to their revolutionary instinct sent 
 them flying into space. 
 
 But one handful of the meteoric dust of the con- 
 versation of either was worth all the humour of the 
 great Victorian punsters. 
 
CHAPTER THE SIXTH 
 
 From the foregoing half-dozen pages it is becoming 
 pretty clear that a Garden of Peace may also be 
 a Garden of Memories. But I am sure that one of 
 the greatest attractions of garden life to a man who 
 has stepped out of a busy world — its strepitumque 
 mrumque, is that it compels him to look forward, 
 while permitting him to look back. The very act of 
 dropping a seed into the soil is prospective. To see 
 things growing is stimulating, whether they are chil- 
 dren or other flowers. One has no time to think how 
 one would order one's career, avoiding the mistakes 
 of the past, if one got a renewal of one's lease of life, 
 for in a garden we are ever planning for the future; 
 but these rustling leaves of memory are useful as a 
 sort of mulch for the mind. 
 
 And the garden has certainly grown since I first 
 entered it ten years ago. It was originally to be re- 
 ferred to in the singular, but now it must be thought 
 of in the plural. It was a garden, now it is gardens; 
 and whether I have succeeded or not my experience 
 compels me to believe that to aim at the plural makes 
 for success. Two gardens, each of thirty feet square, 
 are infinitely better than one garden of sixty. I am 
 sure of that to-day, but it took me some time to find 
 
 73 
 
74 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 it out. A garden to be distinctive must have distinct 
 features, like every other thing of life. 
 
 I notice that most writers on garden-making begin 
 by describing what a wilderness their place was when 
 they first took it in hand. I cannot maintain that 
 tradition. Mine had nothing of the wilderness about 
 it. On the contrary, it was just too neat for my 
 taste. The large lawn on to which some of the lower 
 rooms of the house opened, had broad paths on each 
 side and a broad flower border beyond. There was 
 not a shrub on the lawn and only one tree — a majestic 
 deodar spreading itself abroad at an angle of the 
 nearest wing of the house; but on a knoll at the far- 
 ther end of the lawn there were, we discovered next 
 summer, pink and white mays, a wild cherry, and a 
 couple of laburnums, backed by a towering group 
 made up of sycamores and chestnuts. Such a plan of 
 planting could not be improved upon, I felt certain, 
 though I did not discuss it at the time ; for I was not 
 out to make an alteration, and my attention was 
 wholly occupied with the appearance of the ancient 
 walls, glorious with snapdragon up to the lilacs that 
 made a coping of colour for the whole high range, 
 while the lower brick boundary opposite was covered 
 with pears and plums clasping hands in espalier form 
 from end to end. 
 
 But I was not sure about the flower borders which 
 contained alternate clumps of pink geraniums and 
 white daisies. Perhaps they were too strongly remi- 
 niscent of the window-boxes of the Cromwell Road 
 through which I had walked every day for nearly 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 75 
 
 twenty years, and in time one grows weary even of 
 the Cromwell Road! 
 
 But so well did the accident of one elbow of the 
 wall of the bowling-green pushing itself out lend 
 itself to the construction of the garden, that the first 
 and most important element in garden-design was 
 attained. This, I need hardly say, is illusion and sur- 
 prise. One fancied that here the limits of the ground 
 had been reached, for a fine deciduous oak seemed to 
 block the way; but with investigation one found 
 oneself at the entrance to a new range of grounds 
 which, though only about three times as large as the 
 first, seemed almost illimitable. 
 
 The greater part had at one time been an orchard, 
 we could see ; but the trees had been planted too close 
 to one another, and after thirty or forty years of 
 jostling, had ceased to be of any pictorial or com- 
 mercial value, and I saw that these would have to 
 go. Beyond there was a kitchen garden and a large 
 glass-house, and on one side there was a long curve 
 of grass terrace made out of the Saxon or Roman 
 earthwork, against which, as I have already said, the 
 Norman walls were built, showing only about twelve 
 or fifteen feet above the terrace, while being forty 
 or fifty down to the dry moat outside. This low 
 mural line was a mass of antirrhinums, wallflowers, 
 and such ferns as thrive in rock crevices. 
 
 There was abviously not much to improve in all 
 this. We were quite satisfied with everything as it 
 stood. There was nothing whatsoever of the wilder- 
 ness that we could cause to blossom as the rose, only 
 
76 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 — not a rose was to be seen in any part of the 
 garden ! 
 
 We were conscious of the want, for our Kensington 
 garden had been a mass of roses, and we were ready 
 to join on to Victor Hugo's " TJne maison sans 
 enfants" te un jardin sans roses.' 3 But we were not 
 troubled; roses are as easily to be obtained as bram- 
 bles — in fact rather more easily — and we had only to 
 make up our minds where to plant them and they 
 would blush all over the place the next summer. 
 
 We had nothing to complain of but much to be 
 thankful for, when, after being in the house for a 
 month, I found the old gardener, whom we had taken 
 over with the place, wheeling his barrow through a 
 doorway which I knew led to a dilapidated potting- 
 shed, and as I saw that the barrow was laden with 
 rubbish I had the curiosity to follow him to see where 
 he should dispose of it. 
 
 He went through a small iron gate in the wall 
 alongside the concealed potting-house, and, following 
 him, I found myself to my amazement in a small 
 walled space, forty feet by thirty, containing rubbish, 
 but giving every one with eyes to see such a picture 
 of the Barbican, the Castle Gate with the Keep 
 crowning the mound beyond, as made me shout — such 
 a picture as was not to be found in the county! 
 
 If it had a fault at all it was to be found in its 
 perfection. Every one has, I hope, seen the Sham 
 Castle, the castellated gateway, built on Hampton 
 Down, near Bath, to add picturesqueness to the pros- 
 pect as seen from the other side. This is as perfectly 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 77 
 
 made a ruin as ever was built up by stage carpenters. 
 There was no reason why it should not be so, for it 
 was easy to put a stone in here and there if an im- 
 provement were needed, or to dilapidate a bit of a 
 tower until the whole would meet with the approval 
 even of the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, who are, I 
 am given to understand, the best informed authorities 
 in England on the assessment of dilapidations. I 
 must confess that the first glimpse I had of the pic- 
 ture that stood before my eyes above my newly- 
 acquired rubbish-heaps suggested the perfection of 
 a sham. The mise-en-scene seemed too elaborate — 
 too highly finished — no detail that could add to the 
 effect being absent. But there it was, and I remained 
 looking at it for the rest of the day. 
 
 The over-conscientious agents had said not a word 
 in the inventory of the most valuable asset in connec- 
 tion with the property. They had scrupulously ad- 
 vertised the " unique and valuable old-fashioned resi- 
 dence," and the fact that it was partially " covered 
 by creepers " — a partiality to which I was not very 
 partial — and that the " billiard saloon " had the same 
 advantages — they had not failed to allude to the gar- 
 dens as " old-world and quaint," but not one word 
 had they said about this view from the well-matured 
 rubbish-heaps! 
 
 It was at this point that I began to think about 
 improvements, and the first essay in this direction 
 was obvious. I had the rubbish removed, the ground 
 made straight, a stone sundial placed in the centre, 
 and a Dutch pattern of flower-beds cut around it. 
 
78 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 On the coping of the walls — they were only six feet 
 high on our side, but forty on the outside — I placed 
 lead and stone vases and a balustrade of wrought 
 iron-work. I made an immense window in the wall 
 of the potting-shed — a single sheet of plate-glass with 
 four small casements of heraldic stained glass; and 
 then the old potting-shed I panelled in coloured mar- 
 bles, designed a sort of domed roof for it and laid 
 down a floor in mosaics. I had in my mind a room 
 in the Little Trianon in all this; and I meant to treat 
 the view outside as a picture set in one wall. Of 
 course I did not altogether succeed; but I have gone 
 sufficiently far to deceive more than one visitor. 
 Entering the room through a mahogany door set with 
 a round panel of beautifully-clouded onyx — once a 
 table-top in the gay George's pavilion at Brighton — 
 a visitor sees the brass frame of the large window en- 
 closing the picture of the Barbican, the Gateway, and 
 the Keep, and it takes some moments to under- 
 stand it. 
 
 All this sounds dreadfully expensive; but through 
 finding a really intelligent builder and men who were 
 ready to do all that was asked of them, and, above 
 all, through having abundance of material collected 
 wherever it was going at shillings instead of pounds, 
 I effected the transformation at less than a sixth of the 
 lowest assessment of the cost made by professional 
 friends. To relieve myself from any vain charge of 
 extravagance, I may perhaps be permitted to mention 
 that when the property was offered for sale in Lon- 
 don a week before I bought it, not a single bid was 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 79 
 
 made for it, owing to an apparent flaw in one of the 
 title-deeds frightening every one off. Thus, without 
 knowing it, I arrived on the scene at the exact psy- 
 chological moment — for a purchaser ; and when I got 
 the place I found myself with a considerable sum in 
 hand to spend upon it, and that sum has not yet been 
 all spent. The bogey fault in the title was made good 
 by the exchange of a few letters, and it is now abso- 
 lutely unassailable. 
 
 It must also be remembered by such people as may 
 be inclined to talk of extravagance, that it is very 
 good business to spend a hundred pounds on one's 
 property if the property is thereby increased in value 
 by three hundred. I have the best of all reasons for 
 resting in the assurance that for every pound I have 
 spent I am three to the good. There is no economy 
 like legitimate expenditure. 
 
 I wonder if real authorities in garden design would 
 think I was right in treating after the Dutch fashion 
 the little enclosed piece of ground on which I tried 
 my prentice hand. 
 
 In order to arrive at a conclusion on this point I 
 should like to be more fully informed as to what 
 is congruous and what incongruous. What are the 
 important elements to consider in the construction of 
 a Dutch garden, and are these elements in sympathy 
 with the foreground of such a picture as I had before 
 me when I made up my mind on the subject? 
 
 Now I have seen many Dutch gardens in Holland, 
 and in Cape Colony — relics of the old Dutch Colonial 
 
80 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 days — and every one knows how conservative is this 
 splendid if somewhat over-hospitable race. Some of 
 the gardens lying between Cape Town and Simon's 
 Bay, and also on the higher ground above Mossel 
 Bay are what old-furniture dealers term " in mint 
 condition " — I disclaim any suggestion of a pun upon 
 the herb, which in Dutch houses at the Cape is not 
 used in sauce for Iamb. They are as they were laid 
 out by the Solomons, the Cloetes, the Van der Byls, 
 and the other old Dutch Colonial families; so far 
 from adapting themselves to the tropical and sub- 
 tropical conditions existing in the Colony, they 
 brought their home traditions into their new sur- 
 roundings with results that were both happy and 
 profitable. There are certainly no finer or more 
 various bulbs than those of Dutch growth at the 
 Cape, and I have never seen anything more beau- 
 tiful than the heaths on the Flats between Mowbray 
 and Rondesbosch at the foot of the Devil's Peak of 
 Table Mountain. 
 
 A Dutch gentleman once said to me in Rotterdam, 
 " If you want to see a real Dutch garden you must 
 go to the Cape, or, better still, to England — 
 for it." 
 
 He meant that in both places greater pains are 
 taken to maintain the original type than, generally 
 speaking, in Holland. 
 
 I know that he spoke of what he knew, and with 
 what chances of observation I have had, I long ago 
 came to the conclusion that the elements of what is 
 commonly called a Dutch garden do not differ so 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 81 
 
 greatly from those that went to the making of the 
 oldest English herb and flower garden. This being 
 so, when I asked myself how I should lay out a fore- 
 ground that should be congenial with the picture seen 
 through the window of tne marble-panelled room, I 
 knew that the garden should be as like as possible 
 that which would be planted by the porter's wife 
 when the Castle was at its best. The porter's lodge 
 would join on to the gate, and one side of the gate- 
 way touches my ground, where the lodge would be; 
 so that, with suggestions from the Chatelaine, who 
 had seen the world, and the Chaplain, who may have 
 been familiar with the earliest gardens in England — 
 the monastery gardens — she would lay out the little 
 bit of ground pretty much, I think, as I have done. 
 In those days people had not got into the way of 
 differentiating between gardens and gardens — there 
 was no talk about " false notes " in design, men did 
 not sleep uneasily o' nights lest they had made an 
 irremediable mistake in giving hospitality to a crim- 
 son peony in a formal bed or in failing to dig up an 
 annual that had somehow found a place in a herba- 
 ceous border. But a garden bounded by walls must 
 be neat or nothing, and so the porter's wife made a 
 Dutch garden without being aware of what she was 
 doing, and I followed her example, after the lapse of 
 a few hundred years, knowing quite well what I was 
 doing in acting on the principle that the surround- 
 ings should suggest the garden. I know now, how- 
 ever, that because William the Conqueror had a fine 
 growth of what we call Dianthus Caryophylla at his 
 
82 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Castle of Falaise, we should have scrupulously fol- 
 lowed his example. However, the elements of a 
 Dutch garden are geometrical, and within four walls 
 and with four right angles one cannot but be geomet- 
 rical. One cannot have the charming disorderliness 
 of a meadow bounded by two meandering streams. 
 That is why I know I was right in refusing to allow 
 any irregularity in my treatment of the ground. I 
 put my sundial exactly in the middle and made it the 
 centre for four small beds crossed by a narrow grass 
 path; and except for the simple central design there 
 is no attempt at colour effect. But every one of the 
 little beds is brilliant with tulips or pansies or antirr- 
 hinum or wallflowers, as the season suggests. There 
 is the scent of lavender from four clumps — one at 
 each angle of the walls — and over the western coping 
 a pink rose climbs. To be consistent I should confine 
 the growth of this rose to an espalier against the wall. 
 I mean to be consistent some day in this matter and 
 others nearly as important, and I have been so mean- 
 ing for the past ten years. 
 
 I picked up some time ago four tubs of box and 
 placed one in each corner of the grass groundwork 
 of the design; but I soon took them away; they were 
 far too conspicuous. They suggested that I was 
 dragging in Holland by the hair of the head, so to 
 speak. 
 
 It is the easiest thing in the world to spoil a good 
 effect by over-emphasis; and any one who fancies 
 that the chief note in a Dutch garden is an over- 
 growth of box makes a great mistake. It is like put- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 83 
 
 ting up a board with " This way to the Dutch gar- 
 den," planted on its face. 
 
 I remember years ago a play produced at the Hay- 
 market, when Tree had the theatre and Mr. J. 
 Comyns Carr was his adviser. It was a successor to 
 an adaptation of Called Bach, the first of the " shill- 
 ing shockers," as they were styled. In one scene the 
 curtain rose upon several of the characters sucking 
 oranges, and they kept at it through the whole scene. 
 That is what it is termed " local colour " ; and it was 
 hoped that every one who saw them so employed 
 was convinced that the scene was laid in Seville. It 
 might as well have been laid in the gallery of a 
 theatre, where refreshment is taken in the same form. 
 
 M. Bizet achieved his " local colour " in Carmen 
 in rather a more subtle way. He did not bother about 
 oranges. The first five bars of the overture prepared 
 us for Spain and we lived in it until the fall of the 
 curtain, and we return to it when one of the children 
 strums a few notes of ee U amour est un oiseau 
 rebelled or the Toreador's braggadocio. 
 
 But although I have eaten oranges in many parts 
 of the world since I witnessed that play at the Hay- 
 market I have never been reminded of it, and to-day 
 I forget what it was all about, and I cannot for the 
 life of me recollect what was its name. 
 
 So much for the ineffectiveness of obvious effects. 
 
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH 
 
 It is a dreadful thing to live in the same town as an 
 Atheist! I had no idea that a house in Yard ley 
 Parva would ever be occupied by such an one. I 
 fancied that I was leaving them all behind me in 
 London, where I could not avoid getting into touch 
 with several; no one can unless one refuses to have 
 anything to say to the intellectual or artistic classes. 
 People in London are so callous that they do not 
 seem to mind having atheists to dinner or talking with 
 them without hostility at a club. That is all very well 
 for London, but it doesn't do in Yardley Parva, thank 
 God! Atheism is very properly regarded as a dis- 
 tinct social disqualification — almost as bad as being 
 a Nonconformist. 
 
 Friswell is the name of our atheist. What brought 
 him here I cannot guess. But he bought a house that 
 had once been the rectory of a clergyman (when I 
 mention the Clergy in this book it must be taken for 
 granted that I mean a priest of the Church of Eng- 
 land) and the predecessor of that clergyman had been 
 a Rural Dean. How on earth the agent could sell 
 him the house is a mystery that has not yet been 
 solved, though many honest attempts in this direction 
 have been made. The agent was blamed for not mak- 
 
 84 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 85 
 
 ing such inquiries as would have led to the detection 
 of the fellow. He was held responsible for Friswell's 
 incorporation as a burgess, just as Graham the green- 
 grocer was held responsible for the epidemic of 
 mumps which it is known he brought into the town 
 in a basket of apples from Baston. 
 
 But the agent's friends make excuses for him. 
 While admitting that he may have been culpably 
 careless in order to secure a purchaser for a house 
 that nobody seemed to want in spite of its hallowed as- 
 sociations, they are ready to affirm that these atheists 
 have all the guile of their Master, so that even if the 
 agent had been alert in making the essential inquiries, 
 the man would not hesitate to give the most plausi- 
 ble answers in order to accomplish his object — the 
 object of the wolf that has his eye on a sheep- 
 fold. 
 
 This may be so — I decline to express an opinion 
 one way or another. All I know is that Friswell has 
 written some books that are known in every part of 
 the civilised world and in Germany as well, and that 
 we find him when he comes here quite interesting and 
 amusing. But needless to say we do not permit him 
 to go too far. We do not allow ourselves to be inter- 
 ested in him to the jeopardising of our principles or 
 our position in Yardley Parva. We do not allow our- 
 selves to be amused at the reflection that he is going 
 in the wrong direction; on the contrary, we shudder 
 when it strikes us. But so insidious are his ways that 
 — Heaven forgive me — I feel that he tells me much 
 that I do not know about what is true and what is 
 
86 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 false, and that if he were to leave the neighbourhood 
 I should miss him. 
 
 It is strange that he should be married to a charm- 
 ing woman, who is a daughter of probably the most 
 orthodox vicarage in the Midlands — a home where 
 every Sunday is given over to such accessories of 
 orthodoxy as an Early Service, Morning Church, 
 Sirloin of Beef with Yorkshire Pudding, Fruit Tart 
 and Real Egg Custard, Sunday School, the Solution 
 of Acrostics, Evening-song, and Cold Chicken with 
 Salad. 
 
 And yet she could ally herself with a man who does 
 not hesitate to express the opinion that if a child dies 
 before it is baptized it should not be assumed that 
 anything particular happens to it, and that it was a 
 great pity that the Church was upheld by three mur- 
 derers, the first being Moses, who promulgated the 
 Ten Commandments, the second Paul, who promul- 
 gated the Christianity accepted by the Church, and 
 the third Constantine, who promulgated the Nicene 
 Creed. I have heard him say this, and much more, 
 and yet beyond a doubt his wife still adores him, 
 laughs at him, says he is the most religious man she 
 ever knew, and goes to church regularly ! 
 
 One cannot understand such a thing as this. In 
 her own vicarage home every breath that Mrs. Fris- 
 well breathed was an inspiration of the Orthodox — 
 and yet she told me that her father, who was for 
 twenty-seven years Vicar of the parish and the 
 Bishop's Surrogate, thought very highly of Mr. Fris- 
 well and his scholarship! 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 87 
 
 That is another thing to puzzle over. Of course 
 we know that scholarship has got nothing to do with 
 Orthodoxy — it is the weak things of the world that 
 have been chosen to confound the wise — but for a 
 vicar of the Church of England to remain on friendly 
 terms with an atheist, and to approve of his daugh- 
 ter's marriage with such an one, is surely not to be 
 understood by ordinary people. 
 
 I do not know whether or not I neglected my duty 
 in refraining from forbidding Friswell my garden 
 when I heard him say that the God worshipped by the 
 Hebrews with bushels of incense must have been re- 
 garded by them as occupying a position something 
 like that of the chairman of the smoking concert; and 
 that the High Church parson here was like a revue 
 artist, whose ambition is to have as many changes of 
 costume as was possible in every performance; but 
 though I was at the point of telling him that even my 
 toleration had its limits, yet somehow I did not like 
 to go to such a length without Dorothy's permission; 
 and I know that Dorothy likes him. 
 
 She says the children are fond of him, and she her- 
 self is fond of Mrs. Friswell. 
 
 " Yes," I told her, " you would not have me kill a 
 viper because Rosamund had taken a fancy to its 
 markings and its graceful action before darting on 
 its prey." 
 
 " Don't be a goose," said she. " Do you suggest 
 that Mr. Friswell is a viper?' 
 
 " Well, if a viper may be looked on as a type of 
 all ' 
 
88 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " Well, if he is a viper, didn't St. Paul shake one 
 off his hand into the fire hefore any harm was done? 
 I think we would do well to leave Mr. Friswell to be 
 dealt with by St. Paul." 
 
 " Meaning that " 
 
 " That if the exponent of the Christianity of the 
 Churches cannot be so interpreted in the pulpits that 
 Mr. Friswell's sayings are rendered harmless, well, 
 so much the worse for the Churches." 
 
 " There's such a thing as being too liberal-minded, 
 Dorothy," said I solemnly. 
 
 "I suppose there is," said she; "but you will 
 never suffer from it, my beloved, except in regard 
 to the clematis which you will spare every autumn 
 until we shall shortly have no blooms on it at 
 all." 
 
 That was all very well ; but I was uncertain about 
 Rosamund. She is quite old enough to understand 
 the difference between what Mr. Friswell says in the 
 garden and what the Reverend Thomas Brown- 
 Browne says in the pulpit. I asked her what she had 
 been talking about to Mr. Friswell when he was here 
 last week. 
 
 " I believe it was about Elisha," she replied. " Oh, 
 yes; I remember I asked him if he did not think 
 Elisha a horrid vain old man." 
 
 " You asked him that? " 
 
 " Yes; it was in the first lesson last Sunday — that 
 about the bears he brought out of the wood to eat 
 the poor children who had made fun of him — horrid 
 old man ! " 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 89 
 
 " Rosamund, he was a great prophet — one of the 
 greatest," said I. 
 
 "All the same he was horrid! He must have been 
 the vainest as well as the most spiteful old man that 
 ever lived. What a shame to curse the poor children 
 because they acted like children! You know that if 
 that story were told in any other book than the Bible 
 you would be the first to be down on Elisha. If I 
 were to say to you, Daddy, " Go up, thou bald head! " 
 — you know there's a little bald place on the top 
 there that you try to brush your hair over — if I were 
 to say that to you, what would you do ? " 
 
 " I suppose I should go at you bald-headed, my 
 dear," said I incautiously. 
 
 " I don't like the Bible made fun of," said Dorothy, 
 who overheard what I did not mean for any but the 
 sympathetic ears of her eldest daughter. 
 
 " I'm not making fun of it, Mammy," said the 
 daughter. " Just the opposite. Just think of it — 
 forty-two children — only it sounds much more when 
 put the other way, and that makes it all the worse — 
 forty and two poor children cruelly killed because a 
 nasty old prophet was vain and ill-tempered ! " 
 
 " It doesn't say that he had any hand in it, does 
 it? " I suggested in defence of the Man of God. 
 
 " Well, not — directly," replied Rosamund. " But 
 it was meant to make out that he had a hand in it. 
 It says that he cursed them in the name of the Lord." 
 
 " And what did Mr. Friswell say about the story? " 
 inquired Dorothy. 
 
 " Oh, he said that, being a prophet, Elisha wasn't 
 
90 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 thinking about the present, but the future — the time 
 we're living in — the Russian Bear or the Bolsheviks 
 or some of the — the — what's the thing that they kill 
 Jews with in Russia, Mammy?" 
 
 " I don't know — anything that's handy, I fancy, 
 and not too expensive," replied the mother. 
 
 " He gave it a name — was it programme? " asked 
 the child. 
 
 " Oh, a pogrom — a pogrom ; though I fancy a pro- 
 gramme of Russian music would have been equally 
 effective," I put in. " Well, Mr. Friswell may be 
 right about the bears. I suppose it's the business of 
 a prophet to prophesy. But I should rather fancy, 
 looking at the transaction from the standpoint of a 
 flutter in futures, and also that the prophet had the 
 instincts of Israel, that his bears had something to do 
 with the Stock Exchange." 
 
 " Mr. Friswell said nothing about that," said Rosa- 
 mund. " But he explained about Naaman and his 
 leprosy and how he was cured." 
 
 " It tells us that in the Bible, my dear," said 
 Dorothy, " so of course it is true. He washed seven 
 times in the Jordan." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Friswell says that it is now known that 
 half a dozen of the complaints translated leprosy in 
 the Bible were not the real leprosy, and it was from 
 one of these that Naaman was suffering, and what 
 Elisha did was simply to prescribe for him a course 
 of seven baths in the Jordan which he knew contained 
 sulphur or something that is good for people with 
 that complaint. He believes in all the miracles. He 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 91 
 
 says that what was looked on as a miracle a few years 
 ago is an everyday thing now." 
 
 " He's quite right, darling," said Dorothy approv- 
 ingly. Then turning to me, " You see, Mr. Friswell 
 has really been doing his best to keep the children 
 right, though you were afraid that he would have a 
 bad effect upon them." 
 
 " I see," said I. " I was too hasty in my judgment. 
 He is a man of uncompromising orthodoxy. We 
 shall see him holding a class in Sunday-school next, 
 or solving acrostics instead of sleeping after the Sun- 
 day Sirloin. Did he explain the Gehazi business, 
 Rosamund? " 
 
 " He said that he was at first staggered when he 
 heard that Elisha had refused the suits of clothes; 
 but if Elisha did so, he is sure that his descendants 
 have been making up for his self-denial ever since." 
 
 " But about Gehazi catching the leprosy or what- 
 ever it was? " 
 
 " I said I thought it was too awful a punishment 
 for so small a thing, though, of course, it was dread- 
 fully mean of Gehazi. But Mr. Friswell laughed and 
 said that I had forgotten that all Gehazi had to do 
 to make himself all right again was to follow the pre- 
 scription given to Naaman; so he wasn't so hard on 
 the man after all." 
 
 "There, you see!" cried Dorothy triumphantly. 
 ' You talk to me about the bad influence Mr. Fris- 
 well may have upon the children, and now you find 
 that he has been doing his best to make the difficult 
 parts of the Bible credible! For my own part, I feel 
 
92 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 that a flood of new light has been shed by him over 
 some incidents with which I was not in sympathy 
 before." 
 
 " All right, have it your own way," said I. 
 
 " You old goose! " said she. " Don't I know that 
 why you have your knife in poor Friswell is simply 
 because he thought your scheme of treillage was too 
 elaborate." 
 
 " Anyhow I'm going to carry it out ' according to 
 plan,' to make use of a classic phrase," said I. 
 
 And then I hurried off to the tool-house; and it 
 was only when I had been there for some time that 
 I remembered that the phrase which I had fancied I 
 was quoting very aptly, was the explanation of a 
 retreat. 
 
 I hoped that it would not strike Dorothy in that 
 way, and induce her to remind me that it was much 
 apter than I had desired it to be. 
 
 But there is no doubt that Friswell was right 
 about Gehazi carrying out the prescription given to 
 ISTaaman, for he remained in the service of the 
 prophet, and he would not have been allowed to do 
 that if he had been a leper. 
 
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH 
 
 I have devoted the foregoing chapter to Friswell 
 without, I trust, any unnecessary acrimony, but simply 
 to show the sort of man he was who took exception 
 to the scheme of Formal Garden that I disclosed to 
 him long ago. He actually objected to the Formal 
 Garden which I had in my mind. 
 
 But an atheist, like the prophet Habakkuk of the 
 witty Frenchman, is " capable de tout" 
 
 I have long ago forgiven Friswell for his vexatious 
 objection, but I admit that I am only human, and 
 that now and again I awake in the still hours of dark- 
 ness from a nightmare in which I am tramping over 
 formal beds of three sorts of echiverias, pursued by 
 Friswell, flinging at me every now and again Mr. W. 
 Robinson's volume on Garden Design, which, as every 
 one knows, is an unbridled denunciation of Sir Regin- 
 ald Blomfield's and Mr. Inigo Triggs's plea for The 
 Formal Garden. But I soon fall asleep again 
 with, I trust, a smile struggling to the surface of 
 the perspiration on my brow, as I reflect upon 
 my success in spite of Friswell and the anti- 
 formalists. 
 
 More than twenty-five years have passed since the 
 battle of the books on the Formal Garden took place, 
 
 93 
 
94 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 adding another instance to the many brought forward 
 by Dorothy of a garden being a battlefield instead of 
 a place of peace. I shall refer to the fight in another 
 chapter; for surely a stimulating spectacle was that 
 of the distinguished horticulturalist attacking the 
 distinguished architect with mighty billets of yews 
 which, like Samson before his fall, had never known 
 shears or secateur, while the distinguished architect 
 responded with bricks pulled hastily out from his 
 builders' wall. In the meantime I shall try to account 
 for my treatment of my predecessor's lawn, which, 
 as I have already mentioned, occupied all the flat space 
 between the house and the mound with the cherries 
 and mays and laburnums towered over by the syca- 
 mores and chestnuts. 
 
 It was all suggested to me by the offer which I had 
 at breaking-up price of what I might call a " garden 
 suite," consisting of a fountain, with a wide basin, and 
 the carved stone edging for eight beds — sufficient to 
 transform the whole area of the lawn " into something 
 rich and strange," — as I thought. 
 
 I had to make up my mind in a hurry, and I did so, 
 though not without misgiving. I had never had a 
 chance of high gardening before, and I had not so 
 much confidence in myself as I have acquired since, 
 misplaced though it may be, in spite of my experience. 
 I see now what a bold step it was for me to take, and 
 I think it is quite likely that I would have rejected it 
 if I had had any time to consider all that it meant. 
 I had, however, no more than twenty-four hours, and 
 before a fourth of that time had passed I received 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 95 
 
 some encouragement in the form of my publisher's 
 half-yearly statement. 
 
 Now, Dorothy and I had simply been garden- 
 lovers — I mean lovers of gardens, though I don't take 
 back the original phrase. We had never been garden 
 enthusiasts. We had gone through the Borghese, 
 the Villa d'Este, the Vatican, the bowers behind the 
 Pitti and the Uffizi, and all the rest of the show-places 
 of Italy and the French Riviera — we had spent 
 delightful days at every garden-island of the Carib- 
 bean, and had gone on to the plateaus of South 
 America, where every prospect pleases and there is 
 a blaze of flowers beneath the giant yuccas — we had 
 even explored Kew together, and we had lived within 
 a stone's throw of Holland House and the painters' 
 pleasaunces of Melbury Road, but with all we had 
 remained content to think of gardens without making 
 them any important part of our life. And this being 
 so, I now see how arrogant was that act of mine in 
 binding myself down to a transaction with as far- 
 reaching consequences to me as that of Dr. Faustus 
 entailed to him. 
 
 Now I acknowledge that when I looked out over the 
 green lawn and thought of all that I had let myself 
 in for, I felt anything but arrogant. The destruction 
 of a lawn is, like the state of matrimony in the Church 
 Service, an act not to be lightly entered into; and I 
 think I might have laid away all that stone -work 
 which had come to me, until I should become more 
 certain of myself — that is how a good many people 
 think within a week or two of marriage — if I had not, 
 
96 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 with those doubts hanging over me, wandered away 
 from the lawn and within sight of the straggling 
 orchard with its rows of ill-planted plums and apples 
 that had plainly borne nothing but leaves for many 
 years. They were becoming an eye-sore to me, and the 
 thought came in a flash: — 
 
 " This is the place for a lawn. Why not root up 
 these unprofitable and uninteresting things and lay 
 down the space in grass?" 
 
 Why not, indeed? The more I thought over the 
 matter the more reconciled I became to the trans- 
 formation of the house lawn. I felt as I fancy the 
 father of a well-beloved daughter must feel when she 
 tells him that she has promised to marry the son of 
 the house at the other side of his paddock. He is 
 reconciled to the idea of parting with her by the 
 reflection that she will still be living beyond the fence, 
 and that he will enjoy communion with her under 
 altered conditions. That is the difference between 
 parting with a person and parting from a person. 
 
 And now, when I looked at the house lawn, I saw 
 that it had no business to be there. It was an element 
 of incongruity. It made the house look as if it were 
 built in the middle of a field. A field is all very well 
 in its place, and a house is all very well in its place, 
 but the place of the house is not in the middle of a 
 field. It looks its worst there and the field looks its 
 worst when the house is overlooking it. 
 
 I think that it is this impression of incongruity that 
 has made what is called The Formal Garden a ne- 
 cessity of these days. We want a treatment that will 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 97 
 
 take away from the abruptness of the mass of bricks 
 and mortar rising straight up from the simplest of 
 Nature's elements. We want a hyphenated House- 
 and-Garden which we can look on as one and indi- 
 visible, like the First French Republic. 
 
 In short, I think that the making of the Formal 
 Garden is the marriage ceremony that unites the 
 house to its site, " and the twain shall be one flesh." 
 
 That is really the relative position of the two. I 
 hold that there are scores of forms of garden that may 
 be espoused to a house ; and I am not sure that such 
 a term as Formal is not misleading to a large number 
 of people who think that Nature should begin the 
 moment that one steps out of one's house, and that 
 nothing in Nature is formal. I am not going to take 
 on me any definition of the constituent elements of 
 what is termed the Formal Garden, but I will take it 
 on me to stand up against such people as would have 
 us believe that the moment you enter a house you 
 leave Nature outside. A house is as much a product 
 of Nature as a woodland or a rabbit warren or a lawn. 
 The original house of that product of Nature known 
 as man was that product of Nature known as a cave. 
 For thousands of years before he got into his cave he 
 had made his abode in the woodland. It was when he 
 found he could do better than hang on to his bough 
 and, with his toes, take the eggs out of whatever nests 
 he could get at, that he made the cave his dwelling; 
 and thousands of years later he found that it was 
 more convenient to build up the clay into the shape 
 of a cave than to scoop out the hillside when he wanted 
 
98 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 an addition to the dwelling provided for him in the 
 hollows made by that natural incident known as a 
 landslide. But the dwelling-house of to-day is nothing 
 more than a cave built up instead of scooped out. 
 Whether made of brick, stone, or clay — all products 
 of Nature — it is fundamentally the same as the 
 primeval cave dwelling; just as a Corinthian column 
 is fundamentally identical with the palm-tree which 
 primeval man brought into his service when he wished 
 to construct a dwelling independent of the forest of 
 his pendulous ancestors. The rabbit is at present in 
 the stage of development of the men who scooped out 
 their dwellings ; the beaver is in the stage of develop- 
 ment of the men who gave up scooping and took to 
 building; and will any one suggest that a rabbit warren 
 or a beaver village is not Nature? 
 
 Sir R. Blomfield, in his book to which I have 
 alluded, will not have this at all. " The building," he 
 says, " cannot resemble anything in Nature, unless 
 you are content with a mud hut and cover it with 
 grass." That may be true enough; but great archi- 
 tect that he is, he would have shown himself more 
 faithful to his profession if he had been more careful 
 about his foundations. If he goes a little deeper into 
 the matter he will find that man has not yet been 
 civilised or " architected " out of the impressions 
 left upon him by his thousands of years of cave-dwell- 
 ing, any more than he has been out of his arboreal 
 experiences of as many thousand years. While, as 
 a boy, he retains vividly those impressions of his ances- 
 tors which gradually wear off — though never so 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 99 
 
 completely as to leave no trace behind them — he can- 
 not be restrained from climbing trees and enjoying 
 the motion of a swing ; and his chief employment when 
 left to his own devices is scooping out a cave in a 
 sand-bank. For the first ten or fifteen years of his 
 life a man is in his instincts many thousand years 
 nearer to his prehistoric relations than he is when 
 he is twenty; after that the inherited impressions be- 
 come blurred, but never wholly wiped out. He is 
 still stirred to the deepest depths of his nature by the 
 long tresses of a woman, just as was his early parent, 
 who knew that he had to depend on such long tresses 
 to drag the female on whom he had set his heart to 
 his cave. 
 
 Scores of examples could be given of the retention 
 of these inherited instincts; but many of them are 
 in more than one sense of the phrase, " far-fetched." 
 When, however, we know that the architectural design 
 which finds almost universal favour is that of the 
 column or the pilaster — which is little more than the 
 palm-tree of the Oriental forest of many thousand 
 years ago — I think we are justified in assuming that 
 we have not yet quite lost sight of the fact that our 
 dwellings are most acceptable when they retain such 
 elements as are congenial with their ancient homes, 
 which homes were undoubtedly incidents in the natu- 
 ral landscape. 
 
 That is why I think that the right way to claim 
 its appropriateness for what is called the Formal 
 Garden is, not that a house has no place in Nature, 
 and therefore its immediate surrounding should be 
 
100 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 more or less artificial, but that the house is an inci- 
 dent in Nature modified by what is termed Art, 
 and therefore the surround should be of the same 
 character. 
 
 At the same time, I beg leave to say in this place 
 that I am not so besotted upon my own opinion as 
 to be incapable of acknowledging that Sir R. Blom- 
 field's belief that a house can never be regarded as 
 otherwise than wholly artificial, may commend itself 
 to a much larger clientele than I can hope for. 
 
 In any case the appropriateness of the Formal Gar- 
 den has been proved (literally) down to the ground. 
 As a matter of fact, no one ever thought of question- 
 ing it in England until some remarkable innovators, 
 who called themselves Landscape Gardeners, thought 
 they saw their way to work on a new system, and in 
 doing so contrived to destroy many interesting fea- 
 tures of the landscape. 
 
 But really, landscape gardening has never been 
 consistently defined. Its exponents have always 
 been slovenly and inconsistent in stating their aims; 
 so that while they claim to be all for giving what they 
 call Nature the supreme place in their designs, it 
 must appear to most people that the achievement of 
 these designs entails treating Nature most un- 
 naturally. The landscape gardeners of the early 
 years of the cult seem to me to be in the position of 
 the boy of whom the parents said, " Charlie is so very 
 fond of animals that we are going to make a butcher 
 of him." To read their enunciation of the principles 
 by which they professed to be inspired is to make one 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 101 
 
 feel that they thought the butchery of a landscape 
 the only way to beautify it. 
 
 But, I repeat, the examples of their work with which 
 we are acquainted show but a small amount of con- 
 sistency with their professions of faith. When we read 
 the satires that were written upon their work in the 
 eighteenth century, we really feel that the lampooners 
 have got hold of the wrong brief, and that they are 
 ridiculing the upholders of the Formal Garden. 
 
 So far as I was concerned in dealing with my insig- 
 nificant garden home, I did not concern myself with 
 principles or theories or schools or consistency or 
 inconsistency ; I went ahead as I pleased, and though 
 Friswell shook his head — I have not finished with him 
 yet on account of that mute expression of disagree- 
 ment with my aims — I enjoyed myself thoroughly, if 
 now and again with qualms of uneasiness, in laying 
 out what I feel I must call the House Garden rather 
 than the Formal Garden, where the lawn had spread 
 itself abroad, causing the wing of the house to have 
 something of the appearance of a lighthouse springing 
 straight up from a green sea. As it is now, that green 
 expanse suggests a tropical sea with many brilliant 
 islands breaking up its placid surface. 
 
 That satisfies me. If the lighthouse remains, I have 
 given it a raison d'etre by strewing the sea with islands. 
 
 I made my appeal to Olive, the practical one. 
 
 " Yes," she said, after one of her thoughtful inter- 
 vals. " Yes, I think it does look naturaler." 
 
 And I do believe it does. 
 
CHAPTER THE NINTH 
 
 I differ from many people who know more about 
 garden-making than I know or than I ever shall know, 
 in believing that it is unnecessary for the House Gar- 
 den — I will adopt this name for it — to be paved be- 
 tween the beds. I have seen this paving done in many 
 cases, and to my mind it adds without any need what- 
 soever a certain artificiality to the appearance of this 
 feature of the garden. By all means let the paths be 
 paved with stone or brick ; I have had all mine treated 
 in this way, and thereby made them more natural in 
 appearance, suggesting, as they do, the dry water- 
 course of a stream: every time I walk on them I 
 remember the summer aspect of that beautiful water- 
 course at Funchal in the island of Madeira, which 
 becomes a thoroughfare for several months of the 
 year; but I am sure that the stone edgings of the 
 beds and of the fountain basin look much better 
 surrounded by grass. All that one requires to do 
 in order to bring the House Garden in touch with 
 the house is to bring something of the material of the 
 house on to the lawn, and to force the house to 
 reciprocate with a mantle of ampelopsis patterned 
 with clematis. 
 
 All that I did was to remove the turf within the 
 
 102 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 103 
 
 boundary of my stone edging and add the necessary 
 soil. A week was sufficient for all, including the foun- 
 tain basin and the making of the requisite attachment 
 to the main water pipe which supplies the garden 
 from end to end. 
 
 And here let me advise any possible makers of 
 garden fountains on no account to neglect the intro- 
 duction of a second outlet and tap for the purpose 
 of emptying the pipe during a frost. The cost will 
 be very little extra, and the operation will prevent so 
 hideous a catastrophe as the bursting of a pipe pass- 
 ing through or below the concrete basin. My plumber 
 knew his business, and I have felt grateful to him for 
 making such a provision against disaster, when I have 
 found six inches of ice in the basin after a week's 
 frost. 
 
 At first I was somewhat timid over the planting of 
 the stone-edged beds. I had heard of carpet bedding, 
 and I had heard it condemned without restraint. I 
 had also seen several examples of it in public gardens 
 at seaside places and elsewhere, which impressed me 
 only by the ingenuity of their garishness. Some one, 
 too, had put the veto upon any possible tendency on 
 my part to such a weakness by uttering the most 
 condemnatory words in the vocabulary of art — Early 
 Victorian! To be on the safe side I planted the beds 
 with herbaceous flowers, only reserving two for 
 fuchsias, of which I have always been extremely 
 fond. 
 
 I soon came to find out that a herbaceous scheme 
 in that place was a mistake. For two months we had 
 
104 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 to look at flowers growing, for a month we had to look 
 at things rampant, and for a month we had to watch 
 things withering. At no time was there an equal show 
 of colour in all the beds. The blaze of beauty I had 
 hoped for never appeared: here and there we had a 
 flash of it, but it soon flickered out, much to our dis- 
 appointment. If the period of the ramp had syn- 
 chronised for all the beds it would not have been so 
 bad; but when one subject was rampant the others 
 were couchant, and no one was pleased. 
 
 The next year we tried some more dwarf varieties 
 and such annuals as verbenas, zinnias, scabious, gode- 
 tias, and clarkias, but although every one came on all 
 right, yet they did not come on simultaneously, and I 
 felt defrauded of my chromatic effects. A consider- 
 able number of people thought the beds quite a suc- 
 cess; but we could not see with their eyes, and our 
 feeling was one of disappointment. 
 
 Happily, at this time I bought for a few shillings 
 a few boxes of the ordinary echeveria secunda glauca, 
 and, curiously enough, the same day I came upon a 
 public place where several beds of the same type as 
 mine, set in an enclosed space of emerald grass, were 
 planted with echeveria and other succulents, in pat- 
 terns, with a large variety of brilliantly-coloured 
 foliage and a few dwarf calceolarias and irisines. In 
 a moment I thought I saw that this was exactly what 
 I needed — whether it was carpet bedding or early 
 Victorian or inartistic, this was what I wanted, and I 
 knew that I should not be happy until I got it. Every 
 bed looked like a stanza of Keats, or a box of enamels 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 105 
 
 from the Faubourg de Magnine in Limoges, where 
 Nicholas Laudin worked. 
 
 That was three years ago, and although I planted 
 out over three thousand echeverias last summer, I 
 had not to buy another box of the same variety ; I had 
 only to find some other succulents and transplant 
 some violas in order to achieve all that I hoped for 
 from these beds. For three years they have been 
 altogether satisfying with their orderly habits and 
 reposeful colouring. The glauca is the shade that the 
 human eye can rest upon day after day without weari- 
 ness, and the pink and blue and yellow and purple 
 violas which I asked for a complement of colours, do 
 all that I hoped they would do. 
 
 Of course we have friends who walk round the 
 garden, look at those beds with dull eyes of disap- 
 proval, and walk on after imparting information 
 on some contentious point, such as the necessity to 
 remove the shoots from the briers of standard roses, 
 or the assurance that the slugs are fond of the leaves 
 of hollyhock. We have an occasional visitor who 
 says — 
 
 "Isn't carpet-bedding rather old-fashioned?" 
 
 So I have seen a lady in the spacious days of the 
 late seventies shake her head and smile pityingly in 
 a room furnished with twelve ribbon-back chairs made 
 by the great Director. 
 
 "Old-fashioned — gone out years ago!" were the 
 terms of her criticism. 
 
 But so far as I am concerned I would have no more 
 objection to one of the ribbon-borders of long ago, if 
 
106 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 it was in a suitable place, than I would have to a round 
 dozen of ribbon-back chairs in a panelled room with 
 a mantelpiece by Bossi and a glass chandelier by one 
 of the Adam Brothers. It is only the uninformed 
 who are ready to condemn something because they 
 think that it is old-fashioned, just as it is only the 
 ignorant who extol something because it happens to be 
 antique. I was once lucky enough to be able to buy 
 an exquisitely chased snuff-box because the truthful 
 catalogue had described it as made of pinchbeck. For 
 the good folk in the saleroom the word pinchbeck 
 was enough. It was associated in their minds with 
 something that was a type of the meretricious. But 
 the pinchbeck amalgam was a beautiful one, and the 
 workmanship of some of the articles made of it was 
 usually of the highest class. Now that people are 
 better educated they value — or at least some of them 
 value — a pinchbeck buckle or snuff-box for its artistic 
 beauty. 
 
 We see our garden more frequently than do any of 
 our visitors, and we are satisfied with its details — 
 within bounds, of course. It has never been our 
 ambition to emulate the authorities who control the 
 floral designs blazing in the borders along the sea- 
 front of one of our watering-places, which are admired 
 to distraction by trippers under the influence of a 
 rag-time band and other stimulants. We do not 
 long so greatly to see a floral Union Jack in all its 
 glory at our feet, or any loyal sentiment lettered in 
 dwarf beet and blue lobelia against a background 
 of crimson irisine. We know very well that such 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 107 
 
 marvels are beyond our accomplishment. What we 
 hoped for was to have under our eyes for three months 
 of the year a number of beds full of wallflowers, 
 tulips, and hyacinths, and for four months equally 
 well covered with varied violas, memsembrianthium, 
 mauve ageratum, the praecox dwarf roses, variegated 
 cactus used sparingly, and as many varieties of eche- 
 veria used lavishly, with here and there a small dracsena 
 or perhaps a tuft of feathery grass or the accentuations 
 of a few crimson begonias to show that we are not 
 afraid of anything. 
 
 We hold that the main essential of the beds of the 
 House Garden is " finish." They must look well from 
 the day they are planted in the third week of May 
 until they are removed in the last week of October. 
 We do not want that barren interval of a month or 
 six weeks when the tulips have been lifted and their 
 successors are growing. We do not want a single day 
 of empty beds or colourless beds; we do not want to 
 see a square inch of the soil. We want colour and 
 contour under our eyes from the first day of March 
 until the end of October, and we get it. We have no 
 trouble with dead leaves or drooping blooms — no 
 trouble with snails or slugs or leather-jackets. Every 
 bed is presentable for the summer when the flowers 
 that bloom in the spring have been removed; the 
 effect is only agreeably diversified when the begonias 
 show themselves in July. 
 
 Is the sort of thing that I have described to be called 
 carpet-bedding? I know not and I trow not; all that 
 I know is that it is the sort of thing that suits us. 
 
108 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Geometry is its foundation and geometry represents 
 all that is satisfying, because it is Nature's closest 
 ally when Nature wishes to produce Beauty. Almost 
 every flower is a geometrical study. Let rose bushes 
 ramp as they may, the sum of all their ramping is 
 that triumph of geometry, the rose. Let the clematis 
 climb as unruly as it may, the end of its labours is a 
 geometrical star; let the dandelion be as disagreeable 
 as it pleases — I don't intend to do so really, only for 
 the sake of argument — but its rows of teeth are beauti- 
 fully geometrical, and the fairy finish of its life, which 
 means, alas ! the magical beginning of a thousand new 
 lives, is a geometrical marvel. 
 
 But I do not want to accuse myself of excusing 
 myself over much for my endeavour to restore a 
 fashion which I was told had " gone out." I only say 
 that if what I have done in my stone-edged geometri- 
 cal beds is to be slighted because some fool has called 
 it carpet-bedding, I shall at least have the satisfaction 
 of knowing that I have worked on the lines of Nature. 
 Nature is the leader of the art of carpet-bedding on 
 geometrical lines. Nature's most beautiful spring 
 mattress is a carpet bed of primroses, wild hyacinths, 
 daffodils, and daisies — every one of them a geometri- 
 cal marvel. As a matter of fact the design of every 
 formal bed in our garden is a copy of a snow crystal. 
 
 Of course, so far as conforming to the dictates of 
 fashion in a garden is concerned, I admit that I am a 
 nonconformist. I do not think that any one who 
 has any real affection for the development of a garden 
 will be ready to conform to any fashion of the hour 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 109 
 
 in gardening. I believe that there never was a time 
 when the artistic as well as the scientific side of garden 
 design was so fully understood or so faithfully adhered 
 to as it is just now. There is nothing to fear from 
 the majority of the exponents of the art; it is with 
 the unconsidering amateurs that the danger lies. The 
 dangerous amateur is the one who assumes that there 
 is fashion in gardening as there is a fashion in gar- 
 ments, and that one must at all hazards live up to the 
 dernier cri or get left behind in the search for the right 
 thing. For instance, within the last six or seven years 
 it has become " the right thing " to have a sunk gar- 
 den. Now a sunk garden is, literally, as old as the 
 hills ; the channel worn in the depth of a valley by an 
 intermittent stream becomes a sunk garden in the 
 summer. The Dutch, not having the advantage of 
 hills and vales, were compelled to imitate Nature by 
 sinking their flower-patches below the level of the 
 ground. They were quite successful in their attempt 
 to put the garden under their eyes; by such means 
 they were able fully to admire the patterns in which 
 their bulbs were arranged. But where is the sense 
 in adopting in England the handicap of Holland? 
 It is obvious that if one can look down upon a garden 
 from a terrace one does not need to sink the ground 
 to a lower level. And yet I have known of several 
 instances of people insisting on having a sunk garden 
 just under a terrace. They had heard that sunk gar- 
 dens were the fashion and they would not be happy 
 if there was a possibility of any one thinking that they 
 were out of the fashion. 
 
110 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Then the charm of the rock garden was being 
 largely advertised and talked about, so mounds of 
 broken bricks and stones and " slag " and rubbish arose 
 alongside the trim villas, and the occupants slept in 
 peace knowing that those heights of rubbish repre- 
 sented the height — the heights of fashion. Then came 
 the " crevice " fashion. A conscientious writer dis- 
 coursed of the beauty of the little things that grow 
 between the bricks of old walls, and forthwith yards 
 of walls, guaranteed to be of old bricks, sprang up in 
 every direction, with hand-made crevices in which 
 little gems that had never been seen on walls before, 
 were stuck, and simple nurserymen were told that 
 they were long behind the time because they were 
 unable to meet the demand for house leeks. I have 
 seen a ten-feet length of wall raised almost in the 
 middle of a villa garden for no other purpose than to 
 provide a foot-hold for lichens. The last time I saw 
 it it was providing a space for the exhibition of a 
 printed announcement that an auction would take 
 place in the house. 
 
 But by far the most important of the schemes which 
 of late have been indulged in for adding interest to 
 the English garden, is the " Japanese style." The 
 " Chinese Taste," we all know, played a very impor- 
 tant part in many gardens in the eighteenth century, 
 as it did in other directions in the social life of Eng- 
 land. The flexible imagination of Thomas Chippen- 
 dale found it as easy to introduce the leading Chinese 
 notes in his designs as the leading French notes; and 
 his genius was so well controlled that his pieces " in 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 111 
 
 the Chinese Taste " did not look at all incongruous 
 in an English mansion. The Chinese wallpaper was 
 a beautiful thing in its way, nor did it look out of place 
 in a drawing-room with the beautifully florid mirrors 
 of Chippendale design on the walls, and the noble 
 lacquer caskets and cabinets that stood below them. 
 Under the same impulse Sir Thomas Chambers was 
 entrusted with the erection of the great pagoda in 
 Kew Gardens, and Chinese junks were moored along- 
 side the banks to enable visitors to drink tea " in the 
 Chinese Taste." The Staffordshire potters repro- 
 duced on their ware some excellent patterns that had 
 originated with the Celestials, and in an attempt to 
 be abreast of the time, Goldsmith made his Citizen of 
 the World a Chinese gentleman. 
 
 For obvious reasons, however, there was no Jap- 
 anese craze at that time. Little was known of the 
 supreme art of Japan, and nothing of the Japanese 
 Garden. Now we seem to be making up for this 
 deprivation of the past, and the Japanese style of 
 gardening is being represented in many English 
 grounds. I think that nothing could be more interest- 
 ing, or, in its own way, more exquisite: but is it not 
 incongruous in its new-found home? 
 
 It is nothing of the sort, provided that it is not 
 Drought into close proximity to the English garden. 
 In itself it is charming, graceful, and grateful in every 
 way ; but unless its features are kept apart from those 
 of the English garden, it becomes incongruous and 
 unsatisfactory. It is, however, only necessary to put 
 it in its place, which should be as far away as possible 
 
112 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 from the English house and House Garden, and it will 
 be found fully to justify its importation. It possesses 
 all the elements that go to the formation of a real 
 garden, the strongest of these being, in my opinion, 
 a clear and consistent design; unless a garden has 
 both form and design it is worth no consideration, 
 except from the very humblest standpoint. 
 
 Its peculiar charm seems to me to be found in what 
 the nurseryman's catalogue calls the " dwarf habit." 
 It is essentially among the miniatures. Though it 
 may be as extensive as one pleases to make it, yet it 
 gains rather than loses when treated as its trees are 
 by the skilful hands of the miniaturist. Without 
 suggesting that it should be reduced to toy dimensions, 
 yet I am sure that it should be so that no tall human 
 being should be seen in it. It is the garden of 
 a small race. A big Englishman should not be 
 allowed into it. It would not be giving it fair 
 play. 
 
 Fancying that I have put its elements into a nut- 
 shell, carrying my minimising to a minimum, I repeat 
 the last sentence to Dorothy. 
 
 " You would not exclude Mr. Friswell," said 
 she. 
 
 " Atheist Friswell is not life-size : he may go without 
 rebuke into the most miniature Japanese garden in 
 Bond Street," I reply gratefully. 
 
 " And how about Mrs. Friswell? " she asks. 
 
 " She is three sizes too big, even in her chapel 
 shoes," I replied. 
 
 Mrs. Friswell, in spite of her upbringing — perhaps 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 113 
 
 on account of it — wears the heelless shoes of Little 
 Bethel. 
 
 " Then Mr. Friswell will never be seen in a Jap- 
 anese garden," said Dorothy. 
 
 She does like Mrs. Friswell. 
 
CHAPTER THE TENTH 
 
 But there is in my mind one garden in which I should 
 like to see the tallest and most truculent of English- 
 men. It is the Tiergarten at Berlin. I recollect very 
 vividly the first time that I passed through the Brand- 
 enburger Gate to visit some friends who occupied a 
 flat in the block of buildings known as "In den 
 Zelten." I had just come within sight of the sentry 
 at the gate-house when I saw him rush to the door 
 of the guard-room and in a few seconds the whole 
 guard had turned out with a trumpet and a drum. 
 I was surprised, for I had not written to say that I 
 was coming, and I was quite unused to such courtesy 
 either in Berlin or any other city where there is a 
 German population. 
 
 Before the incident went further I became aware 
 of the fact that all the vehicles leaving " Unter den 
 Linden " had become motionless, and that the officers 
 who were in some of them were standing up at the 
 salute. The only carriage in motion was a landau 
 drawn by a pair of gray horses, with a handsome man 
 in a plain uniform and the ordinary helmet of an 
 infantry soldier sitting alone with his face to the 
 horses. I knew him in a moment, though I had never 
 seen him before — the Crown Prince Frederick, the 
 
 114 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 115 
 
 husband of our Princess Royal — the " Fritz " of the 
 intimate devotional telegrams to " Augusta " from the 
 battlefields of France in 1870. 
 
 That Crown Prince was the very opposite to his 
 truculent son and that contemptible blackguard, his 
 son's son. Genial, considerate, and unassuming, dis- 
 liking all display and theatrical posing, he was much 
 more of an English gentleman than a German Prince. 
 His son Wilhelm had even then begun to hate 
 him — so I heard from a high personage of the Court. 
 
 I am certain that it was his reading of the campaign 
 of 1870-1 that set this precious Wilhelm — this 
 Emperor of the penny gaff — on his last enterprise. 
 If one hunts up the old newspapers of 1870 one will 
 read in every telegram from the German front of 
 the King of Prussia and the Crown Prince marching 
 to Victory, in the campaign started by a forgery and 
 a lie, by that fine type of German trickery, unscrupu- 
 lousness, brutality, and astuteness, Bismarck. Wil- 
 helm could not endure the thought of the glory of his 
 house being centred in those who had gone before him, 
 and he chafed at the years that were passing without 
 history repeating itself. He could with difficulty re- 
 strain himself from his attempt to dominate the world 
 until his first-begotten was old enough to dominate the 
 demi-monde of Paris — " Wilhelm to-day successfully 
 stormed Le Chemin des Dames," was the telegram 
 that he sent to the Empress, in imitation of those sent 
 by his grandfather to his Augusta. Le Chemin des 
 Dames! — beyond a doubt his dream was to give 
 France to his eldest, England to his second, and 
 
116 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Russia to the third of the litter. After that, as he 
 said to Mr. Gerard, he would turn his attention to 
 America. 
 
 That was the dream of this Bonaparte done in 
 German silver, and now his house is left unto him 
 desolate — unto him whose criminality, sustained by 
 the criminal conceit of his subjects, left thousands of 
 houses desolate for evermore. 
 
 But we are now in the Garden of Peace, whose 
 sweet savour should not be allowed to become rank by 
 the mention of the name of the instigator of the 
 German butcheries. 
 
 There is little under my eyes in this garden to re- 
 mind me of one on the Rhine where I spent a summer 
 a good many years ago. Its situation was ideal. The 
 island of legends, Nonnenworth, was all that could be 
 seen from one of the garden-houses; and one of the 
 windows in the front was arranged in small squares 
 of glass stained, but retaining their transparency, 
 in various colours — crimson, pink, dark blue, ultra- 
 marine, and two degrees yellow. Through these 
 theatrical mediums we were exhorted to view the 
 romantic island, so that we had the rare chance of 
 seeing Nonnenworth bathed in blood, or in flames of 
 fire. It was undoubtedly a great privilege, but I only 
 availed myself of it once ; though our host, who must 
 have looked through those glasses thousands of times, 
 was always to be found gazing through the flaming 
 yellow at the unhappy isle. 
 
 From the vineyard nearer the house we had the 
 finest view of the ruins of the Drachenfels, and, on the 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 117 
 
 other side of the Rhine, of Rolandseck. Godesburg 
 was farther away, but we used to drive through the 
 lovely avenue of cherry-trees and take the ferry to 
 the hotel gardens where we lunched. 
 
 Another of the features of the great garden of our 
 villa was a fountain whose chief charm was found in 
 an arrangement by which, on treading on a certain 
 slab of stone at the invitation of our host, the un- 
 initiated were met by a deluging squirt of water. 
 
 This was the lighter side of hospitality ; but it was 
 at one time to be found in many English gardens, 
 one of the earliest being at our Henry's Palace of 
 Nonsuch. 
 
 In another well-built hut there was the apparatus 
 of a game which is popular aboard ship in the Tropics : 
 I believe it is called Bull; it is certainly an adapta- 
 tion of the real bull. There is a framework of 
 apertures with a number painted on each, the object 
 of the player being to throw a metal disc resembling 
 a quoit into the central opening. Another hut had a 
 pole in the middle and cords with a ring at the end of 
 each suspended from above, and the trick was to in- 
 duce the ring to catch on to a particular hook in a set 
 arranged round the pole. These were the games of 
 exercise; but the intellectual visitors had for their 
 diversion an immense globe of silvered glass which 
 stood on a short pillar and enabled one to get in absurd 
 perspective a reflection of the various parts of the 
 garden where it was placed. This toy is very popular 
 in some parts of France, and I have heard that about 
 sixty years ago it was to be found in many English 
 
118 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 gardens also. It is a great favourite in the German 
 lustgarten. 
 
 These are a few of the features of a private garden 
 which may commend themselves to some of my 
 friends; but the least innocuous will never be found 
 within my castle walls. I would not think them 
 worth mentioning but for the fact that yesterday 
 a visitor kept rubbing us all over with sandpaper, so 
 to speak, by talking enthusiastically about her visits to 
 Germany, and in the midst of the autumn calm in our 
 garden, telling us how beautifully her friend Von 
 Bosche had arranged his grounds. She had the impu- 
 dence to point to one of the most impregnable of my 
 " features," saying with a smile, — 
 
 " The Count would not approve of that, I'm 
 afraid." 
 
 " I am so glad," said Dorothy sweetly. " If I 
 thought that there was anything here of which he 
 would approve, I should put on my gardening boots 
 and trample it as much out of existence as our rela- 
 tions are with those contemptible counts and all their 
 race." 
 
 And then, having found the range, I brought my 
 heavy guns into action and " the case began to spread." 
 
 I trust that I made myself thoroughly offensive, 
 and when I recall some of the things I said, my 
 conscience acquits me of any shortcomings in this 
 direction. 
 
 " You were very wise," said Dorothy; " but I think 
 you went too far when you said, ' Good-bye, Miss 
 Haldane.' I saw her wince at that." 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 119 
 
 " I knew that I would never have a chance of speak- 
 ing to her again," I replied. 
 
 "Oh, yes; but — Haldane — Haldane! If you had 
 made it Snowden or MacDonald it would not have 
 been so bad ; but Haldane ! " 
 
 " I said Haldane because I meant Haldane, and 
 because Haldane is a synonym for colossal impudence 
 — the impudence of a police-court attorney defending 
 a prostitute with whom he was on terms of disgust- 
 ing intimacy. What a trick it was to leave the War 
 Office, out of which he knew he would be turned, 
 and then cajole his friend Asquith into giving him 
 a peerage and the Seals, so that he might have his 
 pension of five thousand pounds a year for the rest 
 of his natural life ! If that is to be condoned, all that 
 I can say is that we must revise all our notions of 
 political pettifogging. I forget at the moment how 
 many retired Lord Chancellors there are who are 
 pocketing their pension, but have done nothing to 
 earn it." 
 
 " What, do you call voting through thick and thin 
 with your party nothing? " 
 
 " I don't. That is how, what we call a sovereign 
 to-day is worth only nine shillings, and a man who 
 got thirty shillings a week as a gardener only gets 
 three pounds now: thirty shillings in 1913 was more 
 than three pounds to-day. And in England " 
 
 " Hush, hush. Remember, ' My country right or 
 wrong.' " 
 
 " I do remember. That is why I rave. When * my 
 country, right or wrong ' is painted out and ' my 
 
120 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 party, right or wrong ' substituted, isn't it time one 
 raved ? " 
 
 ' You didn't talk in that strain when you wrote a 
 leading article every day for a newspaper." 
 
 "I admit it; but — but — well, things hadn't come 
 to a head in those old days." 
 
 " You mean that they had not come into your head, 
 mon vieu-oc, if you will allow me to say so." 
 
 I did allow her to say so — she had said so before 
 asking my leave, which on the whole I admit is a very 
 good way of saying things. 
 
 To be really frank, I confess that I was very glad 
 that the dialogue ended here. I fancied the possibility 
 of her having stored away in that wonderful group 
 of pigeon holes which she calls her memory, a memo- 
 randum endorsed with the name of Campbell-Banner- 
 man or a dossier labelled " Lansdowne." For myself 
 I recollect very well that a vote of the representatives 
 of the People had declared that Campbell-Bannerman 
 had left the country open to destruction by his failure 
 to provide an adequate supply of cordite. In the days 
 of poor Admiral Byng such negligence would have 
 been quickly followed by an execution; but with the 
 politician it was followed by a visit to Buckingham 
 Palace and a decoration as a hero. When it was plain 
 that Lord Lansdowne had made, and was still mak- 
 ing, a muddle of the South African War, he was pro- 
 moted to a more important post in the Government — 
 namely, the Foreign Office. With such precedents 
 culled from the past, why should any one be surprised 
 to find the instigator of the Gallipoli gamble, whose 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 121 
 
 responsibility was proved by a Special Commission of 
 Inquiry, awarded the most important post next to 
 that of the Prime Minister? 
 
 Yes, on the whole I was satisfied to accept my 
 Dorothy's smiling rebuke with a smile ; and the sequel 
 of the incident showed me that I was wise in this 
 respect; for I found her the next day looking with 
 admiring eyes at our Temple. 
 
 Our Temple was my masterpiece, and it was the 
 " feature " which our visitor had, without meaning it, 
 commended so extravagantly when she had assured 
 us that her friend Count Von Bosche would not have 
 approved of it. 
 
 " I think, my child, now that I come to think of it, 
 that your single-sentence retort respecting the value 
 of the Count's possible non-approval was more effec- 
 tive than my tirade about the vulgarity of German 
 taste in German gardens, especially that one at Hon- 
 nef-on-Rhine, where I was jocularly deluged with 
 Rhine water. You know how to hit off such things. 
 You are a born sniper." 
 
 " Sniping is a woman's idea of war," said Dorothy. 
 
 " I don't like to associate women and warfare," 
 said I shaking my head. 
 
 " That is because of your gentle nature, dear," said 
 she with all the smoothness of a smoothing-iron fresh 
 from a seven-times heated furnace. " But isn't it 
 strange that in most languages the word War is a 
 noun feminine? " 
 
 " They were always hard on woman in those days," 
 said I vaguely. " But they're making up for it now." 
 
122 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " What are you talking about? " she cried. " Why, 
 they're harder than ever on women in this country. 
 Haven't they just insisted on enchaining them with 
 the franchise, with the prospect of seats in the House 
 of Commons? Oh, Woman — poor Woman! — poor, 
 poor Woman — what have you done to deserve this? " 
 
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH 
 
 The Temple is one of the " features " which began to 
 grow with great rapidity in connection with the House 
 Garden. And here let me say that, in my opinion, 
 one of the most fascinating elements of the House 
 Garden is the way in which its character develops. 
 To watch its development is as interesting as to watch 
 the growth of a dear child, only it is never wilful, and 
 the child is — sometimes. There is no wilfulness in the 
 floral part: as I have already explained, the "dwarf 
 habit " of the stock prevents all ramping and every 
 form of rebellion: but it is different with the "fea- 
 tures." I have found that every year brings its sug- 
 gestions of development in many directions, and 
 surely this constitutes the main attractiveness of 
 working out any scheme of horticulture. 
 
 I have found that one never comes to an end in 
 this respect; and I am sure that this accounts for 
 the great popularity of the House Garden, in spite 
 of its enemies having tried to abolish it by calling it 
 Formal. The time was when one felt it necessary 
 to make excuses for it — Mr. Robinson, one of 
 the most eminent of its detractors, was, and still 
 is, I am happy to be able to say, the writer to 
 whom we all apply for advice in an emergency. He 
 
 123 
 
124 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 is iEsculapius living on the happiest terms with 
 Flora. 
 
 But when we who are her devotees wish to build a 
 Temple for her worship, we don't consult iEsculapius: 
 he is a physician, not an architect, and Mr. Robinson 
 has been trying to convince us for over twenty years 
 that an architect is not the person to consult, for he 
 knows nothing about the matter. iEsculapius is on 
 the side of Nature, we are told, and he has been assur- 
 ing us that the architect is not; but in spite of all its 
 opponents, the garden of form and finish is the garden 
 of to-day. Every one who wishes to have a garden 
 worth talking about — a garden to look out upon from 
 a house asks for a garden of form and finish. 
 
 I am constantly feeling that I am protesting too 
 much in its favour, considering that it needs no apolo- 
 gist at this time of day, when, as I have just said, opin- 
 ion on its desirability is not divided, so I will hasten 
 to relieve myself of the charge of accusation by apol- 
 ogy. Only let me say that the beautiful illustrations 
 to Mr. Robinson's volume entitled Garden Design 
 and Architects' Gardens — they are by Alfred Parsons 
 — go far, in my opinion, to prove exactly the opposite 
 to what they are designed to prove. We have pic- 
 tures of stately houses and of comparatively humble 
 houses, in which we are shown the buildings starting 
 up straight out of the landscape, with a shaggy tree 
 or group of trees cutting off, at a distance of only 
 a few yards from the walls, some of the most inter- 
 esting architectural features; we have pictures of 
 mansions with a woodland behind them and a river 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 125 
 
 flowing in front, and of mansions in the very midst 
 of trees, and looking at every one of them we are 
 conscious of that element of incongruity which takes 
 away from every sense of beauty. In fact, looking 
 at the woodcuts, finely executed as they are, we are 
 forced to limit our observation to the architecture 
 of the houses only; for there is nothing else to observe. 
 We feel as if we were asked to admire an unfinished 
 wor k — as if the owner of the mansion had spent all 
 his money on the building and so was compelled to 
 break off suddenly before the picture that he hoped 
 to make of the " place " was complete or approach- 
 ing completeness. 
 
 Mr. Robinson's strongest objection is to "clip- 
 ping." He regards with abhorrence what he calls 
 after Horace Walpole, " vegetable sculpture." Well, 
 last year, being in the neighbourhood of one of the 
 houses which he illustrates as an example of his 
 '" natural" style of gardening, I thought I should 
 take the opportunity of verifying his quotations. I 
 visited the place, but when I arrived at what I was 
 told was the entrance, I felt certain that I had been 
 misdirected, for I found myself looking through a 
 wrought- iron gate at an avenue bounded on both 
 sides with some of the most magnificent clipped box 
 hedges I had ever seen. Within I was overwhelmed 
 with the enormous masses treated in the same way. 
 It was not hedges they were, but walls — massive forti- 
 fications, ten feet high and five thick, and all clipped! 
 I never saw such examples of topiary work. To 
 stand among these betes noires of Mr. Robinson made 
 
126 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 one feel as if one were living among the mastodons 
 and other monstrosities of the early world : the small- 
 est suggested both in form and bulk the Jumbo of 
 our youth — no doubt it had a trunk somewhere, but 
 it was completely hidden. The lawn — at the bottom 
 of which, by the way, there stood the most imposing 
 garden-house I had ever seen outside the grounds of 
 Stowe — was divided geometrically by the awful bodies 
 of mastodons, mammoths, elephants, and hippo- 
 potamuses, the effect being hauntingly Wilsonian, 
 Wagnerian, and nightmarish, so that I was glad to 
 hurry away to where I caught a glimpse of some 
 geometrical flower beds, with patterns delightfully 
 worked in shades of blue — Lord Roberts heliotrope, 
 ageratum, and verbena. 
 
 I asked the head-gardener, whom the war had 
 limited to two assistants, if he spent much time over 
 the clipping, and he told me that it took two trained 
 men doing nothing else but clipping those walls for 
 six weeks out of every year! 
 
 From what Mr. Robinson has written one gathers 
 that he regards the clipping of trees as equal in enor- 
 mity to the clipping of coins — perhaps even more so. 
 If that is the case, it is lucky for those topiarists that 
 he is not in the same position as Sir Charles Mathews. 
 
 And the foregoing is a faithful description of the 
 " landscape " around one of the houses illustrated in 
 his book as an example of the " naturalistic " style. 
 
 But perhaps Mr. Robinson's ideas have become 
 modified, as those of the owner of the house must 
 have done during the twenty-five years that have 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 127 
 
 elapsed since the publication of his book, subjecting 
 Mr. Blomfield (as he was then) and Mr. Inigo Triggs 
 to a criticism whose severity resembles that of the 
 Quarterly Review of a hundred years ago, or the 
 Saturday of our boyhood. 
 
 To return to my Temple, within whose portals I 
 swear that I have said my last word respecting the old 
 battle of the styles, I look on its erection as the first 
 progeny of the matrimonial union of the house with 
 its garden. I have mentioned the mound encircled 
 with flowering shrubs at the termination of the lawn. 
 I am unable to say what part was played by this 
 raised ground in the economy of the Norman Castle, 
 but before I had been looking at it for very long 
 I perceived that it was clearly meant to be the site 
 of some building that would be in keeping with the 
 design of the garden below it — some building in 
 which one could sit and obtain the full enjoyment 
 of the floral beds which were now crying out with 
 melodious insistence for admiration. 
 
 The difficulty was to know in what form the build- 
 ing should be cast. I reckoned that I had a free 
 choice in this matter. The boundary wall of the 
 Castle is, of course, free from all architectural tram- 
 mels. I could afford to ignore it. If the Keep or 
 the Barbican had been within sight, my freedom in 
 this respect would have been curtailed to the nar- 
 rowest limits: I should have been compelled to make 
 the Norman or the Decorated the style, for anything 
 else would have seemed incongruous in close proxim- 
 ity to a recognised type; but under the existing con- 
 
128 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 ditions I saw that the attempt to carry out in this 
 place the Norman tradition would result in something 
 that would seem as great a mockery as the sham castle 
 near Bath. 
 
 But I perceived that if I could not carry out the 
 Norman tradition I might adopt the eighteenth cen- 
 tury tradition respecting a garden building, and erect 
 one of the classic temples that found favour with the 
 great garden makers of that period — something 
 frankly artificial, but eminently suggestive of the 
 Italian taste which the designers had acquired in 
 Italy. 
 
 I have wondered if the erection of these classical 
 buildings in English gardens did not seem very incon- 
 gruous and artificial when they were first brought 
 before the eyes of the patron ; and the conclusion that 
 I have come to is that they seemed as suitable to an 
 English home as did the pure Greek facade of the 
 mansion itself, the fact being that there is no Eng- 
 lish style of architecture. Italy gave us the hand- 
 somest style for our homes, and when people were 
 everywhere met with classical facades — when the 
 Corinthian pillar with, perhaps, its modified Roman 
 entablature, was to be seen in every direction, the 
 classical garden temple was accepted as in perfect 
 harmony with its surroundings. So the regular 
 couplets of Dryden, Pope, and a score of lesser versi- 
 fiers were acclaimed as the most natural and reason- 
 able form for the expression of their opinions. Thus 
 I hold that, however unenterprising the garden de- 
 signers were in being content to copy Continental 
 
V «i' J*' 
 
 
 
 . r • 
 
 
 "--«»*£ -aSaa 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 120 
 
 models instead of inventing something as original as 
 Keats in the matter of form, the modern garden de- 
 signer has only to copy in order to produce — well, a 
 copy of the formality of their time. But if people 
 nowadays do not wish their gardens to reflect the 
 tastes of their ancestors for the classical tradition, they 
 will be very foolish if they do not adopt something 
 better — when they find it. 
 
 Of course I am now still referring to the garden 
 out of which the house should spring. The moment 
 that you get free from the compelling influence of 
 the house, you may go as you please ; and to my mind 
 you will be as foolish if you do not do something quite 
 different from the House Garden as you would be if 
 you were to do anything different within sight of the 
 overpowering House — almost as foolish as the people 
 who made a beautiful fountain garden and then flung 
 it at the head of that natural piece of water, the 
 Serpentine. 
 
 My temple was to be in full view of the house, and 
 I wished to maintain the tradition of a certain period, 
 so I drew out my plans accordingly. I had space 
 only for something about ten feet square, and I found 
 out what the simplest form of such a building would 
 cost. It could be done in stone for some hundreds 
 of pounds, in deal for less than a fourth of that sum. 
 
 Both estimates were from well-known people with 
 all the facilities for turning out good work at the low- 
 est figure of profit; but both estimates made me 
 heavy-hearted. I tried to make up my mind not to 
 spend the rest of my life in the state of the Children 
 
130 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 of Israel when their Temple was swept away; but 
 within six months I had my vision restored, and un- 
 like the old people who wept because the restoration 
 was far behind the original in glory, I rejoiced; for, 
 rinding that I could not afford to have the structure 
 in deal, I had it built of marble, and the cost worked 
 out most satisfactorily. In marble it cost me about a 
 fourth of the estimate in deal ! 
 
 I did it on the system adopted by the makers of 
 the Basilica of St. Mark at Venice. Those economical 
 people built their walls of brick and laid their marbles 
 upon that. My collection of marbles was distinctly 
 inferior to theirs, but I flatter myself that it was come 
 by more honestly. The only piece of which I felt 
 doubtful, not as regards beauty, but respecting the 
 honourable nature of its original acquiring, was a fine 
 slab, with many inlays. It was given to Augustus J. 
 C. Hare by the Commander of one of the British 
 transports that returned from the Black Sea and the 
 Crimea in 1855, and it was originally in a church near 
 Balaclava. In the catalogue of the sale of Mr. Hare's 
 effects at Hurstmonceaux, the name of the British of- 
 ficer was given and the name of his ship and the name 
 of the church, but the rest is silence. I cannot believe 
 that that British officer would have been guilty of 
 sacrilege ; but I do not know how many hands a thing 
 like this should pass through in order to lose the stain 
 of sacrilege, so I don't worry over the question of the 
 morality of the transaction, any more than the devout 
 worshippers do beneath the mosaics of St. Mark — 
 that greatest depository of stolen goods in the world. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 131 
 
 All the rest of my coloured marbles that I applied 
 to the brickwork of my little structure came mostly 
 from old mantelpieces and restaurant tables, but I 
 was lucky enough to alight upon quite a large number 
 of white Sicilian tiles, more than an inch thick, which 
 were invaluable to me, and a friendly stonemason 
 gave me several yards of statuary moulding: it must 
 have cost originally about what I paid for my entire 
 building. 
 
 It was a great pleasure to me to watch the fabric 
 arise, which it did like the towers of Ilium, to music 
 — the music of the thrushes and blackbirds and robins 
 of our English landscape in the early summer when 
 I began my operations — they lasted just on a fort- 
 night — and the splendid colour-chorus of the borders. 
 
 But what is a Temple on a hill without steps? and 
 what are steps without piers, and what are piers with- 
 out vases? 
 
 All came in due time. I found an excellent quarry 
 not too far away, and from it I got several tons of 
 stone that was easily shaped and squared, and there 
 is very little art needed to deal efficiently with such 
 monoliths as I had laid on the slope of the mound — 
 the work occupied a man and his boy just three days. 
 The source of the piers is my secret; but there they 
 are with their stone vases to-day, and now from the 
 marble seat of the temple, thickly overspread with 
 cushions, one can overlook the parterres between the 
 mound and the house, and feel no need for the sunk 
 garden which is the ambition of such as must be on 
 the crest of the latest wave of fashion. 
 
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH 
 
 Atheist Friswell has been wondering where he saw 
 a mount like mine crowned with just such a structure, 
 and he has at last shepherded his wandering memory 
 to the place. I ventured to suggest the possibilities 
 of the island Scios, and Jack Hey wood, the painter, 
 who, though our neighbour, still remains our friend, 
 makes some noncompromising remark about Milos 
 " where the statues come from." 
 
 " I think you'll find the place in a picture-book 
 called Beauty Spots in Greece" remarked Mrs. Fris- 
 well. Dorothy is under the impression that Friswell's 
 researches in the classical lore of one Lempriere is 
 accountable for his notion that there is, or was, at one 
 time in the world a Temple with some resemblance 
 to the one in which we were sitting when he began to 
 wonder. 
 
 " Very likely," said he, with a brutal laugh. " The 
 temples on the hills were sometimes dedicated to the 
 sun — Helios, you know." 
 
 Of course we all knew, or pretended that we knew. 
 
 " And what did your artful Christians do when 
 they came upon such a fane? " he inquired. 
 
 " Pulled it down, I suppose ; the early artful Chris- 
 tians had no more sense of architectural or antiquarian 
 
 132 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 133 
 
 beauty than the modern exponents of the cult," said 
 Heywood. 
 
 " They were too artful for that, those early Chris- 
 tian propagandists," said Friswell. " No, they turned 
 to the noble Greek worshippers whom they were 
 anxious to convert, and cried, dropping their aspirates 
 after the manner of the moderns, " dedicated to Elias, 
 is it? Quite so — Saint Elias — he is one of our saints." 
 That is how it comes that so many churches on hills 
 in the Near East have for their patron Saint Elias. 
 Who was he, I should like to know." 
 
 " I would do my best to withhold the knowledge 
 from you," said Dorothy. " But was there ever really 
 such a saint? There was a prophet, of course, but 
 that's not just the same." 
 
 " I should think not," said Friswell. " The old 
 prophets were the grandest characters of which there 
 is a record — your saints are white trash alongside 
 them — half-breeds. They only came into existence 
 because of the craving of humanity for pluralities of 
 worship. The Church has found in her saints the 
 equivalents to the whole Roman theology." 
 
 " Mythology," said I correctively. 
 
 " There's no difference between the words," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 " Oh, yes, my dear, there is," said his wife. 
 " There is the same difference between theology and 
 mythology as there is between convert and per- 
 vert." 
 
 " Exactly the same difference," he cried. 
 " Exactly, but no greater. Christian hagiology — 
 
134 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 what a horrid word! — is on all-fours with Roman 
 mythology. The women who used to lay flowers in 
 the Temple of Diana bring their lilies into the chapel 
 of the Madonna. There are chapels for all the saints, 
 for they have endowed their saints with the powers 
 attributed to their numerous deities by the Greeks 
 and the Romans. There are enough saints to go 
 round — to meet all the requirements of the most 
 freakish and exacting of district visitors. But the 
 Jewish prophets were very different from the mysti- 
 cal and mythical saints. They lived, and you feel 
 when you get in touch with them that you are on a 
 higher plane altogether." 
 
 " Have you found out where you saw that Temple 
 on the mound over there, and if you have, let us know 
 the name of the god or the goddess or saint or saintess 
 that it was dedicated to, and I'll try to pick up a 
 Britannia metal figure cheap to put in the grove 
 alongside the Greek vase," said I. 
 
 He seemed in labour of thought: no one spoke for 
 fear of interrupting the course of nature. 
 
 " Let me think," he muttered. " I don't see why 
 the mischief I should associate a Greek Temple with 
 Oxford Street, but I do — that particular Temple of 
 yours." 
 
 " If you were a really religious business man you 
 might be led to think of the City Temple, only it 
 doesn't belong to the Greek Church," remarked 
 Heywood. 
 
 " Let me help you," said the Atheist's wife; " think 
 of Truslove and Hanson, the booksellers. Did Arthur 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 135 
 
 Rackham ever put a Temple into one of his picture- 
 books?" 
 
 " After all, you may have gone on to Holborn — 
 Were you in Batsford's?" suggested Dorothy. 
 
 " Don't bother about him," said I. " What does it 
 matter if he did once see something like our Temple ; 
 he'll never see anything like it again, unless " 
 
 " It may have been Buszards' — a masterpiece of 
 Buszards, — pure confectioners' Greek architecture — 
 icing veined to look like marble," said Dorothy. 
 
 " I have it — I knew I could worry it out if you gave 
 me time," cried Friswell. 
 
 " Which we did," said I. " Well, whisper it gently 
 in our ears." 
 
 " It was in a scene in a play at the Princess's 
 Theatre," he cried triumphantly. " Yes, I recollect 
 it distinctly — something just like your masterpiece, 
 only more slavishly Greek — the scene was laid in 
 Rome, so they would be sure to have it correct." 
 
 " What play was it? " Dorothy asked. 
 
 " Oh, now you're asking too much," he replied. 
 "Who could remember the name of a play after 
 thirty or forty years? All that I remember is that it 
 was a thoroughly bad play with a Temple like yours 
 in it. It was the fading of the light that brought 
 it within the tentacles of my memory." 
 
 " So like a man — to blame the dusk," said his 
 wife. 
 
 " The twilight is the time for a garden — the sum- 
 mer twilight, like this," said Mr. Heywood. 
 
 " The moonless midnight is the time for some 
 
136 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 gardens," said Dorothy, who is fastidious in many 
 matters, though she did marry me. 
 
 " The time for a garden was decided a long time 
 ago," said I — " as long ago as the third chapter of 
 Genesis and the eighth verse : ' They heard the voice 
 of the Lord God walking in the Garden in the cool 
 of the day. ' " 
 
 " You say that with a last-word air — as much as 
 to say ' what's good enough for God is good enough 
 for me,' " laughed Friswell. 
 
 " I think that if ever a mortal heard the voice of 
 God it would be in a garden at the cool of the day," 
 said Mrs. Friswell gently. 
 
 " There are some people who would fail to hear it 
 at any time," said I, pointedly referring to Friswell. 
 He gave a laugh. " What are you guffawing at? " I 
 cried with some asperity I trust. 
 
 " Not at your Congregational platitudes," he re- 
 plied. " I was led to smile when I remembered how 
 the colloquial Bible which was compiled by a Scots- 
 man, treated that beautiful passage. He paraphrased 
 it, ' The Lord went oot in the gloamin' to hae a crack 
 wi' Adam ower the garden gate.' " 
 
 " I don't suppose he was thought irreverent," said 
 Dorothy. " He wasn't really, you know." 
 
 " To take a step or two in the other direction," said 
 Mrs. Friswell; " I wonder if Milton had in his mind 
 any of the Italian gardens he must have visited on 
 his travels when he described the Garden of Eden." 
 
 " There's not much of an Italian garden in Milton's 
 Eden," said Dorothy, who is something of an author- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 137 
 
 ity on these points. " But it is certainly an Italian 
 twilight that he describes in one place. Poor Milton! 
 he must have been living for many years in a per- 
 petual twilight before it darkened into his perpetual 
 night." 
 
 " You notice the influence of the hour," said Hey- 
 wood. " We have fallen into a twilight-shaded vale 
 of converse. This is the hour when people talk in 
 whispers in gardens like these." 
 
 " I dare say we have all done so in our time," re- 
 marked some one with a sentimental sigh that she 
 tried in vain to smother. 
 
 " Ah, God knew what He was about when He put a 
 man and a woman into a garden alone, and gave them 
 an admonition," said Friswell. " By the way, one of 
 the most remarkable bits of testimony to the scien- 
 tific accuracy of the Book of Genesis, seems to me to 
 be the discovery, after many years of conjecture and 
 vague theorising, that man and woman were originally 
 one, so that the story of the formation of Eve by 
 separating from Adam a portion of his body is scien- 
 tifically true. I don't suppose that any of you good 
 orthodox folk will take that in; but it is a fact all 
 the same." 
 
 " I will believe anything except a scientific fact," 
 said Dorothy. 
 
 " And I will believe nothing else," said Friswell. 
 " The history of mankind begins with the creation of 
 Eve — the separation of the two-sexed animal into two 
 — meant a new world, a world worth writing about — 
 a world of love." 
 
138 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " Listen to him — there's the effect of twilight in a 
 Garden of Peace for you," said I. " Science and the 
 Book of Genesis, hitherto at enmity, are at last recon- 
 ciled by Atheist Friswell. What a triumph! What 
 a pity that Milton, who made his Archangel visit 
 Adam and his bride and give them a scientific lecture, 
 did not live to learn all this ! " 
 
 " He would have given us a Nonconformist account 
 of it," said Mrs. Friswell. " I wonder how much his 
 Archangel would have known if Milton had not first 
 visited Charles Deodati." 
 
 There was much more to be said in the twilight on 
 the subject of the world of love — a world which seems 
 the beginning of a new world to those who love ; and 
 that was possibly why silence fell upon us and was 
 only broken by the calling of a thrush from among 
 the rhododendrons and the tapping of the rim of 
 Heywood's empty pipe-bowl on the heel of his shoe. 
 There was so much to be said, if we were the people 
 to say it, on the subject of the new Earth which your 
 lover knows to be the old Heaven, that, being aware 
 of the inadequacy of human speech, we were silent 
 for a long space. 
 
 And when we began to talk again it was only to 
 hark back from Nature to the theatre, and, a further 
 decadence still — the Gardens of the Stage. 
 
 The most effective garden scene in my recollection 
 is that in which Irving and Ellen Terry acted when 
 playing Wills' exquisite adaptation of King Rene's 
 Daughter, which he called Iolanthe. I think it was 
 Harker who painted it. The garden was outside a 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 139 
 
 mediaeval castle, and the way its position on the sum- 
 mit of a hill was suggested was an admirable bit of 
 stagecraft. Among the serried lines of pines there 
 was at first seen the faint pink of a sunset, and this 
 gradually became a glowing crimson which faded 
 away into the rich blue of an Italian twilight. But 
 there was enough light to glint here and there upon 
 the armour of the men-at-arms who moved about 
 among the trees. 
 
 The parterre in the foreground was full of red 
 roses, and I remember that Mr. Ruskin, after seeing 
 the piece and commenting upon the mise- en-scene, 
 said that in such a light as was on it, the roses of the 
 garden would have seemed black! 
 
 This one-act play was brought on by Irving during 
 the latter months of the great run of The Merchant of 
 Venice. It showed in how true a spirit of loyalty to 
 Shakespeare the last act, which, in nearly all repre- 
 sentations of the play, is omitted, on the assumption 
 that with the disappearance of Shylock there is no 
 further element of interest in the piece, was retained 
 by the great manager. It was retained only for the 
 first few months, and it was delightfully played. The 
 moonlit garden in which the incomparable lines of the 
 poet were spoken was of the true Italian type, though 
 there is nothing in the text of what is called " local 
 colour." 
 
 Juliet's garden on the same stage was not so defi- 
 nitely Italian as it might have been. But I happen 
 to know who were Irving's advisers. Among them 
 were two of the most popular of English painters, 
 
140 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 and if they had had their own way Romeo would have 
 been allowed no chance : he would have been hidden by 
 the clumps of yew, and juniper, and oleander, and 
 ilex, and pomegranate. A good many people who 
 were present during the run of Romeo and Juliet 
 were very much of the opinion that if this had taken 
 place it would have been to the advantage of all con- 
 cerned. Mr. Irving, as he was then, was not the ideal 
 Romeo of the English playgoer. But neither was the 
 original Romeo, who was, like the original Paolo, a 
 man of something over forty. 
 
 I have never seen it pointed out that a Romeo of 
 forty would be quite consistent with the Capulet 
 tradition, for Juliet's father in the play was quite an 
 elderly man, whereas the mother was a young woman 
 of twenty-eight. As for Juliet's age, it is usually 
 made the subject of a note of comment to the effect 
 that in the warm south a girl matures so rapidly that 
 she is marriageable at Juliet's age of thirteen, whereas 
 in the colder clime of England it would be ridiculous 
 to talk of one marrying at such an age. 
 
 There can be no doubt that in these less spacious 
 days the idea of a bride of thirteen would not com- 
 mend itself to parents or guardians, but in the six- 
 teenth century, twelve or thirteen was regarded as 
 the right age for the marriage of a girl. If she 
 reached her sixteenth birthday remaining single, she 
 was ready to join in the wail of Jephtha's Daughter. 
 In a recently published letter written by Queen Eliza- 
 beth, who, by the way, although fully qualified to take 
 part in that chorale, seemed to find a series of diplo- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 141 
 
 matic flirtations to be more satisfying than matrimony, 
 she submitted the names of three heiresses as ripe for 
 marriage, and none of them had passed the age of 
 thirteen. The Reverend John Knox made his third 
 matrimonial venture with a child of fifteen. Indeed, 
 one has only to search the records of any family of 
 the sixteenth or seventeenth century to be made aware 
 of the fact that Shakespeare's Juliet was not an ex- 
 ceptionally youthful bride. In Tenbury Church there 
 is a memorial of " Ioyse, d. of Thos. Actone of 
 Sutton, Esquire." She was the wife of Sir Thomas 
 Lucy, whom she married at the age of twelve. If 
 any actor, however, were to appear as a forty-two 
 year Romeo and with a Juliet of thirteen, and a lady- 
 mother of twenty-eight, he would be optimistic indeed 
 if he should hope for a long run for his venture. 
 
 Of course with the boy Juliets of the Globe Theatre, 
 the younger they were the better chance they would 
 have of carrying conviction with them. A Juliet with 
 a valanced cheek would not be nice, even though she 
 were " nearer heaven by the attitude of a chopine " 
 than one whose face was smooth. 
 
 I think that Irving looked his full age when he took 
 it upon him to play Romeo; but to my mind he made 
 a more romantic figure than most Romeos whom I 
 have seen. But every one who joined in criticising 
 the representation seemed unable to see more of him 
 than his legs, and these were certainly fantastic. I 
 maintained that such people began at the wrong end 
 of the actor: they should have begun at the head. 
 And this was the hope of Irving himself. He had the 
 
142 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 intellect, and I thought his legs extremely intel- 
 lectual. 
 
 I wonder he did not do some padding to bring his 
 calves into the market, and make — as he would have 
 done — a handsome profit out of the play. In the old 
 days of the Bateman Management of the Lyceum, 
 he was never permitted to ignore the possibilities of 
 making up for deficiencies of Nature. In the estima- 
 tion of the majority of theatre-goers, the intellect of 
 an actor will never make up for any neglect of the 
 adventitious aid of " make-up." When Eugene Aram 
 was to be produced, it was thought advisable to do 
 some padding to make Irving presentable. There 
 was a clever expert at this form of expansion con- 
 nected with the theatre ; he was an Italian and, speak- 
 ing no English, he was forced into an experiment in 
 explanation in his own language. He wished to en- 
 force the need for a solid shape to fit the body, rather 
 than a patchwork of padding. In doing so he had to 
 made constant use of the word corpo, and as none of 
 his hearers understood Italian, they thought that he 
 was giving a name to the contrivance he had in his 
 mind; so when the thing passed out of the mental 
 stage into the actor's dressing-room, it was alluded to 
 as the corpo. The name seemed a happy one and it 
 had a certain philological justification; for several 
 people, including the dresser, thought that corpo was 
 a contraction for corporation, and in the slang of the 
 day, that meant an expansion of the chest a little lower 
 down. 
 
 Mrs. Bateman, with whom and with whose family 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 143 
 
 I was intimate, told me this long after the event, and, 
 curiously enough, it arose out of a conversation going 
 on among some visitors to the house in Ensleigh 
 Street where Mrs. Bateman and her daughters were 
 living. I said I thought the most expressive line ever 
 written was that in the Inferno which ended the ex- 
 quisite Francesca episode: — 
 
 " E caddi come un corpo morto cade." 
 
 Mrs. Bateman and her daughter Kate (Mrs. 
 Crowe) looked at each other and smiled. I thought 
 that they had probably had the line quoted to them 
 ad nauseam, and I said so. 
 
 " That is not what we were smiling at," said Mrs. 
 Bateman. " It was at the recollection of the word 
 corpo." 
 
 And then she told me the foregoing. 
 
 Only a short time afterwards in the same house 
 she gave me a bit of information of a much more 
 interesting sort. 
 
 I had been at the first performance of Wills' play 
 Ninon at the Adelphi theatre, and was praising the 
 acting of Miss Wallis and Mr. Fernandez. When I 
 was describing one scene, Mrs. Bateman said, — 
 
 " I recollect that scene very well ; Mr. Wills read 
 that play to us when he was writing Charles I.; but 
 there was no part in it strong enough for Mr. Irving. 
 He heard it read, however, and was greatly taken 
 with some lines in it — so greatly in fact that Mr. Wills 
 found a place for them in Charles Z. They are the 
 
144 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 lines of the King's upbraiding of the Scotch traitor, 
 beginning, ' I saw a picture of a Judas once.' Some 
 people thought them among the finest in the play." 
 
 I said that I was certainly among them. 
 
 That was how they made up a play which is cer- 
 tainly one of the most finished dramas in verse of the 
 latter half of the nineteenth century. 
 
 It was Irving himself who told me something more 
 about the same play. The subject had been suggested 
 to Wills and he set about it with great fervour. He 
 brought the first act to the Lyceum conclave. It 
 opened in the banqueting hall of some castle, with a 
 score of the usual cavaliers having the customary 
 carouse, throwing about wooden goblets, and tossing 
 off bumpers between the verses of some stirring s r igs 
 of the type of " Oh, fill me a beaker as deep as you 
 please," leading up to the unavoidable brawl and the 
 timely entrance of the King. 
 
 " It was exactly the opposite to all that I had in 
 my mind," Irving told me, " and I would have noth- 
 ing to do with it. I wanted the domestic Charles, with 
 his wife and children around him, and I would have 
 nothing else." 
 
 Happily he had his own way, and with the help of 
 the fine lines transferred from Ninon, the play was 
 received with acclamation, and, finely acted as it is 
 now by Mr. H. B. Irving and his wife, it never fails 
 to move an audience. 
 
 I think it was John Clayton who was the original 
 Oliver Cromwell. I was told that his make-up was 
 one of the most realistic ever seen. He was Cromwell 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 145 
 
 — to the wart! Some one who came upon him in his 
 dressing-room was lost in admiration of the perfection 
 of the picture, and declared that the painter should 
 sign it in the corner, " John Clayton, pinx." But 
 perhaps the actor and artist was Swinburne. 
 
 Only one more word in the Bateman connection. 
 The varying fortunes of the family are well known — 
 how the Bateman children made a marvellous success 
 for a time — how the eldest, Kate, played for months 
 and years in Leah, filling the treasury of every theatre 
 in England and America — how when the Lyceum was 
 at the point of closing its odors, The Bells rang in 
 an era of prosperity for all concerned; but I don't 
 suppose that many people know that Mrs. Bateman, 
 the wife of " The Colonel," was the author of several 
 novels which she wrote for newspapers at one of the 
 " downs " that preceded the " ups " in her life. 
 
 And Compton Mackenzie is Mrs. Bateman's grand- 
 son! 
 
 And Fay Compton is Compton Mackenzie's young- 
 est sister. 
 
 There is heredity for you. 
 
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH 
 
 It was melancholy — but Atheist Friswell alone was 
 to blame for it — that we should sit out through that 
 lovely evening and talk about tawdry theatricals, and 
 that same tawdriness more than a little musty through 
 time. If Friswell had not begun with his nonsense 
 about having seen my Temple somewhere down 
 Oxford Street we should never have wandered from 
 the subject of gardens until we lost ourselves among 
 the wings of the Lyceum and its " profiles " of its 
 pines in Iolanthe, and its " built " yews and pome- 
 granates in Romeo and Juliet. But among the per- 
 fume of the roses surrounding us, with an occasional 
 whiff of the lavender mound and a gracious breath 
 like that of 
 
 " The sweet South 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets 
 Giving and taking odours," 
 
 we continued talking of theatres until the summer 
 night was reeking with the smell of sawdust and 
 oranges, to say nothing of the fragrance of the poudre 
 de. ninon of the stalls, wafted over opera wraps and 
 diamond-studded shirt-fronts — diamond studs, when 
 just over the glimmering marble of my temple the 
 Evening Star was glowing! 
 
 146 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 147 
 
 But what had always been a mystery to Friswell 
 as the extraordinary lack of judgment on Irving's 
 part in choosing his plays. Had he ever made a suc- 
 cess since he produced that adaptation of Faust? 
 
 Beautifully staged and with some splendid mo- 
 ments due to the genius of the man himself and the 
 never-failing charm of the actress with whom he was 
 associated in all, yet no play worth remembering was 
 produced at the Lyceum during that management. 
 Faust made money, as it always has since the days 
 of Marlowe; but all those noisy scenes and meaning- 
 less moments on the misty mountains — only allitera- 
 tion's artful aid can deal adequately with such di- 
 gressions from the story of Faust and Gretchen which 
 was all that theatregoers, even of the better class, 
 who go to the pit, wanted — seemed dragged into the 
 piece without reason or profit. To be sure, pages 
 and pages of Goethe's Faust are devoted to his at- 
 tempt to give concreteness to abstractions. (That 
 was Friswell's phrase; and I repeat it for what it is 
 worth) . But in the original all these have a meaning 
 at the back of them ; but Irving only brought them on 
 to abandon them after a line or two. The hope to 
 gain the atmosphere of the weird by means of a pano- 
 rama of clouds and mountain peaks may have been 
 realised so far as some sections of the audience were 
 concerned; but such a manager as Henry Irving 
 should have been above trying for such cheap effects. 
 Faust made money, however, and helped materially 
 to promote the formation of the Company through 
 which country clergymen and daily governesses in 
 
148 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 the provinces hoped to advance the British Drama 
 and earn 20 per cent, dividends. 
 
 I was at the first night of every play produced at 
 the Lyceum for over twenty years, and I knew that 
 Irving never fell short of the highest and the truest 
 possible conception of any part that he attempted. 
 At his best he was unapproachable. It was not the 
 actor who failed, when there was failure; it was the 
 play that failed. Only one marvellously inartistic 
 feature was in the adaptation of The Courier of 
 Lyons. He assumed that the sole way by which 
 identification of a man is possible is by his appearance 
 — that the intonation of his voice counts for nothing 
 whatsoever. He acted in the dual role of Dubosc and 
 Lesurges — the one a gentle creature with a gentle 
 voice, the other a truculent ruffian who jerked out his 
 words hoarsely — the very antithesis to the mild 
 gentleman in voice, in gait, and in general demeanour, 
 though closely resembling him in features and ap- 
 pearance. The impression given by this representa- 
 tion was that any one who, having heard Dubosc 
 speak, would mistake Lesurges for him must be either 
 stone-deaf or an idiot. But each of the parts was 
 finely played; and the real old stage-coach arriving 
 with its team smoking like Sheffield, helped to make 
 a commonplace melodrama interesting. 
 
 Personally I do not think that he was justified in 
 trying to realise at the close of the trial scene in The 
 Merchant of Venice, the tableau of Christ standing 
 mute and patient among the mockers. It was an 
 attempt to obtain by suggestion some pity and sym- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 149 
 
 pathy for an infamous and inhuman scoundrel. In 
 that pictorial moment Shylock the Jew was made to 
 pose as Christ the Jew. 
 
 Mrs. Friswell had not seen Irving's Shylock, but 
 she expressed her belief that Shylock was on the 
 whole very badly treated; and Dorothy was ready to 
 affirm that Antonio was lacking in those elements 
 that go to the composition of a sportsman. He should 
 not have wriggled out of his bargain by the chicanery 
 of the law. 
 
 " They were a bad lot, and that's a fact," I ven- 
 tured to say. 
 
 " They were," acquiesced Friswell. " And if you 
 look into the history of the Jews, they were also a 
 bad lot ; but among them were the most splendid men 
 recorded as belonging to any race ever known on this 
 earth; and I'm not sure that Irving wasn't justified 
 in trying to get his audiences to realise in that last 
 moment something of the dignity of the Hebrew 
 people." 
 
 " He would have made a more distinct advance in 
 that direction if he had cut out the ' business ' of 
 stropping his knife a few minutes earlier, ' To cut the 
 forfeiture from that bankrupt there,' " I remarked. 
 
 " If he had done that Shakespeare would not have 
 had the chance of his pun — the cheapest pun in litera- 
 ture — and it would not be like the author to have neg- 
 lected that," said Mrs. Friswell. 
 
 They all seemed to know more of the play than I 
 gave them credit for knowing. 
 
 It was Heywood who inquired if I remembered 
 
150 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 another of living's plays at the close of which a sec- 
 ond greatly misjudged character had appealed for 
 sympathy by adopting the same pose. 
 
 Of course I did — I remembered it very distinctly. 
 It was in Peter the Great, that the actor, waiting with 
 sublime resignation to hear the heart-rending death- 
 shriek of his son whom he had condemned to drink a 
 cup of cold poison, is told by a hurrying messenger 
 that his illegitimate child has just died — then came the 
 hideous shriek, and the actor, with his far-away look 
 of patient anguish, spoke his words, — 
 
 "Then I am childless!" 
 
 And the curtain fell. 
 
 He appealed for sympathy on precisely the same 
 grounds as were suggested by the prisoner at the 
 bar who had killed his father with a hatchet, and on 
 being convicted by the jury and asked by the judge 
 if he could advance any plea whereby the sentence of 
 death should not be pronounced upon him, said he 
 hoped that his lordship would not forget that he was 
 an orphan. 
 
 In this drama the first act was played with as much 
 jingling of sleigh-bells as took place in another and 
 rather better known piece in the repertoire of the same 
 actor. 
 
 But whatever were its shortcomings, Peter the 
 Great showed that poor Lawrence Irving could write, 
 and write well, and that he might one day give to 
 the English theatre a great drama. 
 
 Irving was accused of neglecting English authors ; 
 but the accusation was quite unjust. He gave several 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 151 
 
 of them a chance. There was, of course, W. G. Wills, 
 who was a true dramatist, and showed it in those plays 
 to which I have referred. But it must not be for- 
 gotten that he produced a play by Mr. H. D. Traill 
 and Mr. Robert Hitchens, and another by Herman 
 Merrivale; Mr. J. Comyns Carr took in hand the fin- 
 ishing of King Arthur, begun by Wills, and made it 
 ridiculous, and helped in translating and adapting 
 Madame Sans Gene. Might not Lord Tennyson also 
 be called an English author? and were not his three 
 plays, Queen Mary, The Cup, and Becket brought 
 out at the Lyceum? Irving showed me how he had 
 made the last-named playable, and I confess that I 
 was astonished. There was not a single page of the 
 book remaining untouched when he had done with it. 
 Speech after speech was transferred from one act to 
 another, and the sequence of the scenes was altered, 
 before the drama was made possible. But when he 
 had finished with it Becket was not only possible and 
 playable, it was the noblest and the best constructed 
 drama in verse that the stage had seen for years. 
 
 I asked him what Lord Tennyson had said about 
 this chopping and changing; but he did not give me 
 a verbatim account of the poet's greeting of his off- 
 spring in its stage dress — he only smiled as one smiles 
 under the influence of a reminiscence of something 
 that is better over. 
 
 When he went to Victorien Sardou for a new play 
 and got Robespierre, Irving got the worst thing that 
 he had produced up to that date; but when he went 
 a second time and got Dante, he got something worse 
 
152 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 still. Sir Arthur Pinero's letter acknowledging the 
 debt incurred by the dramatists of England to M. 
 Sardou for showing them how a play should be writ- 
 ten was a masterpiece of irony. 
 
 The truth is that Irving was the greatest of Eng- 
 lish actors, and he was at his best only when he was 
 interpreting the best. When he was acting Shake- 
 speare he was supreme. In scenes of passion he dif- 
 fered from most actors. They could show a passion 
 in the hands of a man, he showed the man in the hands 
 of a passion. And what actor could have represented 
 Corporal Brewster in Waterloo as Irving did? 
 
 About the changes that we veterans have seen in 
 the stage during the forty years of our playgoing, we 
 agree that one of the most remarkable is the intro- 
 duction of parsons and pyjamas, and of persons with 
 a past. All these glories of the modern theatre were 
 shut out from the theatres of forty years ago. When 
 an adaptation of Dora by the author of Fedora and 
 Theodora was made for the English stage under the 
 name of Diplomacy, the claim that the Countess with 
 a past had upon the Diplomatist who is going to 
 marry — really marry — another woman, was turned 
 into a claim that she had " nursed him through a long 
 illness." The censor of those days thought that that 
 was quite as far as any one should go in that direc- 
 tion. It was assumed that La Dame auoo Camillas 
 could never be adapted without being offensive to a 
 pure-minded English audience. I think that A Cleri- 
 cal Error was the first play in which a clergyman of 
 the Church of England was given the entree to a 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 153 
 
 theatre in London. To be sure, there were priests of 
 the Church of Rome in Dion Boucicault's Irish plays, 
 but they were not supposed to count. I heard that 
 Mr. Pigott, the Censor, only passed the parson in A 
 Clerical Error on the plea of the young nurse for 
 something equally forbidden, in Midshipman Easy, 
 that " it was a very little one." But from that day 
 until now we have had parsons by the score, ladies 
 wearing camellias and little else, by the hundred. As 
 for the pyjama drama, I don't suppose that any man- 
 ager would so much as read a play that had not this 
 duplex garment in one scene. I will confess that I 
 once wrote a story for Punch with a pyjama chorus in 
 it. If it was from this indiscretion that a manager 
 conceived the idea of a ballet founded on the same 
 costume I have something to answer for. 
 
 But in journalism and literature a corresponding 
 change has come about, only more recently. It is 
 not more than ten or twelve years since certain words 
 have enjoyed the liberty of the press. In a police- 
 court case the word that the ruffian in the dock hurled 
 at a policeman was represented thus — " d — n," telling 
 
 him to go to " h " ; no respectable newspaper 
 
 would ever put in the final letter. 
 
 But now we have had the highest examples of 
 amalgamated newspapers printing the name of the 
 place that was to be found in neither gazette nor 
 gazetteer, in bold type at the head of a column, and 
 that too in connection with the utterance of a Prime 
 Minister. As for the d — n of ten years ago, no one 
 could have believed that Bob Acres' thoughtless as- 
 
154 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 sertion that " damns have had their day," should be 
 so luridly disproved. Why, they have only now come 
 into their inheritance. This is the day of the damn. 
 It occupies the Plac& auoc Dames of Victorian times ; 
 and now one need not hope to be able to pick up a 
 paper or a book that has not most of its pages 
 sprinkled with damns and hells as plentifully as a 
 devil is sprinkled with cayenne. I am sure that in the 
 cookery books of our parents the treatment of a 
 devilled bone would not be found, or if the more con- 
 scientious admitted it, we should find it put, " how to 
 cook a d bone," or, " another way," as the cook- 
 ery book would put it more explicitly, " a d — d bone." 
 
 " It is satisfactory to learn that the Church which 
 so long enjoyed the soul right to the property in these 
 words, has relinquished its claim and handed over the 
 title deeds of the freehold, with all the patronage that 
 was supposed to go with it," said Friswell. " I read 
 in the papers the other day that the Archbishop had 
 received the report of the Committee he appointed to 
 inquire into the rights of both words, and this recom- 
 mended the abolition of both words in the interpreta- 
 tion accepted for them for centuries in religious com- 
 munities; and in future damnation is to be taken to 
 mean only something that does not commend itself 
 to all temperaments, and hell is no more than a pic- 
 turesque but insanitary dwelling." 
 
 " I read something like that the other day," said 
 Dorothy. " But surely they have not gone so far as 
 you say." 
 
 " They have gone to a much more voluminous. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 155 
 
 distance, I assure you," said he. " It is to enable us 
 all to say the Athanasian Creed without our tongue 
 in our cheek. Quicunque vult may repeat ' Qui- 
 cunque Vult ' with a full assurance that nothing 
 worth talking about will happen." 
 
 " All the Bishops' Committees in the world cannot 
 rob us Englishmen of our heritage in those words," 
 I cried, feeling righteously angry at the man's flip- 
 pancy. " If they were to take that from us, what can 
 they give us in its place — tell me that? " 
 
 " Oh, there is still one word in the same connection 
 that they have been afraid to touch," said he cheer- 
 fully. " Thank Heaven we have still got that to 
 counteract any tendency of our language to become 
 anaemic." 
 
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH 
 
 I had been practically all my life enjoying gardens 
 of various kinds, but I had given attention to their 
 creations without giving a thought to their creation; 
 I had taken the gifts of Flora, I would have said if I 
 had been writing a hundred years ago, without study- 
 ing the features or the figure of the goddess herself. 
 If I were hard pressed for time and space I would 
 say directly that I lived among flowers, but knew 
 nothing of gardens. I had never troubled myself to 
 inquire into the details of a garden's charm. I had 
 watched gardeners working and idling, mowing and 
 watering, tying up and cutting down, but I had never 
 had a chance of watching a real gardener making a 
 garden. 
 
 It is generally assumed that the first gardener that 
 the world has known was Adam. A clergyman told 
 me so with the smile that comes with the achievement 
 of a satisfactory benefice — the indulgent smile of the 
 higher criticism for the Book of Genesis. But people 
 who agree with that assumption cannot have read 
 the Book with the attention it deserves, or they would 
 have seen that it was the Creator of all Who planted 
 the first garden, and there are people alive to-day 
 who are ready to affirm that He worked conscien- 
 
 156 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 157 
 
 tiously on the lines laid down by Le Notre. Most 
 gardeners whom I have seen at work appeared to me 
 to be well aware of the fact that the garden was given 
 to man as a beatitude, and that agriculture came later 
 and in the form of a Curse; and in accordance with 
 this assurance they decline to labour in such a way as 
 to make the terms of the Curse apply to themselves. 
 If they wipe their brows with their shirt-sleeve, it is 
 only because that is the traditional movement which 
 precedes the consulting of their watch to see if that 
 five minutes before the striking of the stable clock 
 for the dinner hour will allow of their putting on their 
 coats. 
 
 A friend of mine who had been reading Darwin and 
 Wallace and Lyell and Huxley and the rest of them, 
 greatly to the detriment of his interpretation of some 
 passages in the Pentateuch, declared that the record 
 of the incident of the Garden Designer in the first 
 chapters of Genesis, being unable to do anything with 
 his gardener and being obliged (making use of a 
 Shakespearian idiom) to fire him out, showed such a 
 knowledge of the trade, that, Darwin or no Darwin, 
 he would accept the account of the transaction with- 
 out reservation. 
 
 The saying that God sent food but the devil sent 
 cooks may be adapted to horticulture, as a rule, I 
 think; but it should certainly not be applied indis- 
 criminately. The usual " jobber " is a man from 
 whom employers expect a great deal but get very 
 little that is satisfactory. That is because employers 
 are unreasonable. The ordinary " working gar- 
 
158 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 dener " does not think, because he is not paid to think: 
 he does not get the wages of a man who is required to 
 use his brain. When one discovers all that a gardener 
 should know, and learns that the average wage of the 
 trade is from one pound to thirty shillings a week, the 
 unreasonableness of expecting a high order of intelli- 
 gence to be placed at your service for such pay will be 
 apparent. 
 
 Of course a " head " at an establishment where he 
 is called a " curator " and has half a dozen assistants, 
 gets a decent salary and fully earns it; but the pay 
 of the greater number of the men who call themselves 
 gardeners is low out of all proportion to what their 
 qualifications should be. 
 
 Now this being so, is the improvement to come by 
 increasing the wages of the usual type of garden job- 
 ber? I doubt it. My experience leads me to believe 
 very strongly in the employer's being content with 
 work only, and in his making no demand for brains 
 or erudition from the man to whom he pays twenty- 
 five shillings a week — pre-war rates, of course: the 
 war-time equivalent would, of course, be something 
 like £2 5s. — the brains and erudition should be pro- 
 vided by himself. The employer or some member of 
 his family should undertake the direction of the work 
 and ask for the work only from the man. 
 
 I know that the war days were the means of devel- 
 oping this system beyond all that one thought pos- 
 sible five or six years ago; and of one thing I am 
 sure, and this is that no one who has been compelled 
 to " take up " his own garden will ever go back to the 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 159 
 
 old way, the leading note of which was the morning 
 grumble at the inefficiency of the gardener, and the 
 evening resolution to fire him out. The distinction 
 between exercise and work has, within the past few 
 fateful years, been obliterated; and it has become ac- 
 cepted generally that to sweat over the handle of a 
 lawnmower is just as ennobling as to perspire for over 
 after over at a bowling crease ; and that the man who 
 comes in earth-stained from his allotment, is not 
 necessarily the social inferior of the man who carries 
 away on his knees a sample of the soil of the football 
 field. There may be a distinction between the work 
 and the play; but it is pretty much the same as the 
 difference between the Biblical verb to sweat and the 
 boudoir word to perspire. The pores are opened by 
 the one just as healthfully as by the other. And in 
 future I am pretty sure that we shall all sweat and 
 rarely perspire. 
 
 I need not give any of the " instances " that have 
 come under my notice of great advantage accruing 
 to the garden as well as to the one who gardens 
 without an indifferent understudy — every one who 
 reads this book is in a position to supply such an 
 omission. I am sure that there is no country town or 
 village that cannot mention the name of some family, 
 a member or several members of which have been 
 hard at work raising flowers or vegetables or grow- 
 ing fruit, with immediately satisfactory results, and a 
 prospect of something greatly in advance in the 
 future. 
 
 I am only in a position to speak definitely on be- 
 
160 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 half of the working proprietor, but I am certain that 
 the daughters of the house who have been working so 
 marvellously for the first time in their lives, at the 
 turning out of munitions, taking the place of men in 
 fields and byres, and doing active duties in connection 
 with hospitals, huts, and canteens, will not now be 
 content to go back to their tennis and teas and " dis- 
 tricts " as before. They will find their souls in other 
 and more profitable directions, and it is pretty certain 
 that the production of food will occupy a large num- 
 ber of the emancipated ones. We shall have vege- 
 tables and fruit and eggs in such abundance as was 
 never dreamt of four years ago. Why, already potato 
 crops of twelve tons to the acre are quite common, 
 whereas an aggregate of eight and nine tons was con- 
 sidered very good in 1912. We all know the improve- 
 ment that has been brought about in regard to poul- 
 try, in spite of the weathercockerel admonition of the 
 Department of the Government, which one month 
 sent out a million circulars imploring all sorts and 
 conditions of people to keep poultry, and backed this 
 up with a second million advising the immediate 
 slaughter of all fowls who had a fancy for cereals as 
 a food; the others were to be fed on the crumbs that 
 fell from the master's table, but if the master were 
 known to give the crumbs to birds instead of eating 
 them himself or making them into those poultices, 
 recommended by another Department that called 
 them puddings, he would be prosecuted. Later on 
 we were to be provided with a certain amount of stuff 
 for pure bred fowls, in order that only the purest and 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 161 
 
 best strains should be kept; but no provision in the 
 way of provisions was made for the cockerels! The 
 cockerels were to be discouraged, but the breeding of 
 pure fowls was to be encouraged! 
 
 It took another million or so of buff Orpington 
 circulars to explain just what was meant by the De- 
 partment, and even then it needed a highly-trained 
 intelligence to explain the explanation. 
 
 When we get rid of these clogs to industry known 
 as Departments, we shall, I am sure, all work together 
 to the common good, in making England a self-sup- 
 porting country, and the men and women of Eng- 
 land a self-respecting people, and in point of health 
 an A 1 people instead of the C 3 into which we are 
 settling down complacently. The statistics of the 
 grades recently published appeared to me to be the 
 greatest cause for alarm that England has known for 
 years. And the worst of the matter is that when 
 one asks if a more ample proof of decadence has ever 
 been revealed, people smile and inquire if the result of 
 the recent visits of the British to France and Italy 
 and Palestine and Mesopotamia suggest any evidence 
 of decadence. They forget that it was only the A 
 classes that left England; only the A classes were 
 killed or maimed ; the lower grades remained at home 
 with their wives in order that the decadent breed 
 might be carried on with emphasised decadence. 
 
 If I were asked in what direction one should look 
 for the salvation of the race from the rush into Aver- 
 nus toward which we have been descending, I would 
 certainly say, — 
 
162 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " The garden and the allotment only will arrest our 
 feet on the downward path." 
 
 If the people of England can throw off the yoke of 
 the Cinema and take to the spade it may not yet be 
 too late to rescue them from the abyss toward which 
 they are sliding. 
 
 And it is not merely the sons who must be saved, 
 the daughters must be taken into account in this di- 
 rection ; and when I meet daily the scores of trim and 
 shapely girls with busts of Venus and buskins of 
 Diana, walking — vera incessu patuit dea — as if the 
 land belonged to them — which it does — I feel no un- 
 easiness with regard to the women with whom Eng- 
 land's future rests. If they belong to the land, 
 assuredly the land belongs to them. 
 
 But the garden and not the field is the place for our 
 girls. We know what the women are like in those 
 countries where they work in the fields doing men's 
 work. We have seen them in Jean Francois Millet's 
 pictures, and we turn from them with tears. 
 
 " Women with labour-loosened knees 
 
 And gaunt backs bowed with servitude." 
 
 We do not wish to see them in England. I have seen 
 them in Italy, in Switzerland, and on the Boer farms 
 in South Africa. I do not want to see them in Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Agriculture is for men, horticulture for women. A 
 woman is in her right place in a garden. A garden 
 looks lovelier for her presence. What an incongruous 
 object a jobbing gardener in his shirt-sleeves and 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 163 
 
 filthy cap seems when seen against a background of 
 flowers! I have kept out of my garden for days in 
 dread of coming upon the figure which I knew was 
 lurking there, spending his time looking out for me 
 and working feverishly when he thought I was com- 
 ing. 
 
 But how pleasantly at home a girl in her garden 
 garb appears, whether on the rungs of a ladder tying 
 up the roses, or doing some thinning out on a too 
 rampant border! There should be no work in a 
 garden beyond her powers — that is, of course, in a 
 one-gardener garden — a one-greenhouse garden. She 
 has no business trying to carry a tub with a shrub 
 weighing one hundred and fifty pounds from one 
 place to another; but she can wheel a brewer's or a 
 coalman's sack barrow with two nine-inch wheels with 
 two hundredweight resting on it for half a mile with- 
 out feeling weary. No garden should be without such 
 a vehicle. One that I bought ten years ago from a 
 general dealer has enabled me to superannuate the 
 cumbersome wheelbarrow. You require to lift the 
 tub into the wheelbarrow, but the other does the lift- 
 ing when you push the iron guard four inches under 
 the staves at the bottom. As for that supposed bug- 
 bear — the carting of manure, it should not exist in a 
 modern garden. A five-shilling tin of fertiliser and a 
 few sacks of Wakeley's hop mixture will be enough 
 for the borders of a garden of an acre, unless you aim 
 at growing everything to an abnormal size. But you 
 must know what sort of fertilising every bed requires. 
 
 I mention these facts because we read constantly 
 
164 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 of the carting of manure being beyond the limits of 
 a girl-gardener's strength, to say nothing of the dis- 
 tasteful character of the job. The time is coming 
 when there will be none of the old-fashioned stable- 
 sweepings either for the garden or the field, and I 
 think we shall get on very well without it, unless we 
 wish to grow mushrooms. 
 
 The only other really horrid job that I would not 
 have my girl face is pot-washing. This is usually a 
 winter job, because, we are told, summer is too busy 
 a time in the garden to allow of its being done except 
 when the ice has to be broken in the cistern and no 
 other work is possible. But why should the pots be 
 washed out of doors and in cold water? If you have 
 a girl-gardener, why should you not give her the free- 
 dom of the scullery sink where the hot water is laid 
 on? There is no hardship in washing a couple of 
 hundred pots in hot water and in a warm scullery on 
 the most inclement day in January. 
 
 The truth is that there exists a garden tradition, 
 and it originated with men who had neither imagina- 
 tion nor brains, and people would have us believe that 
 it must be maintained — that frogs and toads should be 
 slain and that gardener is a proper noun of the mas- 
 culine gender — that manure must be filthy and that 
 a garden should never look otherwise than unfinished 
 at any time of the year — that radiation is the same as 
 frost, and that watering should be done regularly 
 and without reference to the needs of the individual 
 plants. 
 
 Lady Wolseley has done a great deal toward giv- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 165 
 
 ing girls the freedom of the garden. She has a small 
 training ground on the motor road between Lewes 
 and Eastbourne. Of course it is not large enough to 
 pay its way, and I am told that in order to realise 
 something on the produce, the pony cart of a coster- 
 monger in charge of two of the young women goes 
 into Lewes laden with vegetables for sale. I have no 
 doubt that the vegetables are of the highest grade, 
 but I am afraid that if it becomes understood that the 
 pupils are to be trained in the arts of costermongery 
 the prestige of her college, as it has very properly 
 been called by Lady Wolseley, will suffer. 
 
 What I cannot understand is why, with so ad- 
 mirable a work being done at that place, it should not 
 be subsidised by the State. It may be, however, that 
 Lady Wolseley has had such experience of the way in 
 which the State authorities mismanage almost every- 
 thing they handle, as prevents her from moving in 
 this direction. The waste, the incompetence, and the 
 arrogance of all the Departments that sprang into 
 existence with the war are inconceivable. I dare say 
 that Lady Wolseley has seen enough during the past 
 four years to convince her that if once the " State " 
 had a chance of putting a controlling finger upon one 
 of the reins of the college pony it would upset the 
 whole apple-cart. The future of so valuable an in- 
 stitution should not be jeopardised by the intrusion 
 of the fatal finger of a Government Department. 
 The Glynde College should be the Norland Institu- 
 tion of the nursery of Flora. 
 
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH 
 
 It was when a gardener with whom I had never ex- 
 changed a cross word during the two years he was 
 with me assured me that work was not work but 
 slavery in my garden — he had one man under him and 
 appealed to me for a second — that I made my apol- 
 ogy to him and allowed him to take unlimited leave 
 of me and his shackles. He had been with me for 
 over two years, and during all this time the garden 
 had been going from bad to worse. At the end of 
 his bondage it was absolutely deplorable. At no time 
 had we the courage to ask any visitor to walk round 
 the grounds. 
 
 And yet the man knew the Latin name of every 
 plant and every flower from the cedar on the lawn 
 to the snapdragon — he called it antirrhinum — upon 
 the wall ; but if he had remained with me much longer 
 there would have been nothing left for him to give a 
 name to, Latin or English. 
 
 I took over the garden and got in a boy to do the 
 pot-washing at six shillings a week, and a fortnight 
 later I doubled his wages, so vast a change, or rather, 
 a promise of change, as was shown by the place. 
 Within a month I was paying him fifteen shillings, 
 and within six months, eighteen. He was an excellent 
 
 166 
 
A GAKDEN OF PEACE 167 
 
 lad, and in due time his industry was rewarded by the 
 hand of our cook. I parted with him reluctantly at 
 the outbreak of the war, though owing to physical 
 defects he was never called up. 
 
 It was when I was thrown on my own resources 
 after the strain of leave-taking with my slave-driven 
 professor that I acquired the secret of garden design 
 which I have already revealed — namely, the multiply- 
 ing of " features " within the garden space. 
 
 It took time for me to carry out my plans, for I 
 was very far from seeing, as a proper garden designer 
 would have done in a glance, how the ground lent 
 itself to " features " in various directions; and it was 
 only while I was working at one part that the possi- 
 bilities of others suggested themselves to me. It was 
 the incident of my picking up in a stonemason's yard 
 for a few shillings a doorway with a shaped archi- 
 trave, that made me think of shutting off the House 
 Garden, which I had completed the previous year, 
 from the rest. I got this work done quite satisfac- 
 torily by the aid of a simple balustrade on each side. 
 Here there was an effective entrance to a new garden, 
 where before nothing would grow owing to the over- 
 shadowing by the sycamores beyond my mound. My 
 predecessor took refuge in a grove of euonyma, be- 
 hind which he artfully concealed the stone steps lead- 
 ing to the Saxon terrace. This was one of the " fea- 
 tures " of his day — the careful concealing of such 
 drawbacks in the landscape as stone steps. But as 
 I could not see that they were after all a fatal blot 
 that should put an end to all hope to make anything 
 
168 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 of the place, I pulled away the masses of euonyma, 
 and turned the steps boldly round, adding piers at the 
 foot. 
 
 Here then was at my command a space of forty 
 feet square, walled in, and in the summer-shade of the 
 high sycamores, and the winter-shade of a beautifully- 
 shaped and immense deciduous oak. And what was 
 I to do with it? 
 
 Before I left the interrogatory ground I saw with 
 great clearness the reflection of the graceful foliage 
 in a piece of water. That was just what was needed 
 at the place, I was convinced — a properly puddled 
 Sussex dew-pond such as Gilbert White's swallows 
 could hardly resist making their winter quarters as 
 the alternative to that long and tedious trip to South 
 Africa. The spot was clearly designed by Nature as 
 a basin. On three sides it had boundaries of sloping 
 mounds, and I felt myself equal to the business of 
 completing the circle so that the basin would be in its 
 natural place. 
 
 I consulted my builder as to whether or not my 
 plan was a rightly puddled one — which was a way of 
 asking if it would hold water in a scientific as well 
 as a metaphorical sense. He advised concrete, and 
 concrete I ordered, though I was quite well aware of 
 the fact that in doing so I must abandon all hopes 
 of the swallows, for I knew that with concrete there 
 would be none of that mud in the pond which the 
 great naturalists had agreed was indispensable for the 
 hibernating of the birds. 
 
 A round pond basin was made, about fifteen feet 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 169 
 
 in diameter, and admirably made too. In the centre 
 I created an island with the nozzle of a single jet 
 d'eau, carefully concealed, and by an extraordinary 
 chance I discovered within an inch or two of the brim 
 of the basin, the channel of an ancient scheme of 
 drainage — it may have been a thousand years old — 
 and this solved in a moment the problem of how to 
 carry off the overflow. The water was easily avail- 
 able from the ordinary " Company's " pipe for the 
 garden supply; so that all that remained for me to do 
 was to tidy up the ground, which I did by getting six 
 tons of soft reddish sandstone from a neighbouring 
 quarry and piling it in irregular masses on two sectors 
 of the circular space, taking care to arrange for a 
 scheme of " pockets " for small plants at one part and 
 for large ferns at another. The greatest elevation of 
 this boundary was about fifteen feet, and here I put a 
 noble cliff weighing a ton and a half, with several 
 irregular steps at the base, the lowest being just 
 above a series of stone rectangular basins, connected 
 by irregular shallow channels in a descent to the big 
 pond. Then I got a leaden pipe with an " elbow " 
 attachment to the Company's water supply beneath, 
 and contrived a sort of T-shaped spray which I con- 
 cealed on the level of the top of my cliff, and within 
 forty-eight hours I had a miniature cascade pouring 
 over the cliff and splashing among the stone basins 
 and their channels — <c per aver' pace coi seguaci sui " 
 — in the large pond below. 
 
 Of course it took a summer and a winter to give 
 this little scheme a chance of assimilating with Nature ; 
 
170 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 but once it began to do so it did so thoroughly. The 
 cliff and the rocky steps, which I had made in mem- 
 ory of the cascade at Platte Klip on the side of Table 
 Mountain where I had often enjoyed a bath, became 
 beautifully slimy, and primroses were blooming so 
 as to hide the outlines of the rectangle, while Alpines 
 and sedums and harts-tongue ferns found accommo- 
 dation in the pockets among the stones. In the course 
 of another year the place was covered with vegetation 
 and the sandstones had become beautifully weathered, 
 and sure enough, the boughs of the American oak had 
 their Narcissus longings realised, but without the 
 Narcissus sequel. 
 
 Here, then, was a second " feature " accomplished; 
 and we walk out of the sunshine of the House Garden, 
 and, passing through the carved stone doorway, find 
 ourselves in complete shade with the sound of tinkling 
 water in the air — when the taps are turned in the right 
 direction ; but in the matter of water we are economi- 
 cal, and the cascade ceased to flow while the war 
 lasted. 
 
 I do not think that it is wrong to try to achieve 
 such contrasts in designing a range of gardens. The 
 effect is great and it will never appear to be cheap, 
 provided that it is carried out naturally. I do not 
 think that in a place of the character of that just 
 described one should introduce such objects as shrubs 
 in tubs, or clipped trees; nor should one tolerate the 
 appearance for the sake, perhaps, of colour, of any 
 plant or flower that might not be found in the natural 
 scene on which it is founded. We all know that in 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 171 
 
 a rocky glen we need not look for brilliant colour, 
 therefore the introduction of anything striking in this 
 way would be a jarring note. To be sure I have seen 
 the irrepressible scarlet geranium blazing through 
 some glens in the island of St. Helena; but St. 
 Helena is in the tropics, and a tropical glen is not the 
 sort to which we have become accustomed in England. 
 If one has lived at St. Helena for years and, on com- 
 ing to England, wishes to be constantly reminded of 
 the little island of glens and gorges and that immense 
 " combe " where James Town nestles, beyond a doubt 
 that strange person could not do better than create a 
 garden of gullies with the indigenous geranium blaz- 
 ing out of every cranny. But I cannot imagine any 
 one being so anxious to perpetuate a stay among the 
 picturesque loneliness of the place. I think it ex- 
 tremely unlikely that if Napoleon I. had lived to re- 
 turn to France, he would have assimilated any portion 
 of the gardens of Versailles with those that were 
 under his windows at Longwood. I could more easily 
 fancy his making an honest attempt to transform the 
 ridge above Geranium Valley on which Longwood 
 stands — if there is anything of that queer residence 
 left by the white ants — the natural owners of the 
 island — into a memory of the Grand Trianon, only 
 for the " maggior dolor e " that would have come to 
 him had such an enterprise been successful. 
 
 My opinion is that a garden should be such as to 
 cause a visitor to exclaim, — 
 
 " How natural! " rather than, " How queer! " 
 
 A lake may be artificial; but it will only appear so 
 
172 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 if its location is artificial; and, therefore, in spite of 
 the fact that there are countless mountain tarns in 
 Scotland and Wales, it is safest for the lake to be 
 made on the lowest part of your ground. I dare say 
 that a scientific man without a conscience could, by 
 an arrangement of forced draught apparatus, cause 
 an artificial river to flow uphill instead of down; but 
 though such a stream would be quite a pleasing inci- 
 dent of one of the soirees of the Royal Society at 
 Burlington House, I am certain that it would look 
 more curious than natural if carried out in an Eng- 
 lish garden ground. The artificial canals of the 
 Dutch gardens and of those English gardens which 
 were made to remind William III. of his native land, 
 will look natural in proportion to their artificiality. 
 This is not so hard a saying as it may seem; I mean 
 to say that if the artificial canal apes a natural river, 
 it will look unnatural. If it aims at being nothing 
 but a Dutch canal, it will be a very interesting part 
 of a garden — a Dutch garden — plan, and as such it 
 will seem in the right and natural place. If a thing 
 occupies a natural place — the place where you expect 
 to find it — it must be criticised from the standpoint 
 of its environment, so to speak, and not on the basis 
 of the canons that have a general application. 
 
 And to my mind the difference between what is 
 right and what is wrong in a garden is not the differ- 
 ence between what is the fashion and what is not the 
 fashion; but between the appropriate and the inap- 
 propriate. A rectangular canal is quite right in a 
 copy of the Dutch garden; but it would be quite 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 173 
 
 wrong within sight of the cascades of the Villa d'Este 
 or any other Italian garden. Topiary work is quite 
 right in a garden that is meant frankly to be a copy 
 of one of the clipped shrubberies of the seventeenth 
 and of the eighteenth century that preceded landscape 
 treatment, but it is utterly out of place in a garden 
 where flowers grow according to their own sweet will, 
 as in a rosery or a herbaceous border. A large num- 
 ber of people dislike what Mr. Robinson calls " Vege- 
 table Sculpture," and would not allow any example 
 to have a place on their property; but although I 
 think I might trust myself to resist every temptation 
 to admit such an element into a garden of mine, I 
 should not hesitate to make a feature of it if I wanted 
 to be constantly reminded of a certain period of his- 
 tory. It would be as unjust to blame me on this ac- 
 count as it would be to blame Mr. Hugh Thomson 
 for introducing topiary into one of his exquisite illus- 
 trations to Sir Roger de Cover ley. I would, I know, 
 take great pleasure in sitting for hours among the pea- 
 cocks and bears and cocked hats of the topiary sculp- 
 tor, because I should feel myself in the company of 
 Sir Roger and Will Wimble, and I consider that they 
 would be very good company indeed; but I admit 
 that I should prefer that that particular garden was 
 on some one else's property. I should spend a very 
 pleasant twenty minutes in a neighbour's — a near 
 neighbour's — reproduction of the grotto at Pope's 
 Villa at Twickenham, not because I should be want- 
 ing in a legitimate abhorrence of the thing, but be- 
 cause I should be able to repeople it with several very 
 
174 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 pleasant people — say, Arbuthnot, Garth, and Mr. 
 Henry Labouchere. But heaven forbid that I should 
 spend years of my life in the construction of a sec- 
 ond Pope's grotto as one of the features of my all- 
 too-constricted garden space. 
 
 One could easily write a book on " Illustrating 
 Gardens," meaning not the art of reproducing illus- 
 trations of gardens, but the art of constructing 
 gardens that would illustrate the lives of certain in- 
 teresting people at certain interesting periods. The 
 educational value of gardens formed with such an 
 intent would be great, I am sure. I had occasion 
 some time ago to act the part of their governess to my 
 little girls, and to Dorothy's undisguised amazement 
 I took the class into the garden, and not knowing how 
 to begin — whether with an inquiry into the economic 
 value of a thorough grounding in Conic Sections, or 
 a consideration of the circumstances attending the 
 death of Mary Queen of Scots — I have long believed 
 that a modern coroner's jury would have found that 
 the cause of death was blood poisoning, as there is no 
 evidence that the fatal axe was aseptic, not having 
 been boiled before using — I begged the girls to walk 
 round with me. 
 
 " This is something quite new," said Rosamund — 
 " lessons in a garden." 
 
 " Is it? " I asked. " Did Miss Pinkerton ever tell 
 you about a man named Plato? " 
 
 It was generally admitted that if she had ever done 
 so they would have remembered the name. 
 
 I saw at once that this was a chance that might not 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 175 
 
 occur again for me to recover my position. The re- 
 spect that I have for Miss Pinkerton is almost equal 
 to that I have for Lempriere or Dr. William Smith. 
 I unfolded like a philactery the stores of my 
 knowledge on the subject of the garden of Academus, 
 where Plato and his pupils were wont to meet and 
 discover — 
 
 " How charming is divine philosophy ! 
 Not harsh and crabbed as some fools affirm, 
 But musical as is Apollo's lute," 
 
 and the children learned for the first time the origin 
 of the name Academy. They were struck powerfully 
 with the idea, which they thought an excellent one, 
 of the open-air class. 
 
 This was an honest attempt on my part to illustrate 
 something through the medium of the garden; but 
 Miss Pinkerton's methods differed from those of 
 Plato: the blackboard was, in her opinion, the only 
 medium of illustration for a properly organised class. 
 
 It was a daily delight to me when I lived in Ken- 
 sington to believe that Addison must have walked 
 through my garden when he had that cottage on the 
 secluded Fulham Road, far away from the distract- 
 ing noise and bustle of the town, and went to pay a 
 visit to his wife at Holland Park. Some of the trees 
 of that garden must have been planted even before 
 Addison's day. There was a mighty mulberry-tree — 
 a straggler from Melbury (once Mulbery) Road — 
 and this was probably one of the thousands planted 
 by King James when he became possessed of that 
 
176 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 admirable idea of silk culture in England. Now, 
 strange to say, I could picture to myself much more 
 vividly the presence of Addison in that garden than 
 I can the bustle of the old Castle's people within the 
 walls which dominate my present ground. These 
 people occupied the Castle from century to century. 
 When they first entered into possession they wore the 
 costume of the Conquest, and no doubt they hon- 
 oured the decrees of fashion as they changed from 
 year to year; but they faded away without leaving a 
 record of any personality to absorb the attention of 
 the centuries, and without such an individuality I 
 find it impossible to realise the scene, except for an 
 occasional hour when the moonlight bathes the tower 
 of the ruined keep, and I fancy that I hear the iron 
 tread of the warder going his rounds — I cannot 
 plunge myself into the spacious days of plate armour. 
 It is the one Great Man or the one Great Woman 
 that enables us nowadays to realise his or her period, 
 and our Castle has unhappily no ghost with a name, 
 and one ghost with a name is more than an armed 
 host of nonentities. There is a tradition — there is 
 just a scrap of evidence to support it — that Dr. Sam- 
 uel Johnson once visited a house in the High Street 
 and ate cherries in the garden. Every time I have 
 visited that house I have seen the lumbering Hogarth- 
 ian hero intent upon his feast, and every time that I 
 
 am in that garden I hear the sound of his " Why, 
 s i r » 
 
 I complained bitterly to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 
 when he was with us in the tilt-yard garden, that we 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 177 
 
 had not even the shadow of a ghost — ghosts by the 
 hundred, no doubt, but no real ghost of some one that 
 did things. 
 
 " You will have to create one for yourself," he said. 
 
 " One must have bones and flesh and blood — plenty 
 of blood, before one can create a ghost, as you well 
 know," said I. " I have searched every available spot 
 for a name associated with the place, but I have found 
 nothing." 
 
 " Don't be in a hurry; he'll turn up some day when 
 you're not expecting him," said my friend. 
 
 But I am still awaiting an entity connected with 
 the Castle, and I swear, as did the young Lord 
 Hamlet : — 
 
 " By Heaven ! I'll make a ghost of him that lets me." 
 
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH 
 
 Our Garden of Peace is a Garden of Freedom — 
 freedom of thought, freedom of converse. In it one 
 may cultivate all the flora of illiteracy without re- 
 buke, as well as the more delicate, but possibly less 
 fragrant growths of literature, including those 
 hybrids which I suppose must give great satisfaction 
 to the cultivators. We assert our claim to talk about 
 whatever we please ; we will not submit to be told that 
 anything is out of our reach as a subject: if we can- 
 not reach the things that are so defined we can at least 
 make an attempt to knock them down with a bamboo. 
 Eventually we may even discourse of flowers; but 
 if we do we certainly will not adopt the horticultural 
 standard of worth, which is " of -^- commercial 
 
 7 some 
 
 value." A good many things well worthy of a strict 
 avoidance in conversation possess great commercial 
 value, and others that we hold very close to our hearts 
 are of no more intrinsic value than a Victoria Cross. 
 We have done and shall do our best, however, not to 
 make use of the word culture, unless it be in connec- 
 tion with a disease. The lecturers on tropical diseases 
 talk of their " cholera cultures " and their " yellow- 
 fever cultures " and their " malaria cultures " ; but we 
 know that there is a more malignant growth than any 
 
 178 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 179 
 
 of these : it is spelt by its cultivators with the phonetic 
 " K " and it has banished the word that begins with a 
 " c " from the English language, unless, as I say, in 
 referring to the development of a malady. That is 
 where victory may be claimed by the vanquished : the 
 beautiful word is banished for ever from the English 
 literature in which it once occupied an exalted place. 
 It is because of the Freedom which we enjoy in 
 this Garden of Peace of ours that I did not hesitate 
 for a moment to quote Tennyson to Dorothy a few 
 days ago, when we were chatting about Poets' Gar- 
 dens, from the " garden inclosed " of the Song of 
 Solomon — the most beautiful ever depicted — to that 
 of Maud. It requires some courage to quote Ten- 
 nyson beyond the limits of our own fireside in these 
 days. The days when he was constantly quoted now 
 seem as the days of Noe, before the Flood — the flood 
 of the formless which we are assured is poetry nowa- 
 days. It is called " The New School." Some twenty- 
 five or thirty years ago something straddled across 
 our way through the world labelled " New Art." Its 
 lines were founded upon those of the crushed cock- 
 roach, and it may have contributed to the advance of 
 the temperance movement; for its tendency was cer- 
 tainly to cause any inebriate who found a specimen 
 watching him wickedly from the mouth of a vase of 
 imitation pewter on the mantel-shelf in a drawing- 
 room, or in the form of a pendant in sealing-wax 
 enamel on the neck of a young woman, to pull him- 
 self together and sign anything in reason in the direc- 
 tion of abstaining. 
 
180 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 The new poetry is the illiterary equivalent of the 
 old " New Art." It is flung in our faces with the 
 effect of a promiscuous handful from the bargain 
 counter of a draper's cheap sale — it is a whiz of odd 
 lengths and queer colours, and has no form but plenty 
 of flutter. Poetry may not be as a great critic said 
 it was — form and form and nothing but form; but it 
 certainly is not that amorphous stuff which is jerked 
 into many pages just now. I have read pages of it 
 in which the writers seem to have taken as a model 
 of design one of the long dedications of the eighteenth 
 century, or perhaps the " lettering " on the tomb- 
 stone of the squire in a country church, or, most likely 
 of all, the half column of " scare headings " in a Sun- 
 day newspaper in one of the Western States of 
 America. 
 
 It may begin with a monosyllable, and be followed 
 by an Alexandrine; then come a stuttering half- 
 dozen unequal ribbon lengths, rather shop-soiled, and 
 none of them riming; but suddenly we find the 
 tenth line in rime with the initial monosyllable 
 which you have forgotten. Then there may come 
 three or four rimes and as many half-rimes — 
 f-sharp instead of f — and then comes a bundle 
 of prosaic lines with the mark of the scissors on 
 their ragged endings; the ravellings are assumed 
 to adorn the close as the fringes of long ago were 
 supposed to give a high-class " finish " to the 
 green rep upholstering of the drawing-room centre 
 ottoman. 
 
 And yet alongside this sort of thing we pick up 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 181 
 
 many thin volumes of verse crowded with beauty of 
 thought, of imagination, of passion. 
 
 And then what do we find given to us every week 
 in Punch and several of the illustrated papers? 
 Poem after poem of the most perfect form in rhythm 
 and rimes — faultless double rimes and triple and 
 quadruple syllables all ringing far more true than 
 any in Hudibras or the Ingoldsby Legends. Sir 
 Owen Seaman's verses surpass anything in the Eng- 
 lish language for originality both in phrase and 
 thought, and Adrian Ross has shown himself the 
 equal of Gilbert in construction. The editor of 
 Pimch has been especially happy in his curry-comb- 
 ing of the German ex-Kaiser; we do not forget that 
 it was his poem on the same personage, which ap- 
 peared in The World after the celebrated telegram 
 to Kriiger, that gave him his sure footing among the 
 elite of satirical humour. The 
 
 Pots- 
 
 Dam silly," 
 
 was surely the most finished sting that ever came from 
 the tail of what I venture to call " vespa-verse." 
 
 I remember how, when I came upon Barham's 
 rime, — 
 
 " Because Mephistopheles 
 Had thrown in her face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees," 
 
 I thought that the limits of the " triple-bob," as I 
 should like to call it, had been reached. Years after- 
 
182 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 wards I found myself in a fit of chuckling over 
 Byron's 
 
 " Tell us, ye husbands of wives intellectual, 
 Now tell us truly, have they not hen-pecked you all? " 
 
 After another lapse I found among the carillon of 
 Calverley, — 
 
 " No, mine own, though early forced to leave you, 
 Still my heart was there where first we met ; 
 In those * Lodgings with an ample sea-view,' 
 Which were, forty years ago, s To Let.' " 
 
 The Bab Ballads are full of whimsical rimes ; but put 
 all these that I have named together and you will find 
 that they are easily out jingled by Sir Owen Seaman. 
 The first " copy of verses " in Punch any week is a 
 masterpiece in its way, and assuredly some of his 
 brethren of Bouverie Street are not very far behind 
 him in the merry dance in which he sets the pas. 
 
 A good many years ago — I think it was shortly 
 after the capitulation of Paris — there was a cor- 
 respondence in The Graphic about the English words 
 for which no rime could be found. One was " silver," 
 the other " month." It was, I think, Burnand who 
 contrived, — 
 
 " Argentum, we know, is the Latin for silver, 
 And the Latin for spring ever was and is still, ver." 
 
 But then purists shook their heads and said that Latin 
 was not English, and the challenge was for English 
 rimes. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 183 
 
 As for " month," Mr. Swinburne did not hesitate 
 to write a whole volume of exquisite poems to a child 
 to bring in his rime for month: it was " millionth "; 
 but the metre was so handled by the master that it 
 would have been impossible for even the most casual 
 reader to make the word a dissyllable. In the same 
 volume he found a rime for babe in " astrolabe." 
 
 (With regard to my spelling of the word " rime," 
 I may here remark that I have done so for years. I 
 was gratified to find my lead followed in the Cam- 
 bridge History of English Literature.) 
 
 And all this weedy harvest of criticism and remi- 
 niscence has come through my quoting Tennyson 
 without an apology ! All that I really had to say was 
 that there is no maker of verses in England to-day 
 who has the same mastery of metre as Tennyson had. 
 It is indeed because of the delicacy of his ear for 
 words that so many readers are disposed to think his 
 verse artificial. But there are people who think that 
 all art is artificial. (This is a very imminent subject 
 for consideration in a garden, and it has been con- 
 sidered by great authorities in at least two books, to 
 which I may refer if I go so far as to write some- 
 thing about a garden in these pages.) All that I 
 will say about the art, the artifice, the artfulness, or 
 the artificiality of the pictures that Tennyson brings 
 before my eyes through his mastery of his medium, is 
 that I have always placed a higher value upon the 
 meticulous than upon the slap-dash in every form of 
 art. It was said that the late Duke of Cambridge 
 could detect a speck of rust on a sabre quicker than 
 
184 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 any Commander-in-Chief that ever lived; but I do 
 not therefore hold that he was a greater soldier than 
 Marlborough. But if Marlborough could make the 
 brightness of his sabres do the things that he meant 
 them to do, his victories were all the more brilliant. 
 
 I dare say there are quite a number of people who 
 think that Edmund Yates's doggerel about a brand 
 of Champagne — it commences something like this, if 
 my memory serves me: — 
 
 " Dining with Bulteen 
 Captain of Militia, 
 Ne'er was dinner seen 
 Soupier or fishyer " 
 
 quite equal to the best that Calverley or Seaman ever 
 wrote, because it has that slap-dash element about it 
 that disregards correct rimes; but I am not among 
 those critics. Tennyson does not usually paint an 
 impressionist picture, though he can do so when he 
 pleases; he is rather a pre-Raphaelite ; but, however 
 he works, he produces his picture and it is a picture. 
 Talk of Art and Nature — there never was a poet 
 who reproduced Nature with an art so consummate; 
 there never was a poet who used his art so graphically. 
 Of course I am now talking of Tennyson at his best, 
 not of Tennyson of The May Queen, which is cer- 
 tainly deficient enough in art to please — as it has 
 pleased — the despisers of the meticulous, but of Ten- 
 nyson in his lyrical mood — of the garden-song in 
 Maud, of the echo-song in The Princess — both dia- 
 monds, not in the rough, but cut into countless facets 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 185 
 
 — Tennyson in The Passing of Arthur, and countless 
 pages of the Idylls, Tennyson of the pictorial sim- 
 plicity of Enoch Arden and the full brush of Ulysses, 
 Tithonus, Lucretius, the battle glow of The Ballad 
 of the Revenge, the muted trumpet-notes of The 
 Defence of Lucknow. 
 
 And yet through all are those lowering lines which 
 somehow he would insist on introducing in the wrong 
 places with infinite pains! It was as if he took the 
 trouble to help us up a high marble staircase to the 
 cupola of a tower, and to throw open before our eyes 
 a splendid landscape, only to trip us up when we are 
 lost in wonder of it all, and send us headlong to the 
 dead earth below. 
 
 It was when we were looking down a gorge of 
 tropical splendour in the island of Dominica in the 
 West Indies opening a wide mouth to the Caribbean, 
 that the incomparable lines from Enoch Arden came 
 upon me in the flash of the crimson-and-blue wings 
 of a bird — one of the many lories, I think it was — 
 that fled about the wild masses of the brake of 
 hibiscus, and I said them to Dorothy. Under our 
 eyes was a tropical garden on each side of the valley 
 — a riot of colour — a tropical sunset laid at our feet 
 in the tints of a thousand flowers down to where the 
 countless palms of the gorge began to mingle with 
 the yuccas that swayed over the sea-cliffs in the blue 
 distance. 
 
 " The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
 The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd 
 
186 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
 
 Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 
 
 As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
 
 Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
 
 A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail. 
 
 No sail from day to day, but every day 
 
 The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
 
 Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 
 
 The blaze upon the waters to the east; 
 
 The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
 
 The blaze upon the waters to the west; 
 
 Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, 
 
 The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
 
 The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail." 
 
 There was the most perfect picture of the tropical 
 island. 
 
 Some months after we had returned to England I 
 found the Enoch Arden volume tying on the floor at 
 Dorothy's feet. She was roseate with indignation as 
 I entered the room. I paused for an explanation. 
 
 It came. She touched the book with her foot — it 
 was a symbolic spurn — as much as any one with a 
 conscience could give to a royal-blue tooled morocco 
 binding. 
 
 " How could he do it? " she cried. 
 
 "Do what?" 
 
 " Those two lines at the end. Listen to this " — she 
 picked up the book with a sort of indignant snatch : — 
 
 " ' There came so loud a calling of the sea 
 That all the houses in the haven rang. 
 He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad 
 Crying with a loud voice, " A sail ! a sail ! 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 187 
 
 I am saved," and so fell back and spoke no more. 
 So past the strong, heroic soul away. 
 And when they buried him the little port 
 Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.' 
 
 " Now tell me if I don't do well to be angry," cried 
 Dorothy. "Those two lines — "a costlier funeral"! 
 He should have given the items in the bill and said 
 what was the name of the undertaker. Oh, why 
 didn't you warn me off that awful conclusion? What 
 should you say the bill came to? Oh, Alfred, Lord 
 Tennyson ! " 
 
 I shook my head sadly, of course. 
 
 " He does that sort of thing now and then," I 
 said sadly. " You remember the young lady whose 
 ' light blue eyes ' were ' tender over drowning 
 flies ' ? and the ' oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous 
 blasphemies.' " 
 
 " I do now, but they are not so bad as that about 
 the costly funeral. Why does he do it — tell me that 
 — put me wise? " 
 
 " I suppose we must all have our bit of fun now 
 and again. Kean, when in the middle of his most 
 rousing piece of declamation, used to turn from his 
 spellbound audience and put out his tongue at one 
 of the scene-shifters. If you want to be kept con- 
 stantly at the highest level you must stick to Milton." 
 
 There was a pause before Dorothy said, — 
 
 " I suppose so ; and yet was there ever anything 
 funnier than his description of the battle in heaven? " 
 
 "Funny? Majestic, you mean?" said I, deeply 
 shocked. 
 
188 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " Well, majestically funny, if you wish. The idea 
 of those ' ethereal virtues ' throwing big stones at one 
 another, and knowing all the time that it didn't mat- 
 ter whether they were hit or not — the gashes closed 
 like the gashes we loved making with our spades in the 
 stranded jelly-fish at low tide. But I suppose you 
 will tell me that Milton must have his joke with the 
 rest of them. Oh, I wonder if all poetry is not a 
 fraud." 
 
 That is how Tennyson did for himself by not know- 
 ing where to stop. I expect that what really hap- 
 pened was that when he had written: — 
 
 " So past the strong, heroic soul away," 
 
 he found that there was still room for a couple of 
 lines on the page and he could not bear to see the 
 space wasted. 
 
 And it was not wasted either ; for I remember talk- 
 ing to the late Dr. John Todhunter, himself a most 
 accomplished poet and a scholarly critic, about the 
 " costlier funeral " lines, and he defended them 
 warmly. 
 
 And the satisfying of Dr. Todhunter must be re- 
 garded as counting for a good deal more in the 
 balance against my poor Dorothy's disapproval. 
 
 Lest this chapter should appear aggressively di- 
 gressive in a book that may be fancied to have some- 
 thing to do with gardens, I may say that while Alfred, 
 Lord Tennyson had a great love for observing the 
 peculiarities of flower and plant growths, he must 
 have cared precious little for the garden as the solace 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 189 
 
 of one's declining years. He did not pant for it as 
 the hart pants for the water-brooks. He never came 
 to think of the hours spent out of a garden as wasted. 
 He did not live in his garden, nor did he live for it. 
 That is what amazes us in these days, nearly as much 
 as the stories of the feats of Mr. Gladstone with the 
 axe of the woodcutter. Not many of us would have 
 the heart to stand by while a magnificent oak or syca- 
 more is being cut down. We would shrink from 
 such an incident as we should from an execution. 
 But forty years ago the masses were ready to worship 
 the executioner. They used to be admitted in crowds 
 to Hawarden to watch the heroic old gentleman in 
 his shirt-sleeves and with his braces hanging down, 
 butchering a venerable elm in his park, and when the 
 trunk crashed to the ground they cheered vocifer- 
 ously, and when he wiped the perspiration from his 
 brow, they rushed forward to dip their handkerchiefs 
 in the drops just as men and women tried to damp 
 their handkerchiefs in the drippings of the axe of the 
 headsman, who, in a stroke, slew a monarch and made 
 a martyr, outside the Banqueting House in White- 
 hall. 
 
 And when the excursionists were cheering the hero 
 of Hawarden, Thomas Hardy was writing The 
 Woodlanders. Between Hardy and Hawarden there 
 was certainly a great gulf fixed. I do not think that 
 any poet ever wrote an elegy so affecting as the 
 chapter on the slaying of the oak outside the house 
 of the old man who died of the shock. But the scent 
 of the woodland clings to the whole book ; I have read 
 
190 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 it once a year for more than a quarter of a century. 
 
 Tennyson never showed that he loved his garden 
 as Mr. Hardy showed he loved his woodland. In the 
 many beautiful lines suggesting his affection for his 
 lawns and borders Tennyson makes a reader feel that 
 his joy was purely Platonic — sometimes patronis- 
 ingly Platonic. It is very far from approaching the 
 passion of a lover for his mistress. One feels that he 
 actually held that the garden was made for the poet 
 not the poet for the garden, which, I need hardly 
 say, we all hold to be a heresy. The union between 
 the true garden-lover and the garden may be a 
 mesalliance, but that is better than marriage de con- 
 venance. 
 
 But to return to the subject of Poets' Gardens, we 
 agreed that the gardens of neither of the poet's 
 dwelling-places were worth noticing; but they were 
 miracles of design compared with that at the red brick 
 villa where the white buses stopped at Putney — the 
 house where the body of Algernon Charles Swin- 
 burne lay carefully embalmed by his friend, Theodore 
 Watts-Dunton. Highly favoured visitors were occa- 
 sionally admitted to inspect the result of the process 
 by which the poet had his palpitations reduced to the 
 discreet beats of the Putney metronome, and visitors 
 shook their heads and said it was a marvellous refor- 
 mation. So it was — a triumph of the science of em- 
 balming, not " with spices and savour of song," but 
 with the savourless salt of True Friendship. The 
 reformed poet was now presentable, but he was no 
 longer a live poet: the work of reformation had 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 191 
 
 changed the man into a mummy — a most presentable 
 mummy; and it was understood that the placid exist- 
 ence of a mummy is esteemed much more than the 
 passionate rapture of an early morning lark, or of 
 the nightingale that has a bad habit of staying out 
 all night. 
 
 It is a most unhappy thing that the first operation 
 of the professional embalmer is to extract the brains 
 of his subject, and this was done through the medium 
 of a quill — a very suitable implement in the case of a 
 writer: he has begun the process himself long before 
 he is stretched on the table of the operator. Almost 
 equally important it is that the subject should be 
 thoroughly dried. Mr. Swinburne's true friend knew 
 his business: he kept him perpetually dry and with 
 his brain atrophied. 
 
 The last time I saw the poet he was on view under 
 the desiccating influence of a biscuit factory. He 
 looked very miserable, and I know that I felt very 
 miserable observing the triumph of the Watts-Dunton 
 treatment, and remembering the day when the glory 
 and glow of Songs before Sunrise enwrapt me until 
 I felt that the whole world would awaken when such 
 a poet set the trumpet to his lips to blow! 
 
 Mr. Watts-Dunton played the part of Vivien to 
 that merle Merlin, and all the forest echoed " Fool! " 
 
 But it was really a wonderful reformation that he 
 brought about. 
 
 I looked into the garden at that Putney reforma- 
 tory many times. It was one of the genteelest places 
 
192 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 I ever saw and so handy for the buses. It was called, 
 by one of those flashes of inspiration not unknown 
 in the suburbs, " The Pines." It might easily have 
 been "The Cedars" or "The Hollies," or even 
 " Laburnum Villa." 
 
 The poet was carefully shielded by his true freind. 
 Few visitors were allowed to see him. The more 
 pushing were, however, met half-way. They were 
 permitted as a treat to handle the knob of Mr. Swin- 
 burne's walking-stick. 
 
 Was it, I wonder, a Transatlantic visitor who 
 picked up from the linoleum of the hall beside the 
 veneered mahogany hat-stand, and the cast-iron um- 
 brella-holder, a scrap of paper in the poet's hand- 
 writing with the stanza of a projected lyric? — 
 
 " I am of dust and of dryness ; 
 
 I am weary of dryness and dust ! 
 But for my constitutional shyness 
 I'd go on a bust." 
 
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH 
 
 I came across an excellent piece of advice the other 
 day in a commonplace volume on planning a garden. 
 It was in regard to the place of statuary in a garden. 
 But the writer is very timid in this matter. He writes 
 as if he hoped no one would overhear him when he 
 says that he has no rooted objection, although many 
 people have, to a few bits of statuary; but on no plea 
 would he allow them the freedom of the garden ; their 
 place should be close to the house, and they should be 
 admitted even to that restricted territory only with 
 the greatest caution. On no account should anything 
 of that sort be allowed to put a foot beyond where the 
 real garden begins — the real clearly being the herba- 
 ceous part, though the formal is never referred to as 
 the ideal. 
 
 He gives advice regarding the figures as does a 
 " friend of the family " when consulted about the boys 
 who are inclined to be wild or the girls who are a bit 
 skittish. No, no; one should be very firm with 
 Hermes ; from the stories that somehow get about re- 
 garding him, he is certainly inclined to be fast; he 
 must not be given a latch-key; and as for Artemis — 
 well, it is most likely only thoughtlessness on her part, 
 but she should not be allowed to hunt more than two 
 
 193 
 
194 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 days a week. Still, if looked after, both Hermy and 
 Arty will be all right; above all things, however, the 
 list of their associates should be carefully revised: 
 the fewer companions they have the better it will be 
 for all concerned. 
 
 Now, I venture to agree with all this advice gen- 
 erally. Fond as I am of statuary, whether stone or 
 lead, I am sure that it is safest in or about the House 
 Garden; and no figure that I possess is in any other 
 part of my ground ; but this is only because I do not 
 possess a single Faun or Dryad or Daphne. If I 
 were lucky enough to have these, I should know 
 where to place them and it would not be in a place 
 of formality, but just the opposite. They have no 
 business with formalities, and would look as incon- 
 gruous among the divinities who seem quite happy on 
 pedestals as would Pan in modern evening dress, or 
 a Russian danceuse in corsets, or a Polish in anything 
 at all. 
 
 If I had a Pan I would not be afraid to locate 
 him in the densest part of a shrubbery, where only his 
 ears and the grin between them could be seen among 
 the foliage and his goat's shank among the lower 
 branches. His effigy is shown in its legitimate place 
 in Gabe's Picture, " Fete Galante." That is the cor- 
 rect habitat of Pan, and that is where he would be 
 shown in the hall of the Natural History Museum 
 where every " exhibit " has its natural entourage. If 
 I had a Dryad and had not a pond with reeds about 
 its marge, I would make one for her accommodation, 
 for, except with such surroundings she should not be 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 195 
 
 seen in a garden. I have a Daphne, but she is an 
 indoor one, being frailly made, and with a year's 
 work of undercutting, in Greek marble — a precious 
 copy of Bernini's masterpiece. But if I had an out- 
 door Daphne, I would not rest easy unless I knew 
 that she was within easy touch of her laurel. 
 
 That is why I do not think that any hard and fast 
 rule should be laid down in the matter of the dis- 
 posal of statuary in a garden ground. But on the 
 general principle of " the proper place," I certainly 
 am of the opinion expressed by the writer to whom 
 I have referred — that this element of interest and 
 beauty should be found mainly in connection with 
 the stonework of the house. In any part of an Italian 
 garden stone figures seem properly placed; because 
 so much of that form of garden is made up of sculp- 
 tured stone; but in the best examples of the art you 
 will find that the statuary is placed with due regard 
 to the " feature " it is meant to illustrate. It is, in 
 fact, part of the design and eminently decorative, as 
 well as being stimulating to the memory and sugges- 
 tive to the imagination. In most of the English gar- 
 dens that were planned and carried out during the 
 greater part of the nineteenth century, the stone and 
 lead figures that formed a portion of the original 
 design of the earlier days were thrown about without 
 the least reference to their fitness for the places they 
 were forced to occupy; and the consequence was that 
 they never seemed right : they seemed to have no busi- 
 ness where they were; hence the creation of a preju- 
 dice against such things. Happily, however, now 
 
196 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 that it is taken for granted that garden design is the 
 work of some one who is more of an architect than 
 a horticulturist, though capability in the one direction 
 is intolerable without its complement in the other, the 
 garden ornamental is coming into its own again; and 
 the prices which even ordinary and by no means 
 unique examples fetch under the hammer show that 
 they are being properly appreciated. 
 
 It is mainly in public parks that one finds the hor- 
 ticultural skill overbalanced, not by the architectural, 
 but by the " Parks Committee " of the Town Coun- 
 cil; consequently knowing, as every one must, the 
 usual type of the Town Council Committee-man, one 
 can only look for a display of ignorance, stupidity, 
 and bad taste, the result of a combination of the three 
 being sheer vulgarity. The Town Council usually 
 have a highly competent horticulturist, and his part 
 of the business is done well ; but I have known many 
 cases of the professional man being overruled by a 
 vulgar, conceited member of the Committee even on 
 a professional point, such as the arrangement of 
 colour in a bed of single dahlias. 
 
 " My missus abominates yaller," was enough to 
 veto a thoroughly artistic scheme for a portion of a 
 public garden. 
 
 I was in the studio of a distinguished portrait 
 painter in London on what was called " Show Sun- 
 day " — the Sunday previous to the sending of the 
 pictures to the Hanging Committee of the Royal 
 Academy, and there I was introduced by the artist, 
 who wanted to throw the fellow at somebody's head, 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 197 
 
 not having anything handy that he could, without dis- 
 courtesy, throw at the fellow's head, to a gentleman 
 representing the Committee of Selection of a move- 
 ment in one of the most important towns in the Mid- 
 lands, to present the outgoing Lord Mayor with a 
 portrait of himself. With so aggressively blatant a 
 specimen of cast-iron conceit I had never previously 
 been brought in contact. At least three of the por- 
 traits on the easels in the studio were superb. At 
 the Academy Exhibition they attracted a great deal 
 of attention and the most laudatory criticism. But 
 the delegate from the Midlands shook his head at 
 them and gave a derisive snuffle. 
 
 " Not up to much," he muttered to me. " I reckon 
 I'll deal in another shop. I ain't the sort as is carried 
 away by the sound of a name. I may not be one of 
 your crickets; but I know what I like and I know 
 what I don't like, and these likenesses is them. Who's 
 that old cock with the heyglass — I somehow seem to 
 feel that I've seen him before? " 
 
 I told him that the person whom he indicated was 
 Lord Goschen. 
 
 " I guessed he was something in that line — wears 
 the heyglass to make people fancy he's something 
 swagger. Well, so long." 
 
 That was the last we saw of the delegate. He was 
 not one of the horny-handed, I found out ; but he had 
 some connection with these art-arbiters; he was the 
 owner of a restaurant that catered for artisans of the 
 lower grade. 
 
 I had the curiosity to inquire of a friend living in 
 
198 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 the town he represented so efficiently, respecting the 
 commission for the portrait, and he gave me the name 
 of a flashy meretricious painter whose work was 
 treated with derision from Chelsea to St. John's 
 Wood. But my informant added that the Committee 
 of the Council were quite pleased with the portrait, 
 and had drunk the health of the painter on the day of 
 its presentation. 
 
 When a distinguished writer expressed the opinion 
 that there is safety in a multitude of councillors, he 
 certainly did not mean Town Councillors. If he did 
 he was wrong. 
 
 When on the subject of the garden ornamental, I 
 should like to venture to express my opinion that it is 
 a mistake to fancy that it is not possible to furnish 
 your grounds tastefully and in a way that will add 
 immensely to their interest unless with conventional 
 objects — in the way of sundials or bird baths or vases 
 or seats. I know that the Venetian well-heads which 
 look so effective, cost a great deal of money, and so 
 does the wrought-iron work if it is at all good, and 
 unless it is good it is not worth possessing. But if 
 you have an uncontrollable ambition to possess a well- 
 head, why not get the local builder to construct one 
 for you, with rubble facing of bits of stone of varying 
 colour, only asking a mason to make a sandstone 
 coping for the rim and carve the edge? This could be 
 done for three or four pounds, and if properly de- 
 signed would make a most interesting and suggestive 
 ornament. 
 
 There is scarcely a stonemason's yard in any town 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 199 
 
 that will not furnish a person of some resource with 
 many bits of spoilt carving that could be used to 
 advantage if the fault is not obtrusive. If you live 
 in a brick villa, you may consider yourself fortunate 
 in some ways; for you need not trouble about stone- 
 work — brick-coloured terra-cotta ornaments will give 
 a delightful sense of warmth to a garden, and these 
 may be bought for very little if you go to the right 
 place for them; and your builder's catalogue will 
 enable you to see what an endless variety of sizes and 
 shapes there is available in the form of enrichments 
 for shop facades. Only a little imagination is re- 
 quired to allow of your seeing how you can work in 
 some of these to advantage. 
 
 But, in my opinion, nothing looks better in a villa 
 garden than a few large flower-pots of what I might 
 perhaps call the natural shape. These never seem out 
 of place and never in bad taste. Several that I have 
 seen have a little enrichment, and if you get your 
 builder to make up a low brick pedestal for each, 
 using angle bricks and pier bricks, you will be out 
 of pocket to the amount of a few shillings and you 
 will have obtained an effect that will never pall on 
 you. But you must remember that the pedestal — 
 I should call it the stand — should be no more than a 
 foot high. I do not advocate the employment of old 
 terra-cotta drain-pipes for anything in a garden. 
 Nothing can be made out of drain-pipes except a 
 drain. 
 
 There is, of course, no need for any garden to de- 
 pend on ornaments for good effect; a garden is well 
 
200 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 furnished with its flowers, and you will find great 
 pleasure in realising your ideas and your ideals if you 
 devote yourself to growth and growth only; all that 
 I do affirm is that your pleasure will be greatly in- 
 creased if you try by all the means in your power 
 to make your garden worthy of the flowers. The 
 " love that beauty should go beautifully," will, I 
 think, meet with its reward. 
 
 Of course, if you have a large piece of ground and 
 take my advice in making several gardens instead of 
 one only, you may make a red garden of some por- 
 tion by using terra-cotta freely, and I am sure that 
 the effect would be pleasing. I have often thought 
 of doing this; but somehow I was never in possession 
 of a piece of ground that would lend itself to such a 
 treatment, though I have made a free use of terra- 
 cotta vases along the rose border of my house garden, 
 and I found that the placing of a large well-weathered 
 Italian oil- jar between the pillars of a colonnade, 
 inserting a pot of coloured daisies, was very effective, 
 and intensely stimulating to the pantomime erudition 
 of our visitors, for never did one catch a glimpse of 
 these jars without crying, "Hallo! Ali Baba." I 
 promised to forfeit a sum of money equivalent to the 
 price of one of the jars to a member of our family on 
 the day when a friend walks round the place failing 
 to mention the name of that wily Oriental. It is quite 
 likely that behind my back they allude to the rose 
 colonnade as " The Ali Baba place." 
 
 Before I leave the subject of the garden orna- 
 mental, I must say a word as to the use of marble. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 201 
 
 I have seen in many of those volumes of such good 
 advice as will result, if it is followed, in the creation 
 of a thoroughly conventional garden, that in England 
 the use of marble out-of-doors cannot be tolerated. 
 It may pass muster in Italy, where there are quarries 
 of various marbles, but it is quite unsuited to the 
 English climate. The material is condemned as cold, 
 and that is the last thing we want to achieve in these 
 latitudes, and it is also " out of place " — so one book 
 assures me, but without explaining on what grounds 
 it is so, an omission which turns the assertion into a 
 begging of the question. 
 
 But I am really at a loss to know why marble 
 should be thought out of place in England. As a 
 matter of fact, it is not so considered, for in most 
 cemeteries five out of every six tombstones are of 
 marble, and all the more important pieces of statuary 
 — the life-size angels — I do not know exactly what is 
 the life-size of an angel, or whether the angel has been 
 standardised, so I am compelled to assume the human 
 dimensions — and the groups of cherubs' heads sup- 
 ported on pigeon's wings are almost invariably carved 
 in marble. These are the objects which are sup- 
 posed to endure for centuries (the worst of it is that 
 they do), so that the material cannot be condemned 
 on account of its being liable to disintegrate under 
 English climatic conditions: the mortality of marble 
 cannot cease the moment it is brought into a grave- 
 yard. 
 
 The fact of its being mainly white accounts for the 
 complaint that it conveys the impression of coldness; 
 
202 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 but it seems to me that this is just the impression 
 which people look to acquire in some part of a gar- 
 den. How many times has one not heard the excla- 
 mation from persons passing out of the sunshine into 
 the grateful shade, — 
 
 "How delightfully cool!" 
 
 The finest chimney-pieces in the world are of 
 white marble, and a chimney-piece should certainly 
 not suggest cold. 
 
 That polished marble loses its gloss when it has 
 been for some time in the open air is undeniable. But 
 I wonder if it is not improved by the process, consid- 
 ering that in such a condition it assumes a delicate 
 gray hue in the course of its " weathering " and a 
 texture of its own of a much finer quality than 
 can be found in ordinary Portland, Bath, or Caen 
 stones. 
 
 I really see no reason why we should be told that 
 marble — white marble — is unsuited to an English 
 garden. In Italy we know how beautiful is its ap- 
 pearance, and I do not think that any one should be 
 sarcastic in referring to the facades of some of the 
 mansions in Fifth Avenue, New York City. At least 
 three of these represent the best that can be bought 
 combined with the best that can be thought. They do 
 not look aggressively ostentatious, any more than 
 does Milan Cathedral or Westminster Abbey, or 
 Lyons' restaurants. Marble enters largely into the 
 " frontages " of Fifth Avenue as well as those of 
 other abodes of the wealthy in some of the cities of 
 the United States; but we are warned off its use in 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 203 
 
 the open air in England by writers who are not timid 
 in formulating canons of what they call " good taste." 
 In the facade of the Cathedral at Pisa, there is a 
 black column among the gray ones which are so 
 effectively introduced in the Romanesque " blind 
 arcading." I am sorry that I forget what is the tech- 
 nical name for this treatment; but I have always 
 thought, when feasting upon the architectural mas- 
 terpiece, that the master-builder called each of these 
 little columns by the name of one of his supporters, 
 but that there was one member of the Consistory who 
 was always nagging him, and he determined to set a 
 black mark opposite his name; and did so very effec- 
 tively by introducing the dark column, taking good 
 care to let all his friends know the why and wherefore 
 for his freak. I can see very plainly the grins of the 
 townsfolk of the period when they saw what had been 
 done, and hear the whispers of " Signor Antonio della 
 colonna nigra," when the grumbler walked by. The 
 master-builders of those times were merry fellows, 
 and some of them carried their jests — a few of them 
 of doubtful humour — into the interior of a sacred 
 building, as we may see when we inspect the carving 
 of the underneath woodwork of many a miserere. 
 
 I should like to set down in black and white my 
 protest against the calumniator of marble for garden 
 ornaments in England, when we have so splendid an 
 example of its employment in the Queen Victoria 
 Memorial opposite Buckingham Palace — the noblest 
 work of this character in England. 
 
 I should like also to write something scathing about 
 
204 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 the superior person who sneers at what I have heard 
 called " Gin Palace Art." This person is ready to 
 condemn unreservedly the association of art with the 
 public-house, the hotel, and even the tea-room. Now, 
 considering the recent slump in real palaces — the 
 bishops have begun calling their palaces houses — I 
 think that some gratitude should be shown to those 
 licensed persons who so amply recognise the fact that 
 upon them devolves the responsibiltiy of carrying on 
 the tradition of the Palace. Long ago, in the days 
 when there were real Emperors and Kings and 
 Popes, it was an understood thing that a Royal Resi- 
 dence should be a depository of all the arts, and in 
 every country except England, this assumption was 
 nobly .cted upon. If it had not been for the mag- 
 nificent patronage — that is the right word, for it 
 means protection — of many arts by the Church and 
 by the State of many countries, we should know very 
 little about the arts to-day. But when the men of 
 many licences had the name " gin-palace " given to 
 their edifices — it was given to them in the same spirit 
 of obloquy as animated the scoffers of Antioch when 
 they invented the name " Christian " — they nobly 
 resolved to act as the Christians did, by trying to 
 live up to their new name. We see how far success 
 has crowned their resolution. The representative 
 hostelries of these days go beyond the traditional 
 king's house which was all glorious within — they are 
 all glorious — so far as is consistent with educated 
 taste — as to their exterior as well. A " tied house " 
 really means nowadays one that is tied down to the 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 205 
 
 resolution that the best traditions of the palace shall 
 be maintained. 
 
 Let any one who can remember what the hotels and 
 public-houses and eating-houses of forty years ago 
 were like, say if the change that has been brought 
 about is not an improvement that may be considered 
 almost miraculous. In the old days when a man left 
 the zinc counters of one of these places of refresh- 
 ment, he was usually in a condition that was alluded 
 to euphemistically as " elevated " ; but nowadays the 
 man who pays a visit to a properly equipped tavern 
 is elevated in no euphemistic sense. I remember the 
 cockroaches of the old Albion — they were so tame 
 that they would eat out of your hand. But if they 
 did, the habitues of that tavern had their revenge: 
 some of these expert gastronomes professed to be able 
 to tell from the flavour of the soup whether it had 
 been seasoned with the cockroaches of the table or 
 the black beetles of the kitchen. 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" cried an indignant 
 diner to the waiter — " I ordered portions for three, 
 and yet there are only two cockroaches." 
 
 I recollect in the old days of The Cock tavern in 
 Fleet Street it was said when the report was cir- 
 culated that it was enlarging its borders, that the 
 name on the sign should be appropriately enlarged 
 from the Cock to the Cockroach. 
 
 I heard an explanation given of the toleration 
 shown by some of the frequenters of these places to 
 the cockroach and the blackbeetle. 
 
 " They're afraid to complain," said my informant, 
 
206 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " lest it should be thought that they were seeing them 
 again/' 
 
 I shall never forget the awful dewey stare of a man 
 who was facing a tumbler (his third) of hot punch 
 in the Cheshire Cheese, at a mouse which made its ap- 
 pearance only a yard or two from where we were 
 sitting shortly before closing time one night. He 
 wiped his forehead and still stared. The aspect of 
 relief that he showed when I made a remark about 
 the tameness of the mouse, quite rewarded me for 
 my interposition between old acquaintances. 
 
 Having mentioned the Cheshire Cheese in connec- 
 tion with the transition period from zinc to marble — 
 marble is really my theme — I cannot resist the 
 temptation to refer to the well-preserved tradition 
 of Dr. Johnson's association with this place. Visi- 
 tors were shown the place where Dr. Johnson was 
 wont to sit night after night with his friends — nay, 
 the very chair that he so fully occupied was on view; 
 and among the most cherished memories of seeing 
 " Old London " which people from America acquired, 
 was that of being brought into such close touch with 
 the eighteenth century by taking lunch in this famous 
 place. 
 
 " There it was just as it had been in good old Sam- 
 uel's day," said a man who knew all about it. " Noth- 
 ing in the dear old tavern had been changed since his 
 day — nothing whatever — not even the sand or the 
 sawdust or the smells." 
 
 But it so happens that in the hundreds of volumes 
 of contemporary Johnsoniana, not excepting Bos- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 207 
 
 well's biography, there is no mention of the name of 
 the Cheshire Cheese. There is not a shred of evidence 
 to support the belief that Johnson was ever within 
 its doors. The furthest that conjecture can reasona- 
 bly go in this connection is that one has no right to 
 assume that from the list of the taverns frequented 
 by Johnson the name of the Cheshire Cheese should 
 be excluded. 
 
 The fate of the Cheshire Cheese, however, proves 
 that while tradition as an asset may be of great value 
 to such a place, yet it has its limits. Just as soap 
 and the " spellin' school " have done away with the 
 romance of the noble Red Man, so against the in- 
 fluence of the marble of modernity, even the full fla- 
 voured aura of Dr. Johnson was unable to hold its 
 own. 
 
 Thus I am brought back — not too late, I hope — to 
 my original theme, which I think took the form of 
 a protest against the protestations of those writers 
 who believe that marble should not find its way into 
 the ornamentation of an English garden. I have had 
 seats and tables and vases and columns of various 
 marbles in my House Garden — I have even had a 
 fountain basin and carved panels of flowers and birds 
 of the same material — but although some of them 
 show signs of being affected by the climate, yet noth- 
 ing has suffered in this way — on the contrary, I find 
 that Sicilian and " dove " marbles have improved by 
 " weathering." 
 
 I have a large round table, the top of which is in- 
 laid with a variety of coloured marbles, and as I allow 
 
208 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 this to remain out-of-doors during seven months of 
 the year, I know what sorts best withstand the rigours 
 of an English South Coast June; and I am inclined 
 to believe that the ordinary " dove " shows the least 
 sign of hardship at the end of the season. Of course, 
 the top has lost all its polish, but the cost of repol- 
 ishing such a table is not more than ten shillings — I 
 had another one done some years ago, and that is the 
 sum I was charged for the work by a well-known firm 
 on the Fulham Road; so that if I should get tired of 
 seeing it weather-beaten, I can get it restored without 
 impoverishing the household. 
 
 And the mention of this leads me on to another 
 point which should not be lost sight of in considering 
 any scheme of garden decoration. 
 
 My Garden of Peace has never been one of " peace 
 at any price." I have happily been compelled to give 
 the most inflexible attention to the price of everything. 
 I like those books on garden design which tell you how 
 easily you can get leaden figures and magnificent 
 chased vases of bronze if you wish, but perhaps you 
 would prefer carved stone. You have only to go to 
 a well-known importer with a cheque-book and a con- 
 sciousness of a workable bank balance, and the thing 
 is done. So you will find in the pre-war cookery books 
 the recipe beginning: " Take two dozen new-laid eggs, 
 a quart of cream, and a pint of old brandy," etc. 
 These bits of advice make very good reading, and 
 doubtless may be read with composure by some peo- 
 ple, but I am not among their number. 
 
 That table, with the twelve panels and a heavy 
 
ENTRANCE TO THE ITALIAN GARDEN 
 
 [Page 208 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 209 
 
 pedestal set on castors, cost me exactly half a crown 
 at an auction. When new it was probably bought for 
 twelve or fourteen pounds: it is by no means a piece 
 of work of the highest class; for a first-class inlaid 
 table one would have to pay something like forty or 
 fifty pounds: I have seen one fetch £150 at an auc- 
 tion. But my specimen happened to be the Lot 1 in 
 the catalogue, and people had not begun to warm to 
 their bidding, — marble, as I have already said, is re- 
 garded as cold. Another accident that told against its 
 chances of inspiring a buyer was the fact that the ped- 
 estal wanted a screw, without which the top would not 
 lie in its place, and this made people think it imper- 
 fect and incapable of being put right except at great 
 expense. The chief reason for its not getting beyond 
 the initial bid was, however, that no one wanted it. 
 The mothers, particularly those of " the better class," 
 in Yardley, are lacking in imagination. If they want 
 a deal table for a kitchen, they will pay fifteen shill- 
 ings for one, and ten shillings for a slab of marble 
 to make their pastry on ; but they would not give half 
 a crown for a marble table which would serve for 
 kitchen purposes a great deal better than a wooden 
 one, and make a baking slab — it usually gets broken 
 within a month — unnecessary. 
 
 Why I make so free a use of marble and advise 
 others to do so, is not merely because I admire it in 
 every form and colour, but because it can be bought 
 so very cheaply upon occasions — infinitely more so 
 than Portland or Bath stone. These two rarely come 
 into the second-hand market, and in the mason's yard 
 
210 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 a slab is worth so much a square foot or a cubic foot. 
 But people are now constantly turning out their 
 shapeless marble mantelpieces and getting wooden 
 ones instead, and the only person who will buy the 
 former is the general dealer, and the most that he 
 will give for one that cost <£10 or <£12 fifty years ago 
 is 10s. or 12s. I have bought from dealers or build- 
 ers possibly two dozen of these, never paying more 
 than 10s. each for the best — actually for the one which 
 I know was beyond question the best, I paid 6s., the 
 price at which it was offered to me. An exceptionally 
 fine one of statuary marble with fluted columns and 
 beautifully carved Corinthian capitals and panels cost 
 me 10s. This mantelpiece was discarded through one 
 of those funny blunders which enable one to get a 
 bargain. The owner of the house fancied that it was 
 a production of 1860, when it really was a hundred 
 years earlier. There are marble mantelpieces and 
 marble mantelpieces. Some fetch 10s. and others 
 £175. I knew a dealer who bought a large house 
 solely to acquire the five Bossi mantelpieces which it 
 contained. Occasionally one may pick up an eigh- 
 teenth century crystal chandelier which has been dis- 
 carded on the supposition that it was one of those 
 shapeless and tasteless gasaliers which delighted our 
 grandmothers in the days of rep and Berlin wool. 
 
 But from these confessions I hope no one will be 
 so ungenerous as to fancy that my predilection for 
 marble is to be accounted for only because of the 
 chances of buying it cheaply. While I admit that 
 I prefer buying a beautiful thing for a tenth of its 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 211 
 
 value, I would certainly refuse to have anything to 
 do with an ugly thing if it were offered to me for 
 nothing. But the beauty of marble is unassailable. 
 It has been recognised in every quarter of the world 
 for thousands of years. The only question upon 
 which opinion is divided is in regard to its suitability 
 to the English climate. In this connection I beg 
 leave to record my experience. I take it for granted 
 that when I allude to marble, it will not be supposed 
 that I include that soft gypsum — sulphate of lime — 
 which masquerades under the name of alabaster, and 
 is carved with the tools of a woodcarver, supplemented 
 by a drill and a file, in many forms by Italian crafts- 
 men. This material will last in the open air very little 
 longer than the plaster of Paris, by which its numer- 
 ous component parts are held together. It is worth 
 nothing. True alabaster is quite a different substance. 
 It is carbonate of lime and disintegrates very slowly. 
 The tomb of Machiavelli in the Santa Croce in Flor- 
 ence is of the true alabaster, as are all the fifteenth 
 and sixteenth century sarcophagi in the same quarter 
 of the church; but none can be said to have suffered 
 materially. It was widely used in memorial tablets 
 three hundred or four hundred years ago. Shakes- 
 peare makes Othello refer to the sleeping Desde- 
 , mona, — 
 
 " That whiter skin of hers than snow, 
 And smooth as monumental alabaster." 
 
 We know that it was the musical word " alabaster " 
 that found favour with Shakespeare, just as it was, 
 
212 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 according to Miss Ethel Smyth, Mus. Doc, the musi- 
 cal word " Tipperary," that helped to make a song 
 containing that word a favourite with Shakespeare's 
 countrymen, who have never been found lacking in 
 appreciation of a musical word or a rag-time inanity. 
 
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH 
 
 Again may I beg leave to express the opinion that 
 there is no need for any one to depend upon con- 
 ventional ornaments with a view to make the garden 
 interesting as well as ornamental. With a little imagi- 
 nation, one can introduce quite a number of details 
 that are absolutely unique. There is nothing that 
 looks better than an arch made out of an old stone 
 doorway. It may be surmounted by a properly sup- 
 ported shield carved with a crest or a monogram. A 
 rose pillar of stone has a charming appearance at the 
 end of a vista. The most effective I have seen were 
 made of artificial stone, and they cost very little. 
 Many of the finest garden figures of the eighteenth 
 century were made of this kind of cement, only in- 
 ferior in many respects to the modern " artificial 
 stone." It is unnecessary to say that any material 
 that resists frost will survive that comparatively soft 
 stone work which goes from bad to worse year by year 
 in the open. 
 
 But I do not think that, while great freedom and 
 independence should be shown in the introduction of 
 ornamental work, one should ever go so far as to con- 
 struct in cold blood a ruin of any sort, nor is there any 
 need, I think, to try to make a new piece look antique. 
 
 213 
 
214 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 But I have actually known of a figure being deprived 
 of one of its arms in order to increase its resemblance 
 to the Venus of the island of Milos! Such mutilation 
 is unwarrantable. I have known of Doctors of Medi- 
 cine taking pains to make their heads bald, in com- 
 pliance with the decrepit notion that knowledge was 
 inseparable from a venerable age. There may be an 
 excuse for such a proceeding, though to my mind 
 this posturing lacks only two letters to be impostur- 
 ing; but no excuse can be found for breaking the 
 corner off a piece of moulding or for treating a stone 
 figure with chemicals in order to suggest antiquity. 
 Such dealers as possess a clientele worth maintaining, 
 know that a thing " in mint condition," as they de- 
 scribe it, is worth more than a similar thing that is 
 deficient in any way. That old story about the arti- 
 ficial worm-eating will not be credited by any one 
 who is aware of the fact that a piece of woodwork 
 showing signs of the ravages of the wood moth is 
 practically worthless. There would be some sense in 
 a story of a man coming to a dealer with a composi- 
 tion to prevent worm-holes, as they are called, being 
 recognised. Ten thousand pounds would not be too 
 much to pay for a discovery that would prevent wood- 
 work from being devoured by this abominable thing. 
 Surely some of the Pasteur professors should be equal 
 to the task of producing a serum by which living 
 timber might be inoculated so as to make it immune 
 to such attacks, or liable only to the disease in a mild 
 form. 
 
 But there are dealers in antiques whose dealings 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 215 
 
 are as doubtful as their Pentateuch (according to 
 Bishop Colenso's researches). Heywood tells me that 
 he came across such an one in a popular seaside town 
 which became a modern Hebrew City of Refuge, 
 mentioned in one of the Mosaic books, during the air- 
 raids. This person had for sale a Highland claidh- 
 eamh-mor — that is, I can assure you, the proper way 
 to spell claymore — which he affirmed had once be- 
 longed to the Young Pretender. There it was, with 
 his initials " Y. P.," damascened upon the blade, to 
 show that there could be no doubt about it. 
 
 And Friswell remembered hearing of another en- 
 terprising trader in antiquities who had bought from 
 a poor old captain of an American whaler a sailor's 
 jack-knife — Thackeray called the weapon a snicker- 
 snee — which bore on the handle in plain letters the 
 name " Jonah," very creditably carved. Everybody 
 knows that whales live to a very great age ; and it has 
 never been suggested that there was at any time a 
 clearing-house for whales. 
 
 I repeat that there is no need for garden ornaments 
 to be ancient; but if one must have such things, one 
 should have no difficulty in finding them, even with- 
 out spending enormous sums to acquire them. But 
 say that one has set one's heart upon having a stone 
 bench, which always furnishes a garden, no matter 
 what its character may be. Well, I have bought a 
 big stone slab — it had once been a step — for five shill- 
 ings. I kept it until I chanced to see a damaged Port- 
 land truss that had supported a heavy joist in some 
 building. This I had sawn into two — there was a 
 
216 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 well-cut scroll on each side — and by placing these 
 bits in position and laying my slab upon them, I con- 
 cocted a very imposing garden bench for thirteen 
 shillings. If I had bought the same already made up 
 in the ordinary course of business, it would have cost 
 me at least £5. If I had seen the thing in a mason's 
 yard, I would have bought it at this price. 
 
 Again, I came upon an old capital of a pillar that 
 had once been in an Early Norman church — it was in 
 the backyard of a man from whom I was buying 
 bulbs. I told the man that I would like it, and he said 
 he thought half a crown was about its value. I did 
 not try to beat him down — one never gets a bargain 
 by beating a tradesman down — and I set to work 
 rummaging through his premises. In ten minutes I 
 had discovered a second capital; and the good fellow 
 said I might have this one as I had found it. I 
 thought it better, however, to make the transaction 
 a business one, so I paid my second half-crown for it. 
 But two years had passed before I found two stone 
 shafts with an aged look, and on these I placed my 
 Norman relics. They look very well in the embrace 
 of a Hiawatha rose against a background of old wall. 
 These are but a few of the " made-ups " which fur- 
 nish my House Garden, not one of which I acquired 
 in what some people would term the legitimate way. 
 
 I have a large carved seat of Sicilian marble, an- 
 other of " dove " marble, and three others of carved 
 stone, and no one of them was acquired by me in a 
 complete state. Why should not a man or woman 
 who has some training in art and who has seen the 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 217 
 
 best architectural things in the world be able to de- 
 sign something that will be equal to the best in a 
 stonemason's yard, I should like to know? 
 
 And then, what about the pleasure of working out 
 such details — the pleasure and the profit of it? Surely 
 they count for something in this life of ours. 
 
 Before I forsake the fascinating topic of stone- 
 work, I should like to make a suggestion which I trust 
 will commend itself to some of my readers. It is 
 that of hanging appropriate texts on the walls of a 
 garden. I have not attempted anything like this my- 
 self, but I shall certainly do it some day. Garden 
 texts exist in abundance, and to have one carved upon 
 a simple block of stone and inserted in a wall would, 
 I think, add greatly to the interest of the garden. I 
 have seen a couple of such inscriptions in a garden 
 near Florence, and I fancy that in the Lake District 
 of England the custom found favour, or Wordsworth 
 would not have written so many as he did for his 
 friends. The " lettering " — the technical name for 
 inscriptions — would run into money if a poet paid by 
 piece-work were employed; unless he were as consid- 
 erate as the one who did some beautiful tombstone 
 poems and thought that, — 
 
 " Beneath this stone repose the bones, together with the 
 corp, 
 Of one who ere Death cut him down was Thomas Andrew 
 Thorpe," 
 
 was good; and so it was; but as the widow was not 
 disposed to spend so much as the " lettering " would 
 cost, he reduced his verse to: — 
 
218 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " Beneath this stone there lies the corp 
 Of Mr. Thomas Andrew Thorpe." 
 
 Still the widow shook her head and begged him to 
 give the question of a further curtailment his con- 
 sideration. He did so, and produced, — 
 
 " Here lies the corp 
 Of T. A. Thorpe." 
 
 This was a move in the right direction, the heart- 
 broken relict thought; still if the sentiment was so 
 compressible, it might be further reduced. Flowery 
 language was all very well, but was it worth the extra 
 money? The result of her appeal was, — 
 
 " Thorpe's 
 Corpse." 
 
 I found some perfect garden texts in every volume 
 I glanced through, from Marlowe to Masefield. 
 
 Yes, I shall certainly revive on some of my walls, 
 between the tufts of snapdragon, a delightful prac- 
 tice, feeling assured that the crop will flower in many 
 directions. The search for the neatest lines will of 
 itself be stimulating. 
 
 But among the suitable objects for the embellish- 
 ment of any form of garden, I should not recommend 
 any form of dog. We have not completed our repair- 
 ing of one of our borders since a visit was paid to us 
 quite unexpectedly by a young foxhound that was 
 being " walked " by a dealer in horses, who has stables 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 219 
 
 a little distance beyond the Castle. Our third little 
 girl, Francie by name, has an overwhelming sympathy 
 for animals in captivity, especially dogs, and the fact 
 that I do not keep any since I had an unhappy ex- 
 perience with a mastiff several years ago, is not a 
 barrier to her friendship with " Mongrel, puppy, 
 whelp, or hound, and curs of low degree " that are 
 freely cursed by motorists in the High Street; for in 
 Yardley dogs have trained themselves to sleep in the 
 middle of the road on warm summer days. Almost 
 every afternoon Francie returns from her walks 
 abroad in the company of two or three of her bor- 
 rowed dogs; and if she is at all past her time in set- 
 ting out from home, one of them comes up to make 
 inquiries as to the cause of the delay. 
 
 Some months ago the foxhound, Daffodil, who gal- 
 lantly prefers being walked by a little girl, even 
 though she carries no whip, rather than by a horsey 
 man who is never without a serviceable crop with a 
 lash, personally conducted a party of three to find 
 out if anything serious had happened to Francie ; and 
 in order to show off before the others, he took advan- 
 tage of the garden gate having been left open to enter 
 and relieve his anxiety. He seemed to have done a 
 good deal of looking round before he was satisfied 
 that there was no immediate cause for alarm, and in 
 the course of his stroll he transformed the border, 
 adapting it to an impromptu design of his own — not 
 without merit, if his aim was a reproduction of a 
 prairie. 
 
 After an industrious five minutes he received some 
 
220 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 token of the gardener's disapproval, and we hope 
 that in a few months the end of our work of restora- 
 tion will be well in sight. 
 
 But Nemesis was nearer at hand than that horti- 
 cultural hound dreamt of. Yesterday Francie ap- 
 peared in tears after her walk; and this is the story 
 of illoe lachrymce: It appears that the days of Daf- 
 fodil's " walking " were over, and he was given an 
 honourable place in the hunt kennels. The master 
 and a huntsman now and again take the full pack 
 from their home to the Downs for an outing and 
 bring them through the town on their way back. Yes- 
 terday such a route-march took place and the hounds 
 went streaming in open order down the street. No 
 contretemps seemed likely to mar the success of the 
 outing; but unhappily Daffodil had not learned to 
 the last page the discipline of the kennels, and when 
 at the wrong moment Francie came out of the con- 
 fectioner's shop, she was spied by her old friend, and 
 he made a rush in front of the huntsman's horse to 
 the little girl, nearly knocking her down in the ex- 
 uberance of his greeting of her. 
 
 Alas! there was "greeting" in the Scotch mean- 
 ing of the word, when Daffodil ignored the command 
 of the huntsman and had only eaten five of the choco- 
 lates and an inch or two of the paper bag, when the 
 hailstorm fell on him. . . . 
 
 " But once he looked back before he reached the 
 pack," said Francie between her sobs — " he looked 
 back at me — you see he had not time to say ' good- 
 bye,' that horrid huntsman was so quick with his lash, 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 221 
 
 and I knew that that was why poor Daffy looked back 
 — to say ' good-bye ' — just his old look. Oh, I'll save 
 up my birthday money next week and buy him. Poor 
 Daff ! Of course he knew me, and I knew him — I saw 
 him through Miss Richardson's window above the 
 doughnut tray — I knew him among all the others in 
 the pack." 
 
 Dorothy comforted her, and she became sufficiently 
 herself again to be able to eat the remainder of the 
 half-pound of chocolates, forgetting, in the excitement 
 of the moment, to retain their share for her sisters. 
 
 When they found this out, their expressions of sym- 
 pathy for the cruel fate that fell upon Daffodil were 
 turned in another direction. 
 
 They did not make any allowance for the momen- 
 tary thoughtlessness due to an emotional nature. 
 
 The question of the purchase of the young hound 
 has not yet been referred to me; but without ventur- 
 ing too far in prejudging the matter, I think I may 
 say that that transaction will not be consummated. 
 The first of whatever inscriptions I may some day 
 put upon my garden wall will be one in Greek : — 
 
 k$iD Se 
 
 € Ol KUVtS. 
 
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH 
 
 Dorothy and I were having a chat about some de- 
 signs in Treillage when Friswell sauntered into the 
 garden, bringing with him a fine book on the Influence 
 of Cimabue on the later work of Andrea del Castagno. 
 He had promised to lend it to me, when in a moment 
 of abstraction I had professed an interest in the 
 subject. 
 
 Dorothy showed him her sketches of the new 
 scheme, explaining that it was to act as a screen for 
 fig-tree corner, where the material for a bonfire had 
 been collecting for some time in view of the Peace 
 that we saw in our visions of a new heaven and a new 
 earth long promised to the sons of men. 
 
 Friswell was good enough to approve of the de- 
 signs. He said he thought that Treillage would come 
 into its own again before long. He always liked it, 
 because somehow it made him think of the Bible. 
 
 I did not like that. I shun topics that induce 
 thoughts of the Bible in Friswell's brain. He is at 
 his worst when thinking and expressing his thoughts 
 on the Bible, and the worst of his worst is that it is 
 just then he makes himself interesting. 
 
 But how on earth Treillage and the Bible should 
 become connected in any man's mind would pass the 
 
 222 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 223 
 
 wit of man to explain. But when the appearance of 
 my Temple compelled Friswell to think of Oxford 
 Street, London, W., when his errant memory was 
 carrying him on to the Princess's Theatre, on whose 
 stage a cardboard thing was built — about as like my 
 Temple as the late Temple of the Archdiocese of Can- 
 terbury was like the late Dr. Parker of the City 
 Temple. 
 
 " I don't recollect any direct or mystical reference 
 to Treillage in the Book," said I, with a leaning to- 
 ward sarcasm in my tone of voice. " Perhaps you 
 saw something of the kind on or near the premises 
 of the Bible Society." 
 
 " It couldn't be something in a theatre again," sug- 
 gested Dorothy. 
 
 " I believe it was on a garden wall in Damascus, 
 but I'm not quite sure," said he thoughtfully. " Da- 
 mascus is a garden city in itself. Thank Heaven 
 it is safe for some centuries more. That ex- All High- 
 est who had designs on it would fain have made it 
 Potsdamascus." 
 
 " He would have done his devil best, pulling down 
 the Treillage you saw there, because it was too French. 
 Don't you think, Friswell, that you should try to 
 achieve some sort of Treillage for your memory ? You 
 are constantly sending out shoots that come to noth- 
 ing for want of something firm to cling to." 
 
 " Not a bad notion, by any means," said he. " But 
 it has been tried by scores of experts on the science 
 of — I forget the name of the science: I only know 
 that its first two letters are ran." 
 
224 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " Mnemonics," said Dorothy kindly. 
 
 " What a memory you have! " cried Friswell. " A 
 memory for the word that means memory. I think 
 most of the artificial memories or helps to memory are 
 ridiculous. They tell you that if you wish to remem- 
 ber one thing you must be prepared to recollect half 
 a dozen other things — you are to be led to your des- 
 tination by a range of sign-posts." 
 
 " I shouldn't object to the sign-posts providing that 
 the destination was worth arriving at," said I. " But 
 if it's only the front row of the dress circle at the 
 Princess's Theatre, Oxford Street, London, West — " 
 
 " Or Damascus, Middle East," he put in, when I 
 paused to breathe. " Yes, I agree with you; but after 
 all, it wasn't Damascus, but only the General's house 
 at Gibraltar." 
 
 " Have mercy on our frail systems, Friswell," I 
 cried. "'We are but men, are we!' as Swinburne 
 lilts. Think of our poor heads. Another such abrupt 
 memory-post and we are undone. How is't with you, 
 my Dorothy? " 
 
 " I seek a guiding hand," said she. " Come, Mr. 
 Friswell; tell us how a General at Gib, suggested 
 the Bible to you." 
 
 " It doesn't seem obvious, does it? " said he. " But 
 it so happened that the noblest traditions of the Corps 
 of Sappers was maintained by the General at Gib, in 
 my day. He was mad, married, and a Methodist. 
 He had been an intimate friend and comrade of Gor- 
 don, and he invited subscriptions from all the garrison 
 for the Palestine Exploration Fund. He gave 
 
A GLIMPSE OF THE ITALIAN GARDEN 
 
 [Page 224 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 225 
 
 monthly lectures on the Tabernacle in the Wilder- 
 ness, and at every recurring Feast of Tabernacles he 
 had the elaborate trellis that compassed about his 
 house, hung with branches of Mosaic trees. That's 
 the connection — as easily obvious as the origin of 
 sin." 
 
 " Just about the same," said I. " Your chain of 
 sign-posts is complete: Treillage — General — Gibral- 
 tar — Gordon — Gospel. That is how you are irresis- 
 tibly drawn to think of the Bible when you see a clem- 
 atis climbing up a trellis." 
 
 " My dear," said Dorothy, " you know that I don't 
 approve of any attempt at jesting on the subject of 
 the Bible." 
 
 " I wasn't jesting — only alliterative," said I. 
 " Surely alliteration is not jocular." 
 
 " It's on the border," she replied with a nod. 
 
 " The Bible is all right if you are only content not 
 to take it too seriously, my dear lady," said Friswell. 
 " It does not discourage simple humour — on the con- 
 trary, it contains many examples of the Oriental idea 
 of fun." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Friswell! You will be saying next that 
 it is full of puns," said Dorothy. 
 
 " I know of one, and it served as the foundation 
 of the Christian Church," said he. 
 
 " My dear Friswell, are you not going too far? " 
 
 " Not a step. The choosing of Peter is the founda- 
 tion of your Church, and the authority assumed by 
 its priests. Simon Barjonah, nicknamed Peter, is one 
 of the most convincingly real characters to be found 
 
226 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 in any book, sacred or profane. How any one can 
 read his record and doubt the inspiration of the Gos- 
 pels is beyond me. I have been studying Simon Bar- 
 jonah for many years — a conceited braggart and a 
 coward — a blasphemer — maudlin! After he had been 
 cursing and swearing in his denial of his Master, he 
 went out and wept bitterly. Yes, but he wasn't man 
 enough to stand by the Son of God — he was not even 
 man enough to go to the nearest tree and hang him- 
 self. Judas Iscariot was a nobler character than 
 Simon Barjonah, nicknamed Peter." 
 
 " And what does all this mean, Mr. Friswell? " 
 " It means that it is fortunate that Truth is not 
 dependent upon the truth of its exponents or affected 
 by their falseness," said he, and so took his departure. 
 We went on with our consideration of our Treil- 
 lage — after a considerable silence. But when a silence 
 comes between Dorothy and me it does not take the 
 form of an impenetrable wall, nor yet that of a yew 
 hedge with gaps in it; but rather that of a grateful 
 screen of sweet-scented honeysuckle. It is the silence 
 within a bower of white clematis — the silence of 
 " heaven's ebon vault studded with stars unutterably 
 bright " — the silence of the stars which is an unheard 
 melody to such as have ears to hear. 
 
 " Yes," said I at last, " I am sure that you are 
 right: an oval centre from which the laths radiate — 
 that shall be our new trellis." 
 And so it was. 
 
 Our life in the Garden of Peace is, you will per- 
 ceive, something of what the catalogues term " of 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 227 
 
 rampant growth." It is as digressive as a wild con- 
 volvulus. I perceive this now that I have taken to 
 writing about it. It is not literary, but discursive. It 
 throws out, it may be, the slenderest of tendrils in one 
 direction ; but this " between the bud and blossom," 
 sometimes flies off in another, and the effect of the 
 whole is pleasantly unforeseen. 
 
 It is about time that we had a firm trellis for the 
 truant tendrils. 
 
 And so I will discourse upon Treillage as a feature 
 of the garden. 
 
 Its effect seems to have been lost sight of for a long 
 time, but happily within recent years its value as an 
 auxiliary to decoration is being recognised. I have 
 seen lovely bits in France as well as in Italy. It is one 
 of the oldest imitations of Nature to be found in con- 
 nection with garden-making, and to me it represents 
 exactly what place art should take in that modifica- 
 tion of Nature which we call a garden. We want 
 everything that grows to be seen to the greatest ad- 
 vantage. Nature grows rampant climbers, and if we 
 allowed them to continue rampageous, we should have 
 a jungle instead of a garden; so we agree to give her 
 a helping hand by offering her aspiring children some- 
 thing pleasant to cling to from the first hour of their 
 sending forth grasping fingers in search of the right 
 ladder for their ascent. A trellis is like a family liv- 
 ing: it provides a decorative career for at least one 
 member of the family. 
 
 The usual trellis-work, as it is familiarly called, 
 has the merit of being cheap — just now it is more 
 
228 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 than twice the price that it was five years ago; but 
 still it does not run into a great deal of money unless 
 it is used riotously, and this, let me say, is the very 
 worst way in which it could be adapted to its pur- 
 pose. To fix it all along the face of a wall of perhaps 
 forty feet in length is to force it to do more than it 
 should be asked to do. The wall is capable of sup- 
 porting a climbing plant without artificial aid. But 
 if the wall is unsightly, it were best hidden, and the 
 eye can bear a considerable length of simple trellis 
 without becoming weary. In this connection, how- 
 ever, my experience forces me to believe that one 
 should shun the " extending " form of lattice-shaped 
 work, but choose the square-mesh pattern. 
 
 This, however, is only Treillage in its elementary 
 form. If one wishes to have a truly effective screen 
 offering a number of exquisite outlines for the entwin- 
 ing of some of the loveliest things that grow, one must 
 go further in one's choice than the simple diagonals 
 and rectagonals— the simple verticals and horizontals. 
 The moment that curves are introduced one gets into 
 a new field of charm, and I know of no means of gain- 
 ing better effects than by elaborating this form of 
 joinery as the French did two centuries ago, before 
 the discovery was made that every form of art in a 
 garden is inartistic. But possibly if the French treil- 
 lageurs— for the art had many prof essors— had been a 
 little more modest in their claims the landscapests 
 would not have succeeded in their rebellion. But the 
 treillageurs protested against such beautiful designs 
 as they turned out being obscured by plants clamber- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE . 229 
 
 ing over them, and they offered in exchange repousse 
 metal foliage, affirming that this was incomparably- 
 superior to a natural growth. Ordinary people re- 
 fused to admit so ridiculous a claim, and a cloud came 
 over the prospects of these artists. Recently, however, 
 with a truer rapprochement between the " schools " 
 of garden design, I find several catalogues of eminent 
 firms illustrating their reproductions of some beauti- 
 ful French and Dutch work. 
 
 Personally, I have a furtive sympathy with the 
 conceited Frenchmen. It seems to me that it would 
 be a great shame to allow the growths upon a fine 
 piece of Treillage to become so gross as to conceal 
 all the design of the joinery. Therefore I hold that 
 such ambitious climbers as Dorothy Perkins or Crim- 
 son Rambler should be provided with an unsightly 
 wall and bade to make it sightly, and that to the more 
 graceful and less distracting clematis should any first- 
 class woodwork be assigned. This scheme will give 
 both sides a chance in the summer, and in the winter 
 there will be before our eyes a beautiful thing to look 
 upon, even though it is no longer supporting a plant, 
 and so fulfilling the ostensible object of its existence. 
 
 There should be no limit to the decorative possi- 
 bilities of the Treillage lath. A whole building can 
 be constructed on this basis. I have seen two or three 
 very successful attempts in such a direction in Hol- 
 land; and quite enchanting did they seem, overclam- 
 bered by Dutch honeysuckle. I learned that all were 
 copied from eighteenth century designs. I saw an- 
 other Dutch design in an English garden in the North. 
 
230 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 It took the form of a sheltered and canopied seat. It 
 had a round tower at each side and a gracefully curved 
 back. The " mesh " used in this little masterpiece 
 was one of four inches. It was painted in a tint that 
 looks best of all in garden word — the gray of the 
 echeveria glauca, and the blooms of a beautiful Agla'ia 
 rose were playing hide-and-seek among the laths of 
 the roof. I see no reason why hollow pillars for roses 
 should not be made on the Treillage principle. I have 
 seen such pillars supporting the canopied roof of more 
 than one balcony in front of houses in Brighton and 
 Hove. I fancy that at one time these were fashion- 
 able in such places. In his fine work entitled The 
 English Home from Charles I. to George IV., Mr. J. 
 Alfred Gotch gives two illustrations of Treillage 
 adapted to balconies. 
 
 But to my mind, its most effective adaptation is in 
 association with a pergola, especially if near the house. 
 To be sure, if the space to be filled is considerable, the 
 work for both sides would be somewhat expensive; 
 but then the cost of such things is very elastic; it is 
 wholly dependent upon the degrees of elaboration in 
 the design. But in certain situations a pergola built 
 up in this way may be made to do duty as an ante- 
 room or a loggia, and as such it gives a good return 
 for an expenditure of money ; and if constructed with 
 substantial uprights — I should recommend the em- 
 ployment of an iron core an inch in diameter for these, 
 covered, I need hardly say, with the laths — and 
 painted every second year, the structure should last 
 for half a century. Sir Laurence Alma-Tadema car- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 231 
 
 ried out a marvellous scheme of this type at his house 
 in St. John's Wood. It was on a Dutch plan, but 
 was not a copy of any existing arrangement of gar- 
 dens. I happen to know that the design was elabor- 
 ated by himself and his wife on their leaving his first 
 St. John's Wood home: it was a model of what may 
 be called " Vhaut Treillage." 
 
 Once again I would venture to point out the advan- 
 tage of having a handsome thing to look at during 
 the winter months when an ordinary pergola looks 
 its worst. 
 
 Regarding pergolas in general a good deal might 
 be written. Their popularity in England just now 
 is well deserved. There is scarcely a garden of any 
 dimensions that is reckoned complete unless it en- 
 closes one within its walls. A more admirable means 
 of dividing a ground space so as to make two gardens 
 of different types, could scarcely be devised, in the ab- 
 sence of a yew or box growth of hedge ; nor could one 
 imagine a more interesting way of passing from the 
 house to the garden than beneath such a roof of roses. 
 In this case it should play the part of one of those 
 " vistas " which were regarded as indispensable in the 
 eighteenth century. It should have a legitimate en- 
 trance and it should not stop abruptly. If the ex- 
 igencies of space make for such abruptness, not a mo- 
 ment's delay there should be in the planting of a large 
 climbing shrub on each side of the exit so as to em- 
 bower it, so to speak. A vase or a short pillar should 
 compel the dividing of the path a little further on, 
 and the grass verge — I am assuming the most awk- 
 
232 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 ward of exits — should be rounded off in every direc- 
 tion, so as to cause the ornament to become the fea- 
 ture up to which the pergola path is leading. I may 
 mention incidentally at this moment that such an 
 isolated ornament as I have suggested gives a legiti- 
 mate excuse for dividing any garden walk that has 
 a tendency to weary the eye by its persistent straight- 
 ness. Some years ago no one ever thought it neces- 
 sary to make an excuse for a curve in a garden walk. 
 The gardener simply got out his iron and cut out 
 whatever curve he pleased on each side, and the thing 
 was done. But nowadays one must have a natural 
 reason for every deflection in a path ; and an obstacle 
 is introduced only to be avoided. 
 
 I need hardly say that there are pergolas and per- 
 golas. I saw one that cost between two and three 
 thousand pounds in a garden beyond Beaulieu, be- 
 tween Mont Boron and Monte Carlo — an ideal site. 
 It was made up of porphyry columns with Corinthian 
 carved capitals and wrought-iron work of a beautiful 
 design, largely, but not lavishly, gilt, as a sort of 
 frieze running from pillar to pillar; a bronze vase 
 stood between each of the panels, and the handles of 
 these were also gilt. I have known of quite respecta- 
 ble persons creating quite presentable pergolas for 
 less money. In that favoured part of the world, how- 
 ever, everything bizarre and extravagant seems to 
 find a place and to look in keeping with its surround- 
 ings. 
 
 The antithesis to this gorgeous and thoroughly 
 beautiful piece of work I have seen in many gardens 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 233 
 
 in England. It is the " rustic " pergola, a thing that 
 may be acquired for a couple of pounds and that 
 may, with attention, last a couple of years. Anything 
 is better than this — no pergola at all is better than 
 this. In Italy one sees along the roadsides numbers 
 of these structures overgrown with vines; but never 
 yet did I see one that was not either in a broken- 
 down condition or rapidly approaching such a condi- 
 tion; although the poles are usually made of chestnut 
 which should last a long time — unlike our larch, the 
 life of which when cut into poles and inserted in the 
 cold earth does not as a rule go beyond the third year. 
 But there is something workable in this line be- 
 tween the three-thousand-pounder of the Riviera, and 
 the three-pounder of Clapham. If people will only 
 keep their eyes open for posts suitable for the pillars 
 of a pergola, they will be able to collect a sufficient 
 number to make a start with inside a year. The re- 
 mainder of the woodwork I should recommend being 
 brought already shaped and creosoted from some of 
 those large sawmills where such work is made a spe- 
 ciality of. But there is no use getting anything that 
 is not strong and durable, and every upright pillar 
 should be embedded in concrete or cement. For one 
 of my own pergolas — I do not call them pergolas but 
 colonnades — I found a disused telegraph pole and 
 sawed it into lengths of thirty inches each. These I 
 sank eighteen inches in the ground at regular inter- 
 vals and on each I doweled two oak poles six inches 
 in diameter. They are standing well; for telegraph 
 posts which have been properly treated are nearly as 
 
234 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 durable as iron. All the woodwork for this I got 
 ready sawn and " dipped " from a well-known fac- 
 tory at Croydon. It is eighty feet long and paved 
 throughout. One man was able to put it up inside 
 a fine fortnight in the month of January. 
 
 A second colonnade that I have is under forty feet 
 in length. I made one side of it against a screen of 
 sweetbrier roses which had grown to a height of 
 twenty feet in five years. The making of it was sug- 
 gested to me by the chance I had of buying at house- 
 breaker's price a number of little columns taken from 
 a shop that was being pulled down to give place, as 
 usual, to a new cinema palace. 
 
 An amusing sidelight upon the imperiousness of 
 fashion was afforded us when the painter set to work 
 upon these. They had once been treated in that form 
 of decoration known as " oak grained " — that pale 
 yellow colour touched with an implement technically 
 called a comb, professing to give to ordinary deal the 
 appearance of British oak, and possibly deceiving a 
 person here and there who had never seen oak. But 
 when my painter began to burn off this stuff he dis- 
 covered that the column had actually been papered 
 and then painted and grained. This made his work 
 easy, for he was able to tear the paper away in strips. 
 But when he had done this he made the further dis- 
 covery that the wood underneath was good oak with 
 a natural grain showing! 
 
 Could anything be more ridiculous than the fash- 
 ion of sixty or seventy years ago, when the art of 
 graining had reached its highest level? Here were 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 235 
 
 beautiful oak columns which only required to be 
 waxed to display to full advantage the graceful nat- 
 ural " feathering " of the wood, papered over and 
 then put into the hands of the artist to make it by 
 his process of " oak-graining " as unlike oak as the 
 basilica of St. Mark is unlike Westminster Abbey! 
 
 But for a large garden where everything is on a 
 heroic scale, the only suitable pergola is one made up 
 of high brick or stone piers, with massive oak beams 
 for the roof. Such a structure will last for a century 
 or two, improving year by year. The only question 
 to consider is the proper proportions that it should 
 assume — the relations of the length to the breadth 
 and to the height. On such points I dare not speak. 
 The architect who has had experience of such struc- 
 tures must be consulted. I have seen some that have 
 been carried out without reference to the profession, 
 and to my mind their proportions were not right. 
 One had the semblance of being stunted, another was 
 certainly not sufficiently broad by at least two feet. 
 
 In this connection I may be pardoned if I give it 
 as my opinion that most pergolas suffer from lack 
 of breadth. Six feet is the narrowest breadth pos- 
 sible for one that is eight feet high to the cross beams. 
 I think that a pergola in England should be paved, 
 not in that contemptible fashion, properly termed 
 "crazy," but with either stone slabs or paving tiles; 
 if one can afford to have the work done in panels, 
 so much the better. In this way nothing looks bet- 
 ter than small bricks set in herring-bone patterns. 
 If one can afford a course of coloured bricks, so much 
 
236 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 the better. The riotous gaiety of colour overhead 
 should be responded to in some measure underfoot. 
 
 There is no reason against, but many strong rea- 
 sons for, interrupting the lines of a long pergola by 
 making a dome of open woodwork between the four 
 middle columns of support — assuming that all the rest 
 of the woodwork is straight — and creating a curved 
 alcove with a seat between the two back supports, 
 thus forming at very little extra expense, an addi- 
 tional bower to the others which will come into exist- 
 ence year by year in a garden that is properly looked 
 after. 
 
 When I was a schoolboy I was brought by my desk- 
 mate to his father's place, and escorted round the 
 grounds by his sister, for whom I cherished a passion 
 that I hoped was not hopeless. This was while my 
 friend was busy looking after the nets for the lawn 
 tennis. There were three summer-houses in various 
 parts of the somewhat extensive grounds, and in every 
 one of them we came quite too suddenly upon a pair 
 of quite too obvious lovers. 
 
 The sister cicerone hurried past each with averted 
 eyes — after the first glance — and looked at me and 
 smiled. 
 
 We were turning into another avenue after pass- 
 ing the third of these love-birds, when she stopped 
 abruptly. 
 
 " We had better not go on any farther," said she. 
 
 "Oh, why not?" I cried. 
 
 " Well, there's another summer-house down there 
 among the lilacs," she replied. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 237 
 
 We stood there while she looked around, plainly 
 in search of a route that should be less distracting. 
 It was at this moment of indecision that I gazed at 
 her. I thought that I had never seen her look so 
 lovely. I felt myself trembling. I know that my 
 eyes were fixed upon the ground — I could not 
 have spoken the words if I had looked up to her 
 — she was a good head and shoulder taller than I 
 was: — 
 
 " Look here, Miss Fanny, there may be no one in 
 the last of the summer-houses. Let us go there and 
 sit — sit — the same as the others." 
 
 " Oh, no; I should be afraid," said she. 
 
 " Oh, I swear to you that you shall have no cause, 
 Miss Fanny ; I know what is due to the one you love ; 
 you will be quite safe — sacred." 
 
 "What do you know about the one I love?" she 
 asked — and there was a smile in her voice. 
 
 " I know the one who loves you," I said warmly. 
 
 " I'm so glad," she cried. " I know that he is look- 
 ing for me everywhere, and if he found us together 
 in a summer-house he would be sure to kill you. Cap- 
 tain Tyson is a frightfully jealous man, and you are 
 too nice a boy to be killed. Do you mind running 
 round by the rhododendrons and telling Bob that he 
 may wear my tennis shoes to-day? I got a new pair 
 yesterday." 
 
 I went slowly toward the rhododendrons. When I 
 got beyond their shelter I looked back. 
 
 I did not see her, but I saw the sprightly figure 
 of a naval man crossing the grass toward where I 
 
238 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 had left her, and I knew him to be Commander 
 Tyson, R.N. 
 
 Their second son is Commander Tyson, R. N., to- 
 day. 
 
 But from that hour I made up my mind that a 
 properly designed garden should have at least five 
 summer-houses. 
 
 I have just made my fifth. 
 
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH 
 
 I am sure that the most peaceful part of our Garden 
 of Peace is the Place of Roses. The place of roses 
 in the time of roses is one bower. It grew out of the 
 orchard ground which I had turned into a lawn in 
 exchange for the grassy space which I had turned into 
 the House Garden. The grass came very rapidly 
 when I had grubbed up the roots of the old plums 
 and cherries. But then we found that the stone-edged 
 beds and the central fountain had not really taken 
 possession, so to speak, of the House Garden. This 
 had still the character of a lawn for all its bed- 
 ding, and could not be mown in less than two 
 hours. 
 
 And just as I was becoming impressed with this 
 fact, a gentle general dealer came to me with the in- 
 quiry if a tall wooden pillar would be of any use to 
 me. I could not tell him until I had seen it, and when 
 I had seen it and bought it and had it conveyed home 
 I could not tell him. 
 
 It was a fluted column of wood, nearly twenty 
 feet high and two in diameter, with a base and a 
 carved Corinthian capital — quite an imposing object, 
 but, as usual, the people at the auction were so startled 
 by having brought before them something to which 
 
 239 
 
240 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 they were unaccustomed, they would not make a bid 
 for it, and my dealer, who has brought me many an 
 embarrassing treasure, got it for the ten shillings at 
 which he had started it. 
 
 It lay on the grass where it had been left by the 
 carters, giving to the landscape for a whole week the 
 semblance of the place of the Parthenon or the Acrop- 
 olis; but on the seventh day I clearly saw that one 
 cannot possess a white elephant without making some 
 sacrifices for that distinction, and I resolved to sac- 
 rifice the new lawn to my hasty purchase. There are 
 few things in the world dearer than a bargain, and 
 none more irresistible. But, as it turned out, this 
 was altogether an exceptional thing — as a matter of 
 fact, all my bargains are. I made it stand in the 
 centre of the lawn and I saw the place transformed. 
 
 It occupied no more than a patch less than a yard 
 in diameter; but it dominated the whole neighbour- 
 hood. On one side of the place there is a range of 
 shrubs on a small mound, making people who stand 
 by the new pond of water-lilies' believe that they have 
 come to the bottom of the garden; on another side 
 is the old Saxon earthwork, now turned into an ex- 
 panse of things herbaceous, with a long curved grass 
 path under the ancient castle walls; down the full 
 length of the third side runs a pergola, giving no one 
 a glimpse of a great breadth of rose-beds or of the 
 colonnade beyond, where the sweet-briers have their 
 own way. 
 
 There was no reason that I could see (now that 
 I had set my heart on the scheme) why I should not 
 
THE ENTRANCE TO A GREENHOUSE 
 
 [Page 240 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 241 
 
 set up a gigantic rose pillar in the centre of the lawn 
 and see what would happen. 
 
 What actually did happen before another year had 
 passed was the erecting of a tall pillar which looked 
 so lonely in the midst of the grass — a lighthouse mark- 
 ing a shoal in a green sea — that I made four large 
 round beds about it, at a distance of about twenty 
 feet, and set up a nine-foot pillar in the centre of 
 each, planting climbing roses of various sorts around 
 it, hoping that in due time the whole should be in- 
 corporated and form a ring o' roses about the tower- 
 ing centre column. 
 
 It really took no more than two years to bring to 
 fruition my most sanguine hopes, and now there are 
 four rose-tents with hundreds of prolific shoots above 
 the apex of each, clinging with eager fingers to the 
 wires which I have brought to them from the top of 
 the central pillar, and threatening in time to form a 
 complete canopy between forty and fifty feet in diam- 
 eter. 
 
 In the shade of these ambitious things one sits in 
 what I say is the most peaceful part of the whole place 
 of peace. Even " winter and rough weather " may 
 be regarded with complacency from the well- sheltered 
 seats; and every year toward the end of November 
 Rosamund brings into the house some big sprays of 
 ramblers and asks her mother if there is any boracic 
 lint handy. He jests at scars who never felt an Ards 
 Rover scrape down his arm in resisting lawful arrest. 
 But in July and August, looking down upon the 
 growing canopy from the grass walk above the her- 
 
242 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 baceous terrace, is like realising Byron's awful long- 
 ing for all the rosy lips of all the rosy girls in the 
 world to " become one mouth " in order that he might 
 " kiss them all at once from North to South." There 
 they are, thousands and tens of thousands of rosy 
 mouths; but not for kisses, even separately. Hey- 
 wood, who, being a painter, is a thoroughly trust- 
 worthy consultant on all artistic matters, assures me 
 that Byron was a fool, and that his longing for a uni- 
 fication of a million moments of aesthetic delight was 
 unworthy of his reputation. There may be some- 
 thing in this. I am content to look down upon our 
 eager roses with no more of a longing than that Sep- 
 tember were as far off as Christmas. 
 
 It was our antiquarian neighbour who, walking on 
 the terrace one day in mid-July, told us of a beautiful 
 poem which he had just seen in the customary corner 
 of the Gazette — the full name of the paper is The 
 Yardley Gazette, East Longworth Chronicle, and 
 Nethershire Observer, but one would no more think 
 of giving it all its titles in ordinary conversation than 
 of giving the Duke of Wellington all his. It is with 
 us as much the Gazette as if no other Gazette had ever 
 been published. But it prints a copy of verses, an- 
 cient or modern, every week, and our friend had got 
 hold of a gem. The roses reminded him of it. He 
 could only recollect the first two lines, but they were 
 striking : — 
 
 " There's a bower of rose by Bendameer's stream 
 And the nightingale sings in it all the night long." 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 243 
 
 Bendameer was some place in China, he thought, or 
 perhaps Japan — but for the matter of that it might 
 not be a real locality, but merely a place invented by 
 the poet. Anyhow, he would in future call the terrace 
 walk Bendameer, for could any one imagine a finer 
 bower of roses than that beneath us? He did not 
 believe that Bendameer could beat it. 
 
 If our friend had talked to Sir Foster Fraser — the 
 only person I ever met who had been to Bendameer's 
 stream — he might have expressed his belief much more 
 enthusiastically. On returning from his bicycle tour 
 round the world, and somewhat disillusioned by the 
 East, ready to affirm that fifty years of Europe were 
 better than a cycle in Cathay, he told me that Ben- 
 dameer's stream was a complete fraud. It was noth- 
 ing but a muddy puddle oozing its way through an 
 uninteresting district. 
 
 In accordance with our rule, neither Dorothy nor I 
 went further than to confess that the lines were very 
 sweet. 
 
 " I'll get you a copy with pleasure," he cried. " I 
 knew you would like them, you are both so literary; 
 and you know how literary I am myself — I cut out 
 all the poems that appear in the Gazette. It's a hob- 
 by, and elevating. I suppose you don't think it pos- 
 sible to combine antiquarian tastes and poetical." 
 Dorothy assured him that she could see a distinct con- 
 nection between the two; and he went on: " There was 
 another about roses the week before. The editor is 
 clearly a man of taste, and he puts in only things 
 that are appropriate to the season. The other one 
 
244 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 was about a garden — quite pretty, only perhaps a lit- 
 tle vague. I could not quite make out what it meant 
 at places ; but I intend to get it off by heart, so I wrote 
 it down in my pocket-book. Here it is : — 
 
 " Rosy is the north, 
 Rosy is the south, 
 Rosy are her cheeks 
 And a rose her mouth." 
 
 Now what do you think of it? I call it very pretty — 
 not so good, on the whole, as the bower of roses by 
 Bendameer's stream, but still quite nice. You would 
 not be afraid to let one of your little girls read it — 
 yes, every line." 
 
 Dorothy said that she would not; but then Dor- 
 othy is afraid of nothing — not even an antiquarian. 
 
 He returned to us the next day with the full text 
 — only embellished with half a dozen of the Gazette's 
 misprints — of the Lalla Rookh song, and read it out 
 to us in full, but failing now and again to get into 
 the lilt of Moore's melodious anapaests — a marvellous 
 feat, considering Jiow they sing and swing themselves 
 along from line to line. But that was not enough. 
 He had another story for us — fresh, quite fresh, from 
 the stock of a brother antiquarian who recollected it, 
 he said, when watching the players on the bowling- 
 green. 
 
 " I thought I should not lose a minute in coming 
 to you with it," he said. " You are so close to the 
 bowling-green here, it should have additional interest 
 in your eyes. The story is that Nelson was playing 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 245 
 
 bowls when some one rushed in to say that the Spanish 
 Armada was in sight. But the news did not put him 
 off his game. ' We'll have plenty of time to finish our 
 game and beat the Spaniards afterwards,' he cried; 
 and sure enough he went on with the game to the 
 end. There was a man for you! " 
 
 " And who won? " asked Dorothy innocently. 
 
 " That's just the question I put to my friend," he 
 cried. " The story is plainly unfinished. He did not 
 say whether Nelson and his partner won his game 
 against the other players; but you may be sure that 
 he did." 
 
 "He didn't say who was Nelson's partner?" said 
 Dorothy. 
 
 " No, I have told you all that he told me," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 " I shouldn't be surprised to hear that his partner 
 was a man named Drake," said I. " A senior partner 
 too in that transaction and others. But the story is 
 a capital one and shows the Englishman as he is 
 to-day. Why, it was only the year before the war 
 that there was a verse going about, — 
 
 * I was playing golf one day 
 When the Germans landed ; 
 All our men had run away, 
 
 All our ships were stranded. 
 And the thought of England's shame 
 Almost put me off my game.' " 
 
 Our antiquarian friend looked puzzled for some 
 time; then he shook his head gravely, saying: — 
 
246 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " I don't like that. It's a gross libel upon our 
 brave men — and on our noble sailors too: I heard 
 some one say in a speech the other day that there 
 are no better seamen in the world than are in the 
 British Navy. Our soldiers did not run away, and 
 all our ships were not stranded. It was one of the 
 German lies to say so. And what I say is that it was 
 very lucky for the man who wrote that verse that 
 there was a British fleet to prevent the Germans land- 
 ing. They never did succeed in landing, I'm sure, 
 though I was talking to a man who had it on good 
 authority that there were five U-boats beginning to 
 disembark some crack regiments of Hun cavalry 
 when a British man-o'-war — one, mind you — a single 
 ship — came in sight, and they all bundled back to 
 their blessed U-boats in double quick time." 
 
 " I think you told me about that before," said I — 
 and he had. " It was the same person who brought 
 the first news of the Russian troops going through 
 England — he had seen them on the platform of 
 Crewe stamping off the snow they had brought on 
 their boots from Archangel; and afterwards he had 
 been talking with a soldier who had seen the angels 
 at Mons, and had been ordered home to be one of the 
 shooting party at the Tower of London, when Prince 
 Louis was court-martialled and sentenced." 
 
 " Quite true," he cried. " My God! what an expe- 
 rience for any one man to go through. But we are 
 living in extraordinary times — that's what I've never 
 shrunk from saying, no matter who was present — 
 extraordinary times." 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 247 
 
 I could not but agree with him. I did not say that 
 what I thought the most extraordinary feature of the 
 times was the extraordinary credulity of so many 
 people. The story of the Mons angels was perhaps 
 the most remarkable of all the series. A journalist 
 sitting in his office in London simply introduced in 
 a newspaper article the metaphor of a host of angels 
 holding up the advancing Germans, and within a 
 week scores of people in England had talked with 
 soldiers who had seen those imaginary angels and 
 were ready to give a poulterer's description of them, 
 as Sheridan said some one would do if he introduced 
 the Phoenix into his Drury Lane Address. 
 
 It was no use the journalist explaining that his 
 angels were purely imaginary ones ; people said, when 
 you pointed this out to them: — 
 
 " That may be so ; but these were the angels he 
 imagined." 
 
 Clergymen preached beautiful sermons on the 
 angel host; and I heard of a man who sold for half 
 a crown a feather which had dropped from the wing 
 of one of the angels who had come on duty before he 
 had quite got over his moult. 
 
 When Dorothy heard this she said she was sure 
 that it was no British soldier who had shown the white 
 feather in France during that awful time. 
 
 " If they were imaginary angels, the white feather 
 must have been imaginary too," said Olive, the prac- 
 tical one. 
 
 " One of the earliest of angel observers was an ass, 
 and the tradition has been carefully adhered to ever 
 
248 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 since," said Friswell, and after that there was, of 
 course, no use talking further. 
 
 But when we were still laughing over our anti- 
 quarian and his novelties in the form of verse and 
 anecdote, • Friswell himself appeared with a news- 
 paper in his hand, and he too was laughing. 
 
 It was over the touching letter of an actress to her 
 errant husband, entreating him to return and all 
 would be forgiven. I had read it and smiled; so had 
 Dorothy, and wept. 
 
 But it really was a beautiful letter, and I said so 
 to Friswell. 
 
 " It is the most beautiful of the four actresses' let- 
 ters to errant spouses for Divorce Court purposes 
 that I have read within the past few months," said 
 he. " But they are all beautiful — all touching. It 
 makes one almost ready to condone the sin that re- 
 sults in such an addition to the literature of the Law 
 Courts. I wonder who is the best person to go to 
 for such a letter — some men must make a speciality 
 of that sort of work to meet the demands of the time. 
 But wouldn't it be dreadful if the errant husband 
 became so convicted of his trespass through reading 
 the wife's appeal to return, that he burst into tears, 
 called a taxi and drove home! But these Divorce 
 Court pleading letters are of great value profes- 
 sionally — they have quite blanketed the old lost jewel- 
 case stunt as a draw. I was present and assisted in 
 the reception given by the audience to the lady whose 
 beautiful letter had appeared in the paper in the 
 morning. She was overwhelmed. She had made 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 249 
 
 up pale in view of that reception; and there was 
 something in her throat that prevented her from 
 going on with her words for some time. The ' poor 
 things ! ' that one heard on all sides showed how truly 
 sympathetic is a British audience." 
 
 " I refuse to listen to your cynicism," cried Doro- 
 thy; " I prefer to believe that people are good rather 
 than bad." 
 
 " And so do I, my dear lady," said he, laughing. 
 " But don't you see that if you prefer to think good 
 of all people, you cannot exclude the poor husband 
 of the complete letter-writer, and if you believe good 
 of him and not bad, you must believe that his charm- 
 ing wife is behaving badly in trying to get a divorce." 
 
 " She doesn't want a divorce: she wants him to 
 come back to her and writes to him begging him to 
 do so," said she. 
 
 " And such a touching letter too," I added. 
 
 " I have always found ' the profession,' as they 
 call themselves, more touchy than touching," said he. 
 " But I admit that I never was so touched as when, 
 at the funeral of a brother artist, the leading actor of 
 that day walked behind the coffin with the broken- 
 hearted widow of the deceased on his right arm and 
 the broken-hearted mistress on the left. Talk of 
 stage pathos ! " 
 
 " For my part, I shall do nothing of the sort," said 
 I sharply. " I think,. Friswell, that you sometimes 
 forget that it was you who gave this place the name 
 of A Garden of Peace. You introduce controversial 
 topics — The Actor is the title of one of these, The 
 
250 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Actress is the title of the other. Let us have done 
 with them, and talk poetry instead." 
 
 "Lord of the Garden of Peace! as if poetry was 
 the antithesis of polemics — verses of controversies!'* 
 cried he. " Never mind! give us a poem — of The 
 Peace." 
 
 " I wish I could," said I. " The two copies of 
 verses which, as you know, without having read 
 them, I contributed to the literature — I mean the 
 writings — in connection with the war could scarcely 
 be called pacific." 
 
 " They were quite an effective medium for getting 
 rid of his superfluous steam," said Dorothy to him. 
 " I made no attempt to prevent his writing them." 
 
 " It would have been like sitting on the safety- 
 valve, wouldn't it? " said he. " I think that literature 
 would not have suffered materially if a good number 
 of safety-valves had been sat upon by stouter wives 
 of metre-engineers than you will ever be, O guardian 
 lady of the Garden of Peace! The poets of the pres- 
 ent hour have got much to recommend them to the 
 kindly notice of readers of taste, but they have all 
 fallen short of the true war note on their bugles. Per- 
 haps when they begin to pipe of peace they will show 
 themselves better masters of the reed than of the 
 conch." 
 
 " Whatever some of them may be " I began, 
 
 when he broke in. 
 
 " Say some of us, my friend : you can't dissociate 
 yourself from your pals in the dock : you will be sen- 
 tenced en bloc, believe me." 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 251 
 
 " Well, whatever we may be we make a better show 
 than the Marlborough Muses or the Wellington or 
 the Nelson Muses did. What would be thought of 
 The Campaign if it were to appear to-morrow, I 
 wonder. But it did more in advancing the interests 
 of Addison than the complete Spectator." 
 
 " Yes, although some feeble folk did consider that 
 one bit of it was verging on the blasphemous — that 
 about riding on the whirlwind and directing the 
 storm," remarked Friswell; he had a good memory 
 for things verging on the blasphemous. 
 
 " The best war poem is the one that puts into 
 literary form the man in the street yelling ' hurrah ! ' " 
 said I. " If the shout is not spontaneous, it sounds 
 stilted and it is worthless." 
 
 " I believe you," said Friswell. " If your verse 
 does not find an echo in the heart of the rabble that 
 run after a soldiers' band, it is but as the sounding 
 brass and tinkling cymbals that crash on the empty 
 air. But touching the poets of past campaigns " 
 
 " I was thinking of Scott's Waterloo" said I ; 
 " yes, and Byron's stanzas in Childe Harold, and 
 somebody's J Twas in Trafalgar's Bay, We saw the 
 Frenchmen lay — ' the Frenchmen lay,' mind you — 
 that's the most popular of all the lays, thanks to 
 Braham's music and Braham's tenor that gave it a 
 start. I think we have done better than any of those." 
 
 " But have you done better than Scot's wha* hae 
 wi' Wallace bled? or Of Nelson and the North, Sing 
 the glorious day's renown? or Ye Mariners of Eng- 
 land, That guard our native seas? or Not a drum 
 
252 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 was heard or a funeral note? — I doubt it. And to 
 come down to a later period, what about the lilt of 
 the Light Brigade at Balaclava, by one Tennyson? 
 Will any of the poems of 1914 show the same vitality 
 as these? " 
 
 " The vital test of poetry is not its vitality," said 
 I, " any more than being a best-seller is a test of a 
 good novel. But I think that when a winnowing of 
 the recent harvest takes place in a year or two, when 
 we become more critical than is possible for a people 
 just emerging from the flames that make us all see 
 red, you will find that the harvest of sound poetry 
 will be a record one. We have still the roar of the 
 thunderstorm in our ears; when an earthquake is just 
 over is not the time for one to be asked to say whether 
 the Pathetique or the Moonlight Sonata is the more 
 exquisite." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Friswell doubtfully. "But I 
 allow that you have 'jined your flats' better than 
 Tennyson did. The unutterable vulgarity of that 
 ' gallant six hunderd,' because it happened that 
 ' some one had blundered,' instead of ' blundred,' 
 will not be found in the Armageddon band of buglers. 
 But I don't believe that anything so finished as 
 Wolfe's Burial of Sir John Moore will come to the 
 surface of the melting-pot — I think that the melting- 
 pot suggests more than your harvest. Your harvest 
 hints at the swords being turned into ploughshares; 
 my melting-pot at the bugles being thrown into the 
 crucible. What have you to say about ' Not a drum 
 was heard'?" 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 253 
 
 " That poem is the finest elegy ever written," said 
 I definitely. " The author, James Wolfe, occupies 
 the place among elegists that single-speech Hamilton 
 does among orators, or Liddell and Scott in a library 
 of humour. From the first line to the last, no false 
 note is sounded in that magnificent funeral march. 
 It is one grand monotone throughout. It cannot be 
 spoken except in a low monotone. It never rises and 
 it never falls until the last line is reached, ' We left 
 him alone in his glory.' " 
 
 " And the strangest thing about it is that it ap- 
 peared first in the poets' corner of a wretched little 
 Irish newspaper — the Newry Telegraph, I believe it 
 was called," said Dorothy — it was Dorothy's reading 
 of the poem that first impressed me with its beauty. 
 
 " The more obscure the crypt in which its body was 
 buried, the more — the more — I can't just express the 
 idea that I'm groping after," said Friswell. 
 
 " I should like to help you," said Dorothy. " Strike 
 a match for me, and I'll try to follow you out of the 
 gloom." 
 
 " It's something like this: the poem itself seems to 
 lead you into the gloom of a tomb, so that there is 
 nothing incongruous in its disappearing into the 
 obscurity of a corner of a wretched rag of a news- 
 paper — queer impression for any one to have about 
 such a thing, isn't it?" 
 
 " Queer, but — well, it was but the body that was 
 buried, the soul of the poetry could not be consigned 
 to the sepulchre, even though ' Resurgani ' was cut 
 upon the stone." 
 
254 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 " You have strolled away from me," said I. " All 
 that I was thinking about Wolfe and that blessed 
 Newry Telegraph, was expressed quite adequately by 
 the writer of another Elegy: — 
 
 " Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
 
 The dark unf athomed caves of ocean bear ; 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air." 
 
 That was a trite reflection ; and as apposite as yours, 
 Friswell; unless you go on to assume that through 
 the desert air there buzzed a bee to carry off the soul 
 of the blushing flower and cause it to fertilise a whole 
 garden, so that the desert was made to blossom like 
 the rose." 
 
 " Who was the bee that rescued the poem from the 
 desert sheet that enshrouded it? " asked Dorothy. 
 
 " I have never heard," I said, nor had Friswell. 
 
 There was a long pause before he gave a laugh, 
 saying — 
 
 " I wonder if you will kick me out of your garden 
 when I tell you the funny analogy to all this that the 
 mention of the word desert forced upon me." 
 
 " Try us," said I. " We know you." 
 
 " The thought that I had was that there are more 
 busy bees at work than one would suppose; and the 
 mention of the desert recalled to my mind what I read 
 somewhere of the remarkable optimism of a flea which 
 a man found on his foot after crossing the desert of 
 the Sahara. It had lived on in the sand, goodness 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 255 
 
 knows how long, on the chance of some animal pass- 
 ing within the radius of a leap and so carrying it 
 back to a congenial and not too rasorial a civilisation. 
 How many thousand mllion chances to one there were 
 that it should not be rescued; yet its chance came at 
 last." 
 
 ° Meaning? " 
 
 " Well, my flea is your bee, and where there are 
 no bees there may be plenty of fleas." 
 
 " Yes; only my bee comes with healing in its wings, 
 and your flea is the bearer of disease," said I; and I 
 knew that I had got the better of him there, though 
 I was not so sure that he knew it. 
 
 Friswell is a queer mixture. 
 
 After another pause, he said, — 
 
 " By the way, the mention of Campbell and his 
 group brought back to me one of the most popular 
 of the poems of the period — Lord UlUn's Daughter. 
 You recollect it, of course." 
 
 " A line or two." 
 
 " Well, it begins, you know: — 
 
 " A chieftain to the Highlands bound, 
 Cries, ' Boatman, do not tarry, 
 And I'll give thee a silver pound, 
 To row us o'er the ferry.' 
 
 Now, for long I felt that it was too great a strain 
 upon our credulity to ask us to accept the statement 
 that a Scotsman would offer a ferryman a pound for 
 a job of the market value of a bawbee; but all at once 
 the truth flashed upon me: the pound was a pound 
 
256 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Scots, or one shilling and eightpence of our money. 
 You see? " 
 
 "Yes, I see," said Dorothy; "but still it sounds 
 extravagant. A Highland Chief — one and eight- 
 pence! The ferryman never would have got it." 
 
 I fancied that we had exhausted some of the most 
 vital questions bearing upon the questionable poetry 
 of the present and the unquestionable poetry of the 
 past; but I was mistaken; for after dinner I had a 
 visit from Mr. Gilbert. 
 
 But I must give Mr. Gilbert a little chapter to 
 himself. 
 
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST 
 
 Of course I had known for a long time that Mr. Gil- 
 bert was " quite a superior man " — that was the 
 phrase in which the Rural Dean referred to him when 
 recommending me to apply to him for information 
 respecting a recalcitrant orchid which had refused one 
 year to do what it had been doing the year before. 
 He was indeed " quite a superior man," but being a 
 florist he could never be superior to his business. No 
 man can be superior to a florist, when the florist is 
 an orchidtect as well. I went to Mr. Gilbert and Mr. 
 Gilbert came to me, and all was right. That was long 
 ago. We talked orchids all through that year and 
 then, by way of lightening our theme, we began to 
 talk of roses and such like frivolities, but everything 
 he said was said in perfect taste. Though naturally, 
 living his life on terms of absolute intimacy with 
 orchids, he could not regard roses seriously, yet I 
 never heard him say a disrespectful word about them: 
 he gave me to understand that he regarded the ma- 
 jority of rosarians as quite harmless — they had their 
 hobby, and why should they not indulge in it, he 
 asked. " After all, rosarians are God's creatures like 
 the rest of us," he said, with a tolerant smile. And 
 I must confess that, for all my knowledge of his 
 
 257 
 
258 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 being a superior man, he startled me a little by 
 adding, — 
 
 "The orchid is epic and the rose lyric, sir; but 
 every one knows how an incidental lyric lightens up 
 the hundred pages of an epic. Oh, yes, roses have 
 their place in a properly organised horticultural 
 scheme." 
 
 " I believe you are right, now that I come to look 
 at the matter in that light," said I. " You find a 
 relaxation in reading poetry? " I added. 
 
 " I have made a point of reading some verses every 
 night for the past twenty-five years, sir," he replied. 
 " I find that's the only way by which I can keep 
 myself up to the mark." 
 
 " I can quite understand that," said I. " Flowers 
 are the lyrics that, as you say, lighten the great epic 
 of Creation. Where would our poets be without their 
 flowers? " 
 
 " They make their first appeal to the poet, sir; but 
 the worst of it is that every one who can string to- 
 gether a few lines about a flower believes himself to 
 be a poet. No class of men have treated flowers 
 worse than our poets — even the best of them are so 
 vague in their references to flowers as to irritate me." 
 
 " In what way, Mr. Gilbert? " 
 
 "Well, you know, sir, they will never tell us 
 plainly just what they are driving at. For instance 
 — we were speaking of roses, just now — well, we have 
 roses and roses by the score in poems ; but how seldom 
 do we find the roses specified! There's Matthew 
 Arnold, for example ; he wrote " Strew on her roses, 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 259 
 
 roses"; but he did not say whether he wanted her 
 to be strewn with hybrid teas, Wichuraianas, or poly- 
 anthas. He does not even suggest the colour. Now, 
 could anything be more vague? It makes one believe 
 that he was quite indifferent on the point, which 
 would, of course, be doing him a great injustice: all 
 these funeral orders are specified, down to the last 
 violets and Stephanotis. Then we have, " It was the 
 time of roses " — now, there's another ridiculously 
 vague phrase. Why could the poet not have said 
 whether he had in his mind the ordinary brier or an 
 autumn-flowering William Allen Richardson or a 
 Gloire de Dijon? But that is not nearly so irritating 
 as Tennyson is in places. You remember his " Flower 
 in the crannied wall." There he leaves a reader in 
 doubt as to what the plant really was. If it was 
 Saracha Hapelioides, he should have called it a herb, 
 or if it was simply the ordinary Scolopendrium 
 marginatum he should have called it a fern. If it 
 was one of the Scuvifragece he left his readers quite a 
 bewildering choice. My own impression is that it 
 belonged to the Evaizoonia section — probably the 
 Aizoon sempervivoides, though it really might have 
 been the cartilaginea. Why should we be left to 
 puzzle over the thing? But for that matter, both 
 Shakespeare and Milton are most flagrant offenders, 
 though I acknowledge that the former now and again 
 specifies his roses: the musk and damask were his 
 favourites. But why should he not say whether it 
 was Thymus Serpyllum or atropurpureus he alluded 
 to on that bank? He merely says, "Whereon the 
 
260 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 wild thyme blows." It is really that vagueness, that 
 absence of simplicity — which has made poetry so un- 
 popular. Then think of the trouble it must be to a 
 foreigner when he comes upon a line comparing a 
 maiden to a lily, without saying what particular liliwm 
 is meant. An Indian squaw is like a lily — lilium 
 Brownii; a Japanese may appropriately be said to be 
 like the lilium sulphureum. Recovering from a severe 
 attack of measles a young woman suggests lilium 
 speciosum; but that is just the moment when she 
 makes a poor appeal to a poet. To say that a maiden 
 is like a lily conveys nothing definite to the mind ; but 
 that sort of neutrality is preferable to the creation of 
 a false impression, so doing her a great injustice by 
 suggesting it may be that her complexion is a bright 
 orange picked out with spots of purple." 
 
 That was what our Mr. Gilbert said to me more 
 than a year ago; and now he comes to me before I 
 have quite recovered from the effects of that discus- 
 sion with Friswell, and after a few professional re- 
 marks respecting a new orchid acquisition, begins: 
 " Might I take the liberty of reading you a little thing 
 which I wrote last night as an experiment in the 
 direction of the reform I advocated a year ago when 
 referring to the vagueness of poets' flowers? I don't 
 say that the verses have any poetical merit; but I 
 claim for them a definiteness and a lucidity that 
 should appeal to all readers who, like myself, are tired 
 of the slovenly and loose way in which poets drag 
 flowers into their compositions." 
 
 I assured him that nothing would give me greater 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 261 
 
 pleasure than to hear his poem; and he thanked me 
 and said that the title was, The Florist to his Bride. 
 This was his poem: — 
 
 Do you remember, dearest, that wild eve, 
 When March came blustering o'er the land? 
 We stood together, hand in hand, 
 Watching the slate-gray waters heave — 
 Hearing despairing boughs behind us grieve. 
 
 It seemed as if no forest voice was dumb. 
 
 All Nature joining in one cry; 
 
 The Ampelopsis Veitchii, 
 Giving gray hints of green to come, 
 Shrank o'er the leafless Primus Avium. 
 
 Desolate seemed the grove of Coniferia, 
 
 Evergreen as deciduous ; 
 
 Hopeless the hour seemed unto us ; 
 Helpless our beauteous Cryptomeria — 
 Helpless in Winter's clutch our Koelreuteria. 
 
 We stood beneath our Ulmus Gracilis, 
 And watched the tempest-torn Fitzroya, 
 And shaken than the stout Sequoia; 
 
 And yet I knew in spite of this, 
 
 Your heart was hopeful of the Springtide's kiss. 
 
 Yours was the faith of woman, dearest child. 
 
 Your eyes — Centaurea Cyanus — 
 
 Saw what I saw not nigh to us, 
 And that, I knew, was why you smiled, 
 When the Montana Pendula swung wild. 
 
 I knew you smiled, thinking of suns to come, 
 Seeing in snowflakes on bare trees 
 Solanum Jasmmo'ides — 
 
262 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Seeing ere Winter's voice was dumb, 
 The peeping pink Mesembrianthiwm. 
 
 I knew you saw as if they flowered before us, 
 
 The sweet Rhodora Canadensis, 
 
 The lush Wistaria Sinensis, 
 The Lepsosiphon Densiflorus — 
 All flowers that swell the Summer's colour-chorus. 
 
 And, lightened by your smile, I saw, my Alice, 
 The modest Resida Odorata — 
 Linaria Reticulata — 
 I drank the sweets of Summer's chalice, 
 Sparkling Calendula Officinalis. 
 
 To me your smile brought sunshine that gray day, 
 
 The saddest Salex Babylonica 
 
 Became Anemone Japonica 
 And the whole world beneath its ray, 
 Bloomed one Escholtzia Calif ornicaz. 
 
 Still in thy smile the summer airs caress us ; 
 And now with thee my faith is sure : 
 The love that binds us shall endure — 
 Nay, growing day by day to bless us, 
 Till o'er us waves Supervirens Cupressus. 
 
 " I hope I haven't bored you, sir. I don't pretend 
 to be a poet; but you see what my aim is, I'm sure — 
 lucidity and accuracy — strict accuracy, sir. Some- 
 thing that every one can understand." 
 
 I assured him that he had convinced me that he 
 understood his business: he was incomparable — as a 
 florist. 
 
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND 
 
 Among the features of our gardens for which I am 
 not responsible, is the grass walk alongside the Castle 
 Wall, where it descends on one side, by the remains 
 of the terraces of the Duke's hanging gardens, fifty- 
 feet into the original fosse, while on the other it 
 breasts the ancient Saxon earthwork, which reduces 
 its height to something under fifteen, so that the wall 
 on our side is quite a low one, but happily of a breadth 
 that allows of a growth of wild things — lilacs and 
 veronicas and the like — in beautiful luxuriance, while 
 the face is in itself a garden of crevices where the 
 wallflowers last long enough to mix with the snap- 
 dragons and scores of modest hyssops and mosses and 
 ferns that lurk in every cranny. 
 
 Was it beneath such a wall that Tennyson stood to 
 wonder how he should fulfil the commission he had 
 received from Good Words — or was it Once a Week? 
 — for any sort of poem that would serve as an adver- 
 tisement of magazine enterprise, and he wrote that 
 gem to which Mr. Gilbert had referred? — 
 
 " Flower in the crannied wall, 
 
 I pluck you out of the crannies ; 
 
 Hold you here, stem and all in my hand. 
 
 Little flower; but if I could understand 
 263 
 
264 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 What you are, stem and all and all in all, 
 I should know what God and man is." 
 
 I should like equal immortality to be conferred upon 
 the parody which is of far greater merit than the 
 original : — 
 
 * Terrier in my granny's hall, 
 
 I whistle you out of my granny's ; 
 Hold you here, tail and all in my hand. 
 Little terrier; but if I could understand 
 What you are, tail and all and all in all, 
 
 I should know what black-and-tan is." 
 
 I could understand the inspiration that should re- 
 sult in sermons from stones — such as the poet's for- 
 getting that his mission was not that of the sermon- 
 ising missionary, but of the singer of such creations 
 of beauty as offer themselves to nestle to the heart of 
 man — when walking round the gracious curve that 
 the grass path makes till it is arrested by the break 
 in the wall where the postern gate once hung, guarded 
 by the sentinel whose feet must have paced this grass 
 path until no blade of grass remained on it. 
 
 Early every summer the glory of the snapdragons 
 and the wallflowers is overwhelmed for a time by the 
 blossom of the pear-trees and the plums which spread 
 themselves abroad and sprawl even over the top of 
 the wall. By their aid the place is transformed for 
 a whole month in a fruitful year. In 1917 it was as 
 if a terrific snowstorm had visited us. It was with us 
 as with all our neighbours, a wonderful year for 
 
f^ 
 
 
 » ■•V-'-- v**V'*» ■ 
 
 
 
 L- 
 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 265 
 
 pears, apples, and plums. Pink and white and white 
 and pink hid the world and all that appertained to it 
 from our eyes, and when the blossoms were shed we 
 were afraid to set a foot upon the grass path : it would 
 have been a profanity to crush that delicate em- 
 broidery. It seemed as if Nature had flung down 
 her copious mantle of fair white satin before our feet; 
 but we bowed our heads conscious of our unworthiness 
 and stood motionless in front of that exquisite car- 
 peting. 
 
 And then day after day the lovely things of the 
 wall that had been hidden asserted themselves, and 
 a soft wind swept the path till all the green of the 
 new grass path flowed away at our feet, and Nature 
 seemed less virginal. Then came the babes — revealed 
 by the fallen blossoms — plump little cherubic faces of 
 apples, graver little papooses of the russet Indian 
 tint, which were pears, and smaller shy things peep- 
 ing out from among the side shoots, which we could 
 hardly recognise as plums; rather a carcanet of 
 chrysoprase they seemed, so delicately green in their 
 early days, before each of them became like the ripe 
 Oriental beauty, the nigra sed formosa, of the Song 
 of Solomon, and for the same reason : " Because the 
 sun hath looked upon me," she cried. When the sun 
 had looked upon the fruit that clustered round the 
 clefts in our wall, he was as one of the sons of God 
 who had become aware for the first time of the fact 
 that the daughters of men were fair; and the whole 
 aspect of the world was changed. 
 
 Is there any part of a garden that is more beau- 
 
266 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 tiful than the orchard? At every season it is lovely. 
 I cannot understand how it is that the place for fruit- 
 growing is in so many gardens kept away from what 
 is called the ornamental part. I cannot understand 
 how it has come about that flowering shrubs are wel- 
 comed and flowering apples discouraged in the most 
 favoured situations. When a considerable number of 
 the former have lost their blossoms, they are for the 
 rest of the year as commonplace as is possible for a 
 tree to be; but when the apple-blossom has gone, the 
 boughs that were pink take on a new lease of beauty, 
 and the mellow glory of the season of fruitage lasts 
 for months. The berry of the gorse which is some- 
 times called a gooseberry, is banished like a Northum- 
 berland cow-pincher of the romantic period, beyond 
 the border; but a well furnished gooseberry bush is 
 as worthy of admiration as anything that grows in 
 the best of the borders, whether the fruit is green or 
 red. And then look at the fruit of the white currant 
 if you give it a place where the sun can shine through 
 it — clusters shining with the soft light of the Pleiades 
 or the more diffuse Cassiopea; and the red currants 
 — well, I suppose they are like clusters of rubies ; but 
 everything that is red is said to be like a ruby; why 
 not talk of the red currant bush as a firmament that 
 holds a thousand round fragments of a fractured 
 Mars? 
 
 There was a time in England when a garden meant 
 a place of fruit rather than flowers, but by some freak 
 of fashion it was decreed that anything that appealed 
 to the sense of taste was " not in good taste " — that 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 267 
 
 was how the warrant for the banishment of so much 
 beauty was worded — " not in good taste." I think 
 that the decree is so closely in harmony with the other 
 pronouncements of the era of mauvaise honte — the 
 era of affectations — when the " young lady " was lan- 
 guid and insipid — " of dwarf habit," as the catalogues 
 describe such a growth, and was never allowed to be 
 a girl — when fainting was esteemed one of the highest 
 accomplishments of the sex, and everything that was 
 natural was pronounced gross — when the sampler, 
 the sandal, and the simper were the outward and 
 visible signs of an inward and affected femininity: 
 visible? oh, no; the sandal was supposed to be invisi- 
 ble; if it once appeared even to the extent of a taper 
 toe, and attention was called to its obtrusion, there 
 was a little shriek of horror, and the " young lady " 
 was looked at askance as demie-vierge. It was so 
 much in keeping with the rest of the parcel to look 
 on something that could be eaten as something 
 too gross to be constantly in sight when growing 
 naturally, that I think the banishment of the apple 
 and the pear and the plum and the gooseberry to a 
 distant part of the garden must be regarded as be- 
 longing to the same period. But now that the in- 
 delicacy of the super-delicacy of that era has passed 
 — now that the shy sandal has given place to the well- 
 developed calf above the " calf uppers " of utilitarian 
 boots — now that a young man and a young woman 
 (especially the young woman) discuss naturally the 
 question of eugenics and marriage with that freedom 
 which once was the sole prerogative of the prayer- 
 
268 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 book, may we not claim an enlargement of our bor- 
 ders to allow of the rehabilitation of the apple and 
 the repatriation of the pear in a part of the garden 
 where all can enjoy their decorative qualities and 
 anticipate their gastronomic without reproach? Let 
 us give the fruit its desserts and it will return the 
 compliment. 
 
 The Saxon earthwork below the grass walk is given 
 over to what is technically termed " the herbaceous 
 border," and over one thousand eight hundred square 
 feet there should be such a succession of flowers grow- 
 ing just as they please, as should delight the heart of 
 a democracy. The herbaceous border is the demo- 
 cratic section of a garden. The autocrat of the 
 Dutch and the Formal gardens is not allowed to carry 
 out any of his foul designs of clipping or curtailing 
 the freedom of Flora in this province. There should 
 be no reminiscences of the tyrant stake which in far- 
 distant days of autocracy was a barrier to the freedom 
 of growth, nor should the aristocracy of the hot-house 
 or even the cool greenhouse obtrude its educated 
 bloom among the lovers of liberty. They must be 
 allowed to do as they damplease, which is a good 
 step beyond the ordinary doing as they please. The 
 government of the herbaceous border is one whose 
 aim is the glorification of the Mass as opposed to the 
 Individual. 
 
 It is not at all a bad principle — for a garden — this 
 principle which can best be carried out by the unprin- 
 cipled. English democracy includes princes and 
 principles ; but there is a species which will have noth- 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 269 
 
 ing to do with principles because they reckon them 
 corrupted by their first syllable, and hold that the 
 aristocrat is like Hamlet's stepfather, whose offence 
 was "rank and smells to heaven." I have noticed, 
 however, in the growth of my democratic border that 
 there are invariably a few pushing and precipitate 
 individuals who insist on having their own way — it is 
 contrary to the spirit of Freedom to check them — and 
 the result is that the harmony of the whole ceases to 
 exist. But there are some people who would prefer 
 a Bolshevist wilderness to any garden. 
 
 I have had some experience of Herbaceous Bor- 
 ders of mankind. . . . 
 
 The beauty of the border is to be found in the 
 masses, we are told in the Guides to Gardening. We 
 should not allow the blues to mix with the buffs, and 
 the orange element should not assert its ascendancy 
 over the green. But what is the use of laying down 
 hard and fast rules here when the essence of the con- 
 stitution of the system is No Rule. My experience 
 leads me to believe that without a rule of life and a 
 firm ruler, this portion of the garden will become 
 in the course of time allied to the prairie or the wilder- 
 ness, and the hue that will prevail to the destruction 
 of any governing scheme of colour or colourable 
 scheme of government will be Red. 
 
 Which things are an allegory, culled from a garden 
 of herbs, which, as we have been told, will furnish a 
 dinner preferable to one that has for its piece de resist- 
 ance the stalled ox, providing that it is partaken of 
 under certain conditions rigidly defined. 
 
270 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 We have never been able to bring our herbaceous 
 border to the point of perfection which we are assured 
 by some of those optimists who compile nurserymen's 
 catalogues, it should reach. We have massed our 
 colours and nailed them to the mast, so to speak — 
 that is, we have not surrendered our colour schemes 
 because we happen to fall short of victory ; but still we 
 must acknowledge that the whole border has never 
 been the success that we hoped it would be. Perhaps 
 we have been too exacting — expecting over much; or 
 it may be that our standard was too Royal a one for 
 the soil; but the facts remain and we have a sense of 
 disappointment. 
 
 It seems to me that this very popular feature de- 
 pends too greatly upon the character of the season to 
 be truly successful as regards ensemble. Our border 
 includes many subjects which have ideas of their own 
 as regards the weather. A dry spring season may 
 stunt (in its English sense) the growth of some 
 flowers that occupy a considerable space, and are 
 meant to play an important part in the design; 
 whereas the same influence may develop a stunt (in 
 the American sense) in a number of others, thereby 
 bringing about a dislocation of the whole scheme. 
 Then some things will rush ahead and override their 
 neighbours — some that lasted in good condition up to 
 the October of one year look shabby before the end 
 of July the next. One season differs from another 
 on vital points and the herbs differ in their growth 
 — I had almost written their habit — in accordance 
 with the differences of the season. We have had a 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 271 
 
 fine show in one place and a shabby show next door; 
 we have had a splendid iris season and a wretched 
 peony season — bare patches beside luxuriant patches. 
 The gailardias have broken out of bounds one sum- 
 mer, and when we left " ample verge and room 
 enough " for them the next, they turned sulky, and 
 the result was a wide space of soil on which a score 
 of those gamins of the garden, chickweed and dande- 
 lion, promptly began operations, backed up by those 
 apaches of a civilised borderland, the ragged robin, 
 and we had to be strenuous in our surveillance of the 
 place, fearful that a riot might ruin all that we had 
 taken pains to bring to perfection. So it has been 
 season after season — one part quite beautiful, a sec- 
 ond only middling, and a third utterly unresponsive. 
 That is why we have taken to calling it the facetious 
 border. 
 
 Our experience leads us to look on this facetious 
 herbaceous border as the parson's daughter looks on 
 the Sunday School — as a place for the development of 
 all that is tricky in Nature, with here and there a 
 bunch of clean collars and tidy trimmings — some- 
 thing worth carrying on over, but not to wax en- 
 thusiastic over. So we mean to carry on, and take 
 Flora's " buffets and awards " " with equal thanks." 
 We shall endeavour to make our unruly tract in some 
 measure tractable; and, after all, where is the joy of 
 gardening apart from the trying? It was a great 
 philosopher who affirmed at the close of a long life, 
 that if he were starting his career anew and the choice 
 were offered to him between the Truth and the Pur- 
 
272 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 suit of Truth, he would certainly choose the latter. 
 That man had the true gardening spirit. 
 
 Any one who enters a garden without feeling that 
 he is entering a big household of children, should stay 
 outside and make a friend of the angel who was set 
 at the gate of the first Paradise with a flaming sword, 
 which I take it was a gladiolus — the gladiolus is the 
 gladius of flowerland — to keep fools on the outside. 
 The angel and the proper man will get on very well 
 together at the garden gate, talking of things that are 
 within the scope of the intelligence of angels and men 
 who think doormats represent Nature in that they are 
 made of cocoa-nut fibre. We have long ago come to 
 look on the garden as a region of living things — 
 shouting children, riotous children, sulky children; 
 children who are rebellious, perverse, impatient at re- 
 striction, bad-tempered, quarrelsome, but ever ready 
 to " make it up," and fling themselves into your arms 
 and give you a chance of sharing with them the true 
 joy of life which is theirs. 
 
 This is what a garden of flowers means to any one 
 who enters it in a proper spirit of comradeship, and 
 not in the attitude of a School Inspector. We go 
 into the garden not to educate the flowers, but to be 
 beloved by them — to make companions of them and, 
 if they will allow us, to share some of the secrets they 
 guard so jealously until they find some one whom they 
 feel they can trust implicitly. A garden is like the 
 object of Dryden's satire, " Not one, but all man- 
 kind's epitome," and a knowledge of men that makes 
 a man a sympathetic gardener. I think that Christ 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 273 
 
 was as fond of gardens as God ever was. " Consider 
 the lilies of the field, how they grow: they toil not 
 neither do they spin, and yet I say unto you that even 
 Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one 
 of these." 
 
 There is the glorious charter of the garden, the 
 truth of which none can dispute — there is the revela- 
 tion of the spirit of the garden delivered to men by the 
 wisest and the most sympathetic garden-lover that 
 ever sought a Gethsemane for communion with the 
 Father of all, in an hour of trial. 
 
 I wonder what stores of knowledge of plant-life 
 existed among the wise Orientals long ago. Were 
 they aware of all that we suppose has only been re- 
 vealed to us — " discovered " by us within recent 
 years? Did they know that there is no dividing line 
 between the various elements of life — between man, 
 who is the head of " the brute creation," and the crea- 
 tures of what the books of my young days styled " the 
 Vegetable Kingdom"? Did they know that it is 
 possible for a tree to have a deeper love for its mate 
 than a man has for the wife whom he cherishes? I 
 made the acquaintance some years ago of an Eastern 
 tree which was brought away from his family in the 
 forest and, though placed in congenial soil, remained 
 for years making no advance in growth — living, but 
 nothing more — until one day a thoughtful man who 
 had spent years studying plants of the East, brought 
 a female companion to that tree, and had the satis- 
 faction of seeing " him " assume a growth which was 
 maintained year by year alongside " her," until they 
 
274 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 were both shown to me rejoicing together, the one 
 vieing with the other in luxuriance of foliage and 
 fruit. Every one who has grown apples or plums 
 has had the same experience. We all know now of 
 the courtship and the love and the marriage of things 
 in " the Vegetable Kingdom," and we know that there 
 is no difference in the process of that love which means 
 life in " the Animal Kingdom " and " the Vegetable 
 Kingdom." In some directions their " human " feel- 
 ings and emotions and passions have been made plain 
 to us; how much more we shall learn it is impossible 
 to tell ; but we know enough to save us from the error 
 of fancying that they have a different existence from 
 ours, and every day that one spends in a garden makes 
 us ready to echo Shelley's lyrical shout of " Beloved 
 Brotherhood!" 
 
 That is what I feel when I am made the victim of 
 some of the pranks of the gay creatures of the her- 
 baceous border, who amuse themselves at our expense, 
 refusing to be bound down to our restrictions, to 
 travel the way we think good plants should go, and 
 declining to be guided by an intelligence which they 
 know to be inferior to their own. The story of the 
 wilful gourd which would insist on crossing a garden 
 path in the direction it knew to be the right one, 
 though a human intelligence tried to make it go in 
 another, was told by an astonished naturalist in the 
 pages of Country Life a short time ago. I hope it 
 was widely read. The knowledge that such things 
 can be will give many thousand readers access to a 
 field of study and of that legitimate speculation which 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 275 
 
 is the result of study and observation. It will ever 
 tend to mitigate the disappointment some of us may 
 be inclined to harbour when we witness our floral 
 failures, though it is questionable if the recognition 
 of the fact that our failures are due to our own stupid 
 bungling, will diminish the store of that self-conceit 
 which long ago induced us to think of ourselves as the 
 sole raison d'etre of all Creation. 
 
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD 
 
 We were working at the young campanulas when our 
 friend Heywood came upon us — Heywood, for whose 
 intelligence we have so great a respect, because he so 
 frequently agrees with our outlook upon the world of 
 woman and other flowers cherished by us. Heywood 
 is a good artist ; but because he believes that Woman- 
 kind is a kind woman indefinitely multiplied, he paints 
 more faithful portraits of men than of women ; he also 
 paints landscapes that live more faithfully than the 
 human features that he depicts and receives large 
 sums for depicting. He is a student of children, and 
 comes to Rosamund quite seriously for her criticism. 
 She gives it unaffectedly, I am glad to notice; and 
 without having to make use of a word of the School- 
 of-Art phraseology. 
 
 We have an able surgeon (retired) living close to 
 us here, and he is still so interested in the Science he 
 practised — he retired from the practice, not from the 
 science — that when he is made aware of an unusual 
 operation about to be performed in any direction — 
 London, Paris, or (not recently) Vienna, he goes off 
 to witness the performance, just as we go to some of 
 the most interesting premieres in town. In the same 
 spirit Heywood runs off every now and again to Paris 
 
 276 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 277 
 
 to see the latest production of his old master, or the 
 acquisition of an old Master at one of the galleries. 
 It lets him know what is going on in the world, he 
 says, and I am sure he is quite right. 
 
 But, of course, Atheist Friswell has his smile — a 
 solemn smile it is this time — while he says, — 
 
 " Old Masters? Young mississes rather, I think." 
 
 " Young what? " cried Dorothy. 
 
 " Mysteries," he replied. " What on earth do you 
 think I said?" 
 
 " Another word with the same meaning," says she. 
 
 But these artistic excursions have nothing to do 
 with us among our campanulas to-day. Heywood has 
 been aware of a funny thing and came to make us 
 laugh with him. 
 
 " Campanulas! " he cried. " And that is just what 
 I came to tell you about — the campanile at St. Kath- 
 erine's." 
 
 Yardley Parva, in common with Venice, Florence, 
 and a number of other places, has a campanile, only 
 it was not designed by Giotto or any other artist. 
 Nor is it even called a campanile, but a bell-tower, 
 and it belongs to the Church of St. Katherine-sub- 
 Castro — a Norman church transformed by a few 
 adroit touches here and there into the purest Gothic 
 of the Restoration — the Gilbert Scott-Church-Resto- 
 ration period. 
 
 But no one would complain with any measure of 
 bitterness at the existence of the bell-tower only for 
 the fact that there are bells within it, and these bells 
 being eight, lend themselves to many feats of cam- 
 
278 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 panology, worrying the inhabitants within a large 
 area round about the low levels of the town. The 
 peace of every Sabbath Day is rudely broken by the 
 violence of what the patient folk with no arriere 
 pensee term " them joy bells." 
 
 " You have not heard a sound of them for some 
 Sundays," said Heywood. 
 
 " I have not complained," said I. " Ask Dorothy 
 if I have." 
 
 " No one has, unless the bell-ringers, who are get- 
 ting flabby through lack of exercise," said he. " But 
 the reason you have not heard them is because they 
 have been silent." 
 
 " ' The British Fleet you cannot see, for it is not in 
 sight,' " said I. 
 
 " And the reason that they have been silent was the 
 serious illness of Mr. Livesay, whose house is close to 
 St. Katherine's. Dr. Beecher prescribed complete 
 repose for poor Livesay, and as the joy bells of St. 
 Katherine's do not promote that condition, his wife 
 sent a message to the ringers asking them to oblige 
 by refraining from their customary uproar until 
 the doctor should remove his ban. They did so two 
 Sundays ago, and the Sunday before last they sent 
 to inquire how the man was. He was a good deal 
 worse, they were told, so they were cheated out of 
 their exercise again. Yesterday, however, they rang 
 merrily out — merrily." 
 
 " We heard," said Dorothy. " So I suppose Mr. 
 Livesay is better." 
 
 " On the contrary, he is dead," said Heywood. 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 279 
 
 " He died late on Saturday night. My housekeeper, 
 Mrs. Hartwell, had just brought me in my breakfast 
 when the bells began. ' Listen,' she cried. ' Listen! 
 the joy bells! Mr. Livesay must have died last 
 night.' " 
 
 It was true. The bell-ringers had made their call 
 at poor Livesay's house on Sunday morning, and on 
 receiving the melancholy news, they hurried off to let 
 their joy bells proclaim it far and wide. 
 
 But no one in Yardley Parva, lay or clerical, except 
 Heywood and ourselves seemed to think that there 
 was anything singular in the incident. 
 
 We had a few words to say, however, about joy 
 bells spreading abroad the sad news of a decent man's 
 death, and upon campanology in general. 
 
 But when Friswell heard of the affair, he said he 
 did not think it more foolish than the usual practice 
 of church bells. 
 
 " We all know, of course, that there is nothing 
 frightens the devil like the ringing of bells," said he. 
 
 " That is quite plausible," said I. " Any one who 
 doubts it must have lived all his life in a heathen 
 place where there are no churches. Juan Fernandez, 
 for example," I added, as a couple of lines sang 
 through my recollection. " Cowper made his Alex- 
 ander Selkirk long for ' the sound of the church- 
 going bell.' " 
 
 " That was a good touch of Cowper's," said Fris- 
 well. " He knew that Alexander Selkirk was a Scots- 
 man, and with much of the traditional sanctimonious- 
 ness of his people, when he found himself awfu' bad 
 
280 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 or muckle bad or whatever the right phrase is, he was 
 ready to propitiate heaven by a pious aspiration." 
 
 " Nothing of the sort," cried Dorothy. " He was 
 quite sincere. Cowper knew that there is nothing that 
 brings back recollections of childhood, which we 
 always think was the happiest time of our life, like the 
 chiming of church bells." 
 
 " I dare say you are right," said he, after a little 
 pause. " But like many other people, poet Cowper 
 did not think of the church bells except in regard to 
 their secondary function of summoning people to the 
 sacred precincts. He probably never knew that the 
 original use of the bells was to scare away the Evil 
 One. It was only when they found out that he had 
 never any temptation to enter a church, that the 
 authorities turned their devil-scaring bells to the sum- 
 moning of the worshippers, and they have kept up 
 the foolish practice ever since." 
 
 " Why foolish? " asked Dorothy quite affably. 
 " You don't consider it foolish to ring a bell to go to 
 dinner, and why should you think it so in the matter 
 of going to church? " 
 
 " My dear creature, you don't keep ringing your 
 dinner bell for half an hour, with an extra five min- 
 utes for the cook." 
 
 " No," said she quickly. " And why not? Because 
 people don't need any urging to come to dinner, but 
 they require a good deal to go to church, and then 
 they don't go." 
 
 " There's something in that," said he. " Anyhow 
 they've been ringing those summoning bells so long 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 281 
 
 that I'm sure they will go on with them until all 
 the churches are turned into school-houses." 
 
 " And then there will be a passing-bell rung for 
 the passing of the churches themselves — I suppose the 
 origin of the passing-bell was the necessity to scare 
 away the devil at the supreme moment," remarked 
 Hey wood. 
 
 " Undoubtedly it was," said Friswell. " The prac- 
 tice exists among many of those races that are still 
 savage enough to believe in the devil — a good hand- 
 made tom-tom does the business quite effectually, 
 I've heard." 
 
 " Do you know, my dear Friswell, I think that 
 when you sit down with us in our Garden of Peace, 
 the conversation usually takes the form of the dia- 
 logue in Magnall's Questions or the Child's Guide 
 or Joyce's Science. You are so full of promiscuous 
 information which you cannot hide? " 
 
 He roared in laughter, and we all joined in. 
 ' You have just said what my wife says to me 
 daily," said he. " I'll try to repress myself in 
 future." 
 
 " Don't try to do anything of the sort," cried Doro- 
 thy. " You never cease to be interesting, no matter 
 how erudite you are." 
 
 " What I can't understand is, how he has escaped 
 assassination all these years," remarked Heywood. 
 " I think the time is coming when whoso slayeth Fris- 
 well will think that he doeth God's service. Just 
 think all of you of the mental state of the man who 
 fails to see that, however heathenish may be the prac- 
 
282 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 tice of church-bell-ringing, the fact that it has 
 brought into existence some of the most beautiful 
 buildings in the world makes the world its debtor for 
 evermore ! " 
 
 " I take back all my words — I renounce the devil 
 and all his work," cried the other man. " Yes, I hold 
 that Giotto's Campanile justifies all the clashing and 
 banging and hammering before and since. On the 
 same analogy I believe with equal sincerity that the 
 Temple of Jupiter fully justifies the oblations to the 
 Father of gods, and the Mosque of Omar the mas- 
 sacres of Islam." 
 
 " Go on," said Dorothy. " Say that the sufferings 
 of Alexander Selkirk were justified since without 
 them we should not have Robinson Crusoe/' 
 
 " I will say anything you please, my Lady of the 
 Garden," said he heartily. " I will say that the beauty 
 of that border beside you justifies Wakeley's lavish 
 advertisements of Hop Mixture." 
 
 I felt that this sort of thing had gone on long 
 enough, so I made a hair-pin bend in the conversation 
 by asking Dorothy if she remembered the day of our 
 visit to Robinson Crusoe's island. 
 
 " I never knew that you had been to Juan Fer- 
 nandez," said Friswell. 
 
 And then I saw how I could score off Friswell. 
 
 " I said Robinson Crusoe's island, not Alexander 
 Selkirk's," I cried. " Alexander Selkirk's was Juan 
 Fernandez, Robinson Crusoe's was Tobago in the 
 West Indies, which Dorothy and I explored some 
 years ago." 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 283 
 
 " Of course I should have remembered that," said 
 he. " I recollect now what a stumbling-block to me 
 the geography of Robinson Crusoe was when I first 
 read the book. A foolish explanatory preface to the 
 cheap copy I read gave a garbled version of the story 
 of Selkirk and his island, and said no word about 
 Daniel Defoe having been wise enough to change 
 Juan Fernandez for another." 
 
 ' You were no worse than the writer of a para- 
 graph I read in one of the leading papers a short 
 time ago, relative to the sale of the will which Selkirk 
 made in the year 1717 — years after Captain Woodes 
 Rodgers had picked him up at the island where he 
 had been marooned nearly four years before," said 
 Dorothy, who, I remembered, had laughed over the 
 erudition of the paragraph. " The writer affirmed 
 that the will had been made before the man ' had 
 sailed unwittingly for Tristan d'Acunha ' — those 
 were his exact words, and this island he seemed to 
 identify with Bishop Heber's, for he said it was 
 ' where every prospect pleases and only man is vile.' 
 What was in the poor man's mind was the fact that 
 some one had written a poem about Alexander Sel- 
 kirk, and he mixed Cowper up with Heber." 
 
 " You didn't write to the paper to put the fellow 
 right," said Heywood. 
 
 " Good gracious, no ! " cried Dorothy. " I knew 
 that no one in these aeroplaning days would care 
 whether the island was Tristan d'Acunha or Juan 
 Fernandez. Besides, there was too much astray in 
 the paragraph for a simple woman to set about mak- 
 
284 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 ing good. Anyhow the document fetched £60 at the 
 sale." 
 
 " You remember the lesson that was learnt by the 
 man who wrote to correct something a newspaper 
 had written about him," said Heywood. ' The 
 editor called me a swindler, a liar, and a politician,' 
 said he, relating his experience, ' and like a fool I 
 wrote to contradict it. I was a fool: for what did 
 the fellow do in the very next issue but prove every 
 statement that he had made! ' " 
 
 " Oh, isn't it lucky that I didn't write to that 
 paper? " cried Dorothy. 
 
 But when we began to talk of the imaginary suf- 
 ferings of Robinson Crusoe, and to try to imagine 
 what were the real sufferings of Selkirk, Friswell 
 laughed, saying, — 
 
 " I'm pretty sure that what the bonnie Scots body 
 suffered from most poignantly was the island not hav- 
 ing any of his countrymen at hand, so that they could 
 start a Burns Club or a Caledonian Society, as the 
 six representatives of Scotland are about to do in our 
 town of Yardley, which has hitherto been free from 
 anything of that sort. Did you ever hear the story 
 of Andrew Gareloch and Alec MacClackan? " 
 
 We assured him that we had never heard a word 
 of it. 
 
 He told it to us, and this is what it amounted to : — 
 
 Messrs. Andrew Gareloch and Alec MacClackan 
 were merchants of Shanghai who were unfortunate 
 enough to be wrecked on their voyage home. They 
 were the sole survivors of the ship's company, and 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 285 
 
 the desert island on which they found themselves was 
 in the Pacific, only a few miles in circumference. 
 In the lagoon were plenty of fish and on the ridge of 
 the slope were plenty of cocoa-nuts. After a good 
 meal they determined to name the place. They called 
 it St. Andrew Lang Syne Island, and became as fes- 
 tive and brotherly — they pronounced it " britherly " 
 — as was possible over cocoa-nut milk: it was a long 
 time since either of them had tasted milk of any sort. 
 The second day they founded a local Benevolent So- 
 ciety of St. Andrew, and held the inaugural dinner; 
 the third day they founded a Burns Club, with a 
 supper; the fourth day they starts a Scots Associa- 
 tion, with a series of monthly reunions for the dis- 
 cussion of the Minstrelsy of the Border; the fifth day 
 they laid out golf links with the finest bunkers in 
 the world, and instituted a club lunch (strictly non- 
 alcoholic) ; the sixth day they formed a Curling Club 
 — the lagoon would make a braw rink, they said, if 
 it only froze ; and if it didn't freeze, well, they could 
 still have an annual Curlers' Supper; the Seventh 
 Day they kept. On the evening of the same day a 
 vessel was sighted bearing up for the island; but of 
 course neither of the men would hoist a signal on the 
 Seventh Day, and they watched the craft run past 
 the island; though they were amazed to see that she 
 had only courses and a foresail set, in spite of the fact 
 that the breeze was a light one. The next morning, 
 when they were sitting at breakfast, discussing 
 whether they should lay the foundation stone — with 
 a commemorative lunch — of a Free Kirk, a Wee Free 
 
286 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Kirk, a U.P. meeting-house or an Ould Licht meet- 
 ing-house — they had been fiercely debating on the 
 merits of each during the previous twenty years — 
 they saw the vessel returning with all sail on her. To 
 run up one of their shirts to a pole at the entrance 
 to the lagoon was a matter of a moment, and they 
 saw that their signal was responded to. She was 
 steered by their signals through the entrance to the 
 lagoon and dropped anchor. 
 
 She turned out to be the Bonnie Doon, of Dundee, 
 Douglas MacKellar, Master. He had found wreck- 
 age out at sea and had thought it possible that some 
 survivors of the wreck might want passages " hame." 
 
 " Nae, nae," cried both men. " We're no in need o' 
 passages hame just the noo. But what for did ye no 
 mak' for the lagoon yestreen in the gloamin' ? " 
 
 " Hoot awa' — hoot awa' ! ye wouldna hae me come 
 ashore on the Sawbath Day," said Captain Mac- 
 Kellar. 
 
 " Ye shortened sail though," said Mr. MacClackan. 
 
 "Ay; on Saturday nicht: I never let her do more 
 than just sail on the Sawbath. But what for did ye 
 no run up a signal, ye loons, if ye spied me sae weel? " 
 
 " Hoot awa' — hoot awa', man, ye wouldna hae a 
 body mak' a signal on the Sawbath Day." 
 
 " Na — na; no a reg'lar signal; but ye micht hae run 
 up a wee bittie — just eneuch tae catch me e'en on. 
 Ay an' mebbe ye'll be steppin' aboard the noo? " 
 
 " We'll hae to hae a clash about it, Captain." 
 
 Well, they talked it over cautiously for a few 
 hours; for Captain MacKellar was a hard man at a 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 287 
 
 bargain, and he would not agree to give them a pass- 
 age under two pound a head. At last, however, nego- 
 tiations were concluded, the men got aboard the 
 Bonnie Doon } and piloted her through the channel. 
 They reached the Clyde in safety, and Captain Mac- 
 Kellar remarked, — 
 
 " Weel, ma freens, I'm in hopes that ye'll pay me 
 ower the siller this day." 
 
 " Ay, ye maun be in the quare swithers till ye see 
 the siller; but we'll hand it ower, certes," said the 
 passengers. " In the meantime, we'd tak' the leeberty 
 o' callin' your attention to a wee bit contra-claim that 
 we hae japped doon on a bit slip o' paper. It's three 
 poon nine for Harbour Dues that ye owe us, Captain 
 MacKellar, and twa poon ten for pilotage — it's com- 
 pulsory at yon island, so 'tis, so mebbe ye'll mak' it 
 convenient to hand us ower the differs when we land. 
 Ay, Douglas MacKellar, ma mon, ye shouldna try 
 to get the better o' Brither-Scots ! " 
 
 Captain MacKellar was a God-fearing man, but he 
 said, "Dom!" 
 
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH 
 
 Whatever my garden may be, I think I can honestly 
 claim for it that it has no educational value. The 
 educational garden is one in which all the different 
 orders and classes and groups and species and genera 
 are displayed in such a way as to make no display, 
 but to enable an ordinary person in the course of ten 
 or twelve years to become a botanist. Botany is the 
 syntax of the garden. A man may know everything 
 about syntax and yet never become a poet; and a 
 garden should be a poem. 
 
 I remember how a perfect poem of a garden was 
 translated into the most repulsively correct prose by 
 the exertions of a botanist. It was in a semi-public 
 pleasure ground maintained by subscribers of a guinea 
 each, and of course it was administered by a Commit- 
 tee. After many years of failure, an admirable head- 
 gardener was found — a young and enthusiastic man 
 with an eye for design and an appreciation of form as 
 well as colour. Within a short space of time he turned 
 a commonplace pleasure-ground into a thing of beauty ; 
 and, not content with making the enormous domed 
 conservatory and the adjoining hothouse a blaze of 
 colour and fragrance, he attacked an old worn-out 
 greenhouse and, without asking for outside assistance, 
 
 288 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 289 
 
 transformed it into a natural sub-tropical landscape 
 — palms and cacti and giant New Zealand ferns, 
 growing amid rocky surroundings, and wonderful 
 lilies filling a large natural basin, below an effective 
 cascade. The place was just what such a place should 
 be, conveying the best idea possible to have of a moist 
 corner of a tropical forest, only without the over- 
 whelming shabbiness which was the most striking note 
 of every tropical forest I have ever seen in a natural 
 condition. In addition to its attractiveness in this 
 respect, it would have become a source of financial 
 profit to the subscribers, for the annual " thinning 
 out " of its superfluous growths would mean the 
 stocking of many private conservatories. 
 
 On the Committee of Management, however, there 
 was one gentleman whose aim in life was to be re- 
 garded by his fellow-tradesmen as a great botanist: 
 he was, to a great botanist, what the writer of the 
 cracker mottoes is to a great poet, or the compiler of 
 the puzzle-page of a newspaper is to a great mathe- 
 matician; but he was capable of making a fuss and 
 convincing a bunch of tradesmen that making a fuss 
 is a proof of superiority ; and that botany and beauty 
 are never to be found in association. He condemned 
 the tropical garden as an abomination, because it was 
 impossible that a place which could give hospitality 
 to a growth of New Zealand fern (Phormium 
 Hookeri) , should harbour a sago palm ( Metroocylon 
 Elatum ) , which was not indigenous to New Zealand ; 
 and then he went on to talk about the obligations of 
 the place to be educational and not ornamental, show- 
 
290 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 ing quite plainly that to be botanical should be the 
 highest aim of any one anxious for the welfare of his 
 country. 
 
 The result of his harangue was the summoning of 
 the head-gardener before the Board and his condem- 
 nation on the ground that he had put the Beautiful 
 in the place that should be occupied by the Educa- 
 tional. He was ordered to abandon that unauthorised 
 hobby of his for gratifying the senses of foolish people 
 who did not know the difference between Phormiwm 
 Hookeri and Metroxylon Elatum, and to set to work 
 to lay out an Educational Garden. 
 
 He looked at the members of the Board, and, like 
 the poker player who said, " I pass," when he heard 
 who had dealt the cards, he made no attempt to de- 
 fend himself. He laid out the Educational Garden 
 that was required of him, and when he had done so 
 and the Board thought that he was resigned to his 
 fate as the interpreter of the rules of prosody as ap- 
 plied to a garden, he handed in his resignation, and 
 informed them that he had accepted a situation as 
 Curator of a park in a rival town, and at a salary — 
 a Curator gets a salary and a gardener only wages — 
 of exactly double the sum granted to him by the 
 employers from whom he was separating himself. 
 
 In three years the place he left had become bank- 
 rupt and was wound up. It was bought at a " scrap- 
 ping " figure by the Municipality, and its swings are 
 now said to be the highest in five counties. 
 
 I saw the Educational Garden that he laid out, and 
 I knew, and so did he, that he was " laying out " — the 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 291 
 
 undertaker's phrase — the whole concern. When he 
 had completed it, I felt that I could easily resist the 
 temptation to introduce education at the expense of 
 design into any garden of mine. 
 
 It is undeniable that a place constructed on such a 
 botanical system may be extremely interesting to a 
 number of students, and especially so to druggists' 
 apprentices; but turning to so-called "educational 
 purposes " a piece of garden that can grow roses, is 
 like using the silk of an embroiderer to darn the cor- 
 duroys of a railway porter. 
 
 But it was a revelation to some people how the 
 growing of war-time vegetables where only flowers 
 had previously been grown, was not out of harmony 
 with the design of a garden. I must confess that it 
 was with some misgiving that I planted rows of run- 
 ner beans in a long wall border which had formerly 
 been given over to annuals, and globe artichokes 
 where lilies did once inhabit — I even went so far as to 
 sow carrots in lines between the echeverias of the 
 stone-edged beds, and lettuces at the back of my 
 fuchsia bushes. But the result from an aesthetic 
 standpoint was so gratifying that I have not ceased 
 to wonder why such beautiful things should be treated 
 as were the fruit-trees, and looked on as steerage pas- 
 sengers are by the occupants of the fifty-guinea state- 
 rooms of a fashionable Cunarder. The artichoke is 
 really a garden inmate; alongside the potatoes in the 
 kitchen garden, it is like the noble Sir Pelleas who 
 was scullery-maid in King Arthur's household. The 
 globe artichoke is like one of those British peers whom 
 
292 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 we hear of — usually when they have just died — as 
 serving in the forecastle of a collier tramp. It is a 
 lordly thing, and, I have found, it makes many of the 
 most uppish forms in the flower garden hide dimin- 
 ished heads. An edging of dwarf cabbages of some 
 varieties is quite as effective as one of box, and Dell's 
 " black beet " cannot be beaten where a foliage effect 
 is desired. Of course the runner bean must be accepted 
 as a flower. If it has been excluded from its rightful 
 quarters, it is because the idea is prevalent that it 
 cannot be grown unless in the unsightly way that finds 
 favour in the kitchen garden. It would seem as if the 
 controllers of this department aimed at achieving the 
 ugly in this particular. They make a sort of gipsy 
 tripod of boughs, only without removing the twigs, 
 and let the plant work its way up many of these. 
 This is not good enough for a garden where neatness 
 is regarded as a virtue. 
 
 I found that these beans can be grown with abun- 
 dant success in a border, by running a stout wire 
 along brackets, two or three feet out from a wall, and 
 suspending the roughest manila twine at intervals to 
 carnation wires in the soil below. This gives an un- 
 obtrusive support to the plants, and in a fortnight the 
 whole of this flimsy frontage is hidden, and the blos- 
 soms are blazing splendidly. I have had rows of over 
 a hundred feet of these beans, but not one support 
 gave way even in the strongest wind, and the house- 
 hold was supplied up to the middle of November. 
 
 I am sure that such experiments add greatly to the 
 interest of gardening; and I encourage my Olive 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 293 
 
 branch in her craving after a flower garden that shall 
 be made up wholly of weeds. She has found out, I 
 cannot say how, that the dandelion is a thing of beauty 
 — she discovered one in a garden that she visited, and 
 having never seen one before, inquired what was its 
 name. I told her that the flower was not absolutely 
 new to me, but lest I should lead her astray as to its 
 name, she would do well to put her inquiry to the 
 gardener and ask him for any hints he could give her 
 as to its culture, and above all, how to propagate it 
 freely. If he advised cuttings and a hot bed, perhaps 
 he might be able to tell her the right temperature, and 
 if he thought ordinary bonemeal would do for a fer- 
 tiliser for it. 
 
 Beyond a doubt a bed of dandelions would look 
 very fine, but one cannot have everything in a garden, 
 and I hope I may have the chance, hitherto denied 
 to me, of resigning myself to its absence from mine, 
 even though it be only for a single week. 
 
 But there are many worthy weeds to be found when 
 one looks carefully for them, and I should regard 
 with great interest any display of them in a bed ( in a 
 neighbour's garden, providing that that garden was 
 not within a mile of mine). 
 
 The transformation just mentioned of a decrepit 
 greenhouse into the sub-tropical pleasure-ground, was 
 not my inspiration for my treatment of a greenhouse 
 which encumbered a part of my ground only a short 
 time ago. It was a necessity for a practice of rigid 
 economy that inspired me when I examined the dilapi- 
 dations and estimated the cost of " making good " at 
 
294 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 something little short of fifty pounds. It had been 
 patched often enough before, goodness knows, and its 
 wounds had been poulticed with putty until in some 
 places it seemed to be suffering from an irrepressible 
 attack of mumps. 
 
 Now the building had always been an offence to 
 me. It was like an incompetent servant, who, in ad- 
 dition to being incapable of earning his wages, is pos- 
 sessed of an enormous appetite. With an old-fash- 
 ioned heating apparatus the amount of fuel it con- 
 sumed year by year was appalling; and withal it had 
 more than once played us false, with the result that 
 several precious lives were lost in a winter when we 
 looked to the greenhouse to give us some colour for 
 indoors. With such a list of convictions against it, I 
 was not disposed to be lenient, and the suggestion of 
 the discipline of a Reformatory was coldly received 
 by me. 
 
 The fact was, that in my position as judge, I re- 
 sembled too closely the one in Gilbert's Trial by Jury 
 to allow of my being trusted implicitly in cases in 
 which personal attractions are to be put in the scales 
 of even-handed Justice; and with all its burden of 
 guilt that greenhouse bore the reputation of unsight- 
 liness. If it had had a single redeeming feature, I 
 might have been susceptible to its influence; but it 
 had none. It had been born commonplace, and old 
 age had not improved it. 
 
 Leaning against the uttermost boundary wall of 
 the garden, it had been my achievement to hide it 
 by the hedge of briar roses and the colonnade; but 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 295 
 
 it was sometimes only with great difficulty that we 
 could head off visitors from its doors. Heywood 
 heaped on it his concentrated opprobrium by calling 
 it the Crystal Palace; but Dorothy, who had been a 
 student of Jane Eyre, had given it the name of 
 " Rochester's Wife," and we had behaved toward it 
 pretty much as Jane's lover had behaved in his en- 
 deavour to set up a younger and more presentable 
 object in the place of his mature demented partner: 
 we had two other glass-houses that we could enter and 
 see entered without misgiving; so that when we stood 
 beside the offending one with the estimate of the cost 
 of its reformation, I, at any rate, was not disposed to 
 leniency. 
 
 " A case for the Reformatory," said Dorothy, and 
 in a moment the word brought to my mind the advice 
 of the young lord Hamlet, and I called out, — 
 
 " Reform it altogether." 
 
 "What do you mean?" she asked; for she some- 
 times gives me credit for uttering words with a mean- 
 ing hidden somewhere among the meshes of verbiage. 
 
 " I have spoken the decision of the Court," I re- 
 plied. " ' Reform it altogether.' " 
 
 " At a cost — a waste — of sixty odd pounds? " 
 
 " I will not try to renew its youth like the eagles," 
 said I, in the tone of voice of a prophet in the act of 
 seeing a vision. " I shall make a new thing of it, and 
 a thing of beauty into the bargain." 
 
 She laughed pretty much as in patriarchal days 
 Sarai laughed at the forecast of an equally unlikely 
 occurrence. 
 
296 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 After an interval she laughed again, but with no 
 note of derision. 
 
 " I see it all now — all! " she cried. " You will be 
 the Martin Luther of its Reformation: you will cut 
 the half of it away; but will the Church stand when 
 you have done with it? " 
 
 " Stronger than it ever was. I will hear the voice 
 of no protestant against it," I replied. 
 
 My scheme had become apparent to her in almost 
 every particular as it had flashed upon me; and we 
 began operations the very next day. 
 
 And this is what the operation amounted to — an 
 Amputation. 
 
 When a limb has suffered such an injury as to make 
 its recovery hopeless as well as a danger to the whole 
 body, the saving grace of the surgeon's knife is re- 
 sorted to, and the result is usually the rescue of the 
 patient. Our resolution was to cut away the rotten 
 parts of the roof of the greenhouse and convert the 
 remainder, which was perfectly sound, into a peach- 
 shelter; and within a couple of weeks the operation 
 had been performed with what appeared to us to be 
 complete success. 
 
 We removed the lower panes of glass without diffi- 
 culty — the difficulty was to induce the others to re- 
 main under their bondage of ancient putty: "They 
 don't make putty like that nowadays," remarked my 
 builder, who is also, in accordance with the dictation 
 of a job like this, a housebreaker, a carpenter, and a 
 glazier — a sort of unity of many tools that comes to 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 297 
 
 our relief (very appropriately) from the United 
 States. 
 
 I replied to him enigmatically that putty was a 
 very good servant, but a very bad master. The dic- 
 tum had no connection with the matter in hand, but 
 it sounded as if it had, and that it was the crystallisa- 
 tion of wisdom; and the good workman accepted it 
 at its face value. He removed over two hundred 
 panes, each four feet by ten inches, without breaking 
 one, and he removed more than a thousand feet of the 
 two-inch laths from the stages, the heavier ones being 
 of oak; he braced up the seven foot depth of roof 
 which we decreed should shelter our peaches, and 
 " made good " the inequalities of the edges. In short, 
 he made a thoroughly good job of the affair, and 
 when he had finished he left us with a new and very 
 interesting feature of the garden. A lean-to green- 
 house is, as a rule, a commonplace incident in a garden 
 landscape, and it is doubtful if it pays for its keep, 
 though admittedly useful as a nursery; but a peach- 
 alley is interesting because unusual. In our place of 
 peace this element is emphasised through our having 
 allowed the elevated, brick-built border that existed 
 before, to remain untouched, and also the framework 
 where the swing-glass ventilators had been hung. 
 When our peach-trees were planted, flanked by plums 
 and faced by apples en espalier, we covered the 
 borders with violas of various colours, and enwreathed 
 the framework with the Cape Plumbago and the Jas- 
 mine Solanum, and both responded nobly to our de- 
 mands. 
 
298 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 Nothing remained in order to place the transforma- 
 tion in harmony with its surroundings but to turn the 
 two large brick tanks which had served us well in 
 receiving the water from the old roof, into ornamental 
 lily ponds, and this was accomplished by the aid of 
 some of the stone carvings which I had picked up 
 from time to time, in view of being able to give them 
 a place of honour some day. On the whole, we are 
 quite satisfied with this additional feature. It creates 
 another surprise for the entertainment of a visitor, 
 and when the peaches and plums ripen simultaneously, 
 following the strawberries, we shall have, if we are to 
 believe Friswell, many more friends coming to us. 
 
 " If they are truly friends, we shall be glad," says 
 Dorothy. 
 
 " By your fruits ye shall know them," says he, for 
 like most professors of the creed of the incredulous, 
 he is never so much at his ease as when quoting Scrip- 
 Jure. 
 
 This morning as I was playing (indifferently) the 
 part of Preceptress Pinkerton, trying to induce on 
 Rosamund, Olive, Francie, Marjorie, and our dear, 
 wise John, a firm grasp of the elements of the nature 
 of the English People as shown by their response to 
 the many crusades in which they have taken part 
 since the first was proclaimed by Peter the Hermit, 
 I came to that part of my illuminating discourse 
 which referred to the Nation's stolidity even in their 
 hour of supreme triumph. 
 
 " This," said I, " may be regarded by the more 
 
A GARDEN OF PEACE 299 
 
 emotional peoples of Europe as showing a certain 
 coldness of temperament, in itself suggesting a want 
 of imagination, or perhaps, a cynical indifference — 
 ' cynical,' mind you, from kyon, a dog — to incidents 
 that should quicken the beating of every human heart. 
 But I should advise you to think of this trait of our 
 great Nation as indicating a praiseworthy reserve of 
 the deepest feelings. I regard with respect those 
 good people who to-day are going about their busi- 
 ness in the streets of our town just in the usual way, 
 although the most important news that has reached 
 the town since the news of the capture of Antioch in 
 1099, is expected this evening. And you will find that 
 they will appear just as unconcerned if they learn 
 that the terms of the Armistice have been accepted — 
 they will stroll about with their hands in their pockets 
 — not a cheer. ... Is that your mother calling you, 
 John?" 
 
 "No; I think it's somebody in the street?" said 
 John. 
 
 " Oh, I forgot. It's Monday — market day. 
 There's more excitement in Yardley High Street if a 
 cow turns into Waterport Lane than there will be 
 when Peace is proclaimed. But still, I repeat, that 
 this difference . . . What was that? two cows must 
 
 have turned into Why, what's this — what's — sit 
 
 down, all of you — I tell you it's only " 
 
 " Hurrah — hurrah — hurrah — hurrah — hurrah ! " 
 comes from the five young throats of five rosy- 
 cheeked, unchecked children, responding to the five 
 hundred that roar through the streets. 
 
300 A GARDEN OF PEACE 
 
 In five minutes the front of our house is ablaze with 
 flags, and five Union Jacks are added to the hundreds 
 that young and old wave over their heads in the street ; 
 and amid the tumult the recent admirer of the stolid 
 English People is risking his neck in an endeavour to 
 fix a Crusader's well-worn helmet in an alcove above 
 the carven lions on the porch of his home. 
 
 There, high over us, stands the Castle Keep as it 
 stood in the days of the First Crusade. 
 
 " And ever above the topmost roof the banner of 
 England blew." 
 
 Going out I saw a cow stray down Waterport 
 Lane ; but no one paid any attention to its errantry. 
 
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