tc^UlU 



^^2Si*- 



Has there ever been a time when the 

 word " garden " was not beloved by 

 English hearts ? From the spacious 

 grounds of the lordly castle, with their 

 wide-spreading lawns adorned with 

 stately cedars, lakes, and fountains, to 

 the little plot of the humblest cottage, 

 where cabbages, turnips, and the old- 

 fashioned country perennials grow 

 harmoniously side by side, each has a charm and beaut)' pcculiarl)- its 

 own, and in every case it is typically British in character. 



'Tis true we have from time to time borrowed our ideas of garden 

 planning from abroad, but these ideas have been so modified to suit the 

 natural features of the country and climate, and so adapted to the 

 conditions of English life, that (although their scheme may owe some 

 fundamental origin to imported ideas) they have settled down into a 

 type of beauty unrivalled elsewhere. The formality of the Italian 

 garden, the artificiality of the French, and the primness of the Dutch, 

 have each left an impression on our old-time pleasure grounds ; but the 

 passing of years, and the moistness of our much abused climate, have so 

 happiU' blended together and softened their peculiarities, and any 

 formality of construction has been .so lovingly and charmingly touched 

 by the artist hand of Nature and the mellowing effect of age, that their 

 stiffness is entirely gone, leaving only a quaint old-world beauty that 

 constitutes their greatest charm. 



It is difficult to trace a time when gardens were first planted in 

 England as a pleasure and delight to the eye, and not merely for the 

 utilitarian necessity of vegetables for the table. We are apt to speak 

 f)f a formal garden as " Dutch " ; but it is certain that we possessed very 

 many beautiful gardens, full of trellis-work and terraces, and fearful and 

 wonderful specimens of topiary art, long before Dutch William brought 



I oltcn, when a child, for hours 



Tried through the pales to (Set the tempting flowers 



As lady's laces, everlasting peas, 



True-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-case. 



And golden rods, and tansy running high, 



That o'er the pale-tops smiled on passers-by. 



59 



