The Happy Garden 



me pleasure, and wins pleasure from me. My 

 garden is my pattern, and there are not enough 

 to see it, if I am to believe those who come. John 

 Smith comes to see me. He admires : 



" Ah ! If only Jane were here ! " 



Jane will never come, and so this book is for 

 her. I take her by the hand, ask her to trust me, 

 and make allowances for any exaggeration into 

 which my exuberant pride and delight may bring 

 me, and lead her along my yellow road that rises 

 between dark pines — like a golden river sometimes 

 — and at the white gate we stop. I turn to her, 

 and say : 



" Forget London." 



And it is very necessary to forget London : that 

 is what I have been doing ; or rather, I have been 

 trying to see it in perspective : out of seven million 

 people, how many are there who can do that ? 

 London is not allowed in my garden, nor are move- 

 ments, or sociology — that queer disease of the new 

 century — the great thing is to be happy, and, if 

 you don't like me, at least to be pleasant about it. 



Here you are at my gate, about to be submitted 

 to a fearful test of your character, for it may be 

 that you will dislike the place, or like the wrong 

 things, and in that case, I shall believe, perhaps 

 arrogantly, that you are at fault ; for, indeed, there 



8 



