76 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



that humility oppresses us with a sense of unfitness in 

 the presense of such perfection. 



The rose is the queen of the garden, voluptuous, ap- 

 pealing to the sense, but queen above queens, a Mona 

 Lisa, a Lady Godiva, knowing life, knowing love and 

 sorrow, reigns the iris, a blossom not for the plucking, 

 but to be planted at the foot of ruined altars, to remind 

 that faith may rise triumphant on unsullied wings. 



Another devotee of the iris said that when a group 

 chanced to meet his eye in an English garden he was 

 reminded of the gladiatorial hall, "Morituri te salutant" 

 and Eden Phillpotts believes that they are to the garden 

 what Chopin is to music, "the most wonderful, beautiful, 

 and saddest of flowers; we sometimes miss the spirit in 

 them, while overjoyed or overawed by the substance." 



If you do not know the iris you have missed something 

 in life. The garden books have not so much to say about 

 the family as they should, being occupied with the com- 

 moners, which may be met on more equal terms. Why 

 we should shrink at approaching superiors I do not know, 

 but if by chance a flower or a friend unveils mystery, in 

 a moment we straightway seek out folk of our own kind 

 whom we are sure of, and do not go forward on our 

 knees and lift the veil to partake of the blessing of a 

 nobler presence and the "benediction of the higher 

 mood." 



The superb varieties of iris grow as easily as their 



