FULHAM PALACE 
at length at a turn in the walk where attention is arrested by a 
magnificent tree of extraordinary girth, size, and shape—a tree 
that almost seems to block further progress. It dominates this 
part of the gardens, stretching its giant arms benevolently right 
‘and left; on the one hand almost to where the soldiers drilled, on 
‘the other to the ferneries and greenhouses. It is truly a patriarchal 
and beautiful tree—and daily I surveyed it in admiration, and, 
ignorant though I am on such subjects, even I ought to have known 
it by the large five-lobed and silky leaves, resembling those of the 
sycamore, and by its gracefully-pendulous seed-pods, hanging low 
from the branches much as tinsel balls do on a Christmas tree. 
But I had noted no peeling of its bark, and misled by its unusual 
‘size and freshness, I did not recognize it, and therefore one day 
I asked the head-gardener for information, and the surprise was 
as great.as the snub, when he replied, ‘‘ Only a London Plane !” 
‘Well! ifthis be so, among all the rare and splendid trees, indigenous 
‘and otherwise, in the Bishop of London’s garden, none lives in 
ty memory as does that magnificent specimen of the commonest 
metropolitan tree ! 
We turn from it sharply to the right, and leave on our left a 
side-walk, where rows of gorgeous tulips flaunt their brilliant 
cup-like flowers ; tall, erect, triumphant specimens of the gardener’s 
science all of them are; showing every tint from deepest prune 
—almost black—to flame-colour and pure white, and these last 
‘are dazzling when sun shines through the petals. Were we to 
follow this path we should arrive at a part of the domain left, 
deliberately, more or less wild—and at the rockeries and shrub- 
beries, beyond which, where the path twists and turns, is a little 
foot-bridge over the moat, that here is very dusky and mysterious, 
and overhung with trees. On the further side of the bridge is a 
door, which closes with a spring, not to be opened from without, a 
door that leads straight into the grassy churchyard of Fulham, 
where “‘ heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap’; and where 
many of the Bishops of London lie buried. The churchyard is 
a short cut to the town. 
But we do not follow that path, for the choicest bits of the old 
garden are yet to show. We pass instead through an iron gate- 
way, and find ourselves in the ‘‘ walled garden,” a kitchen and 
fruit garden of immense acreage. It abounds in fruit, and in 
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