FULHAM PALACE 
storms of rain, and the red, white, and pink petals were everywhere 
scattered on the sodden ground. Outdoor work was entirely 
stopped, and when by the middle of August it was possible to 
resume it, the glory of that garden had departed! That sweet 
oasis amid the kitchen-garden’s produce—so fresh and so brilliant 
in the early summer—ere the harvest-moon had risen, resembled 
the face of a beauty all passée and forlorn. 
Yet the flowers at Fulham are always choice and glorious, and 
one cannot take leave of the Bishop of London’s garden without 
offering a tribute of sincere admiration to the presiding spirit 
among the gardeners, who, short-handed owing to the war, had 
yet contrived to preserve so much of their ancient beauty, by skill, 
personal care, and indefatigable zeal. 
Of Fulham Bishop Blomfield said—and he knew the place, 
for nearly thirty years—that it is ‘‘ a home dearly loved, so close 
upon the restless world, yet itself a haunt of ancient peace.” And 
with this I leave it. 
