GARDENS OF CELEBRITIES 
found there. Nor can language alone demonstrate how happy was: 
the thought that converted the old brick arches—all that remains. 
of the former stables in which Cromwell and Ireton had installed 
their horses—into a graceful arcade, festooned with creepers, 
through which one catches glimpses of a terraced wall, descending, 
by one or two steps, to the wilder woodland below, where begins. 
the leafy glade still known as the ‘‘ Green Lane.” 
It was after one of her later continental trips, that Elizabeth, 
Lady Holland—for it is necessary to distinguish between her and 
her daughter-in-law, wife of the fourth baron—brought back from 
Spain the dahlia—a plant that she is erroneously supposed by some 
people to have been the very first to introduce into this country. 
The: flower—which it is scarcely necessary to say, is the lovely 
single variety—still grows abundantly near ‘‘ Rogers’ Seat,” the 
famous alcove where the poet Rogers was wont to sit, which faces that 
bust of Napoleon, by Canova, that, ten years after Waterloo, Lord 
Holland put up on a pedestal in the ‘‘ Dutch ”’ or “‘ West Garden.” 
I chanced upon that bower accidentally, selecting it as a suitable 
place in which to eat my sandwiches—I chose it simply because it 
happened to be within a few yards of the point of view that I finally 
fixed upon for my illustration. Looking up, I read the lines by 
Lord Holland himself : 
“* Here Rogers sate, and here for ever dwell 
For me, the pleasures that he sang so well.” 
Who reads Rogers now? The couplet was an enigmato me. I 
speculated on its meaning, associating it vaguely with Campbell’s 
‘* Pleasures of Hope ’’—which, indeed, Rogers’ earlier work had 
inspired—for I frankly confess that I had forgotten—if I ever knew 
—that Rogers had written ‘‘ The Pleasures of Memory,” a poem 
that had great vogue a hundred years ago. Moreover, beyond that 
I knew Holland House to have been a centre of Whiggism and of 
culture, I was unversed in its history when I first went there. 
I turned to my work! And the ‘‘ Pleasures of Memory ”’ will 
always be mine when I recall that brilliant summer day when I 
first beheld the ‘“* Dutch Garden.’ I prefer to call it that, though 
it scarcely bore out its name at the time, being ablaze, not with 
such flowers as have come to us from Holland, but with scarlet 
geraniums. These were astonishing; never shall I forget the 
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