GARDENS OF CELEBRITIES 
plants—and yet it is not over-crowded—and while all sorts of plants 
seem to do well, it is pre-eminently a rose-garden; every rose 
theré is a magnificent specimen, and many have taken prizes. 
There are roses new-fangled, and roses old-fashioned; and they 
vary in tint from white and pale-blush, nearly to black. I am not 
learned in flower-lore—and know next to nothing of the nomen- 
clature of roses, but I learnt from the label attached to it, that 
the beautiful white rose-bush that appears in the immediate 
foreground of the drawing, is designated ‘‘ John Craig.””» Who 
that individual was I do not know, but he has given his very 
matter-of-fact name, to a rose with small green leaves that is 
picturesque in its manner of growth, as well as lovely in its 
individual blossoms. 
Mrs. Gillman seems to have been an excellent gardener; she 
kept’ the house bright with geraniums and myrtles—these being 
Coleridge’s favourite plants. In a letter to his hostess, written in 
1827, the poet says: ‘“ The rose is the pride of the summer, the 
delight and beauty of the garden—the eglantine, the honeysuckle 
and the jasmine, if not so bright and ambrosial, are less transient, 
creep nearer to us, clothe our walls, twine over our porch, and 
haply peep in at our chamber window with the crested wren or 
linnet within.” There is much more in the same strain, extolling 
the virtues of the geranium, singing enthusiastically, in somewhat 
high-flown and stilted language, the praises of the myrtle. ‘‘ Oh, 
precious,” he exclaims, “‘ in its sweetness is the rich innocence of 
its snow-white blossoms,” and he points out that when these 
have fallen, “ they survive invisibly in every more than fragrant 
leaf. As the flashing strain of the nightingale to the yearning 
murmur of the dove, so the myrtle to the rose! He who once 
possessed a prized and genuine myrtle, will rather remember it 
under the cypress tree than seek to forget it among the roses 
of a Paradise.” Thus does Coleridge rhapsodize over his floral 
favourites, and Mrs. Gillman no doubt thought it all very fine 
poetry ; she was very proud of her guest, whose innate love of a 
garden, had had time to grow, and his taste for flowers to specialize, 
during the fourteen summers that he had already spent at the 
Grove. 
That shelter so happily provided, he seldom quitted for long. 
‘* His luxuriant white hair was like a crown of honour,” says one 
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