An evergreen spot where busts of ancient emperors stand out against many-textured conifers, domed box. and pencil-like red cedars that recall the heaven- 

 ward pointing cypresses in classic Italy" 



A Summer Vacation Among Eastern Gardens— By Lucullus, Jr. 



LAST CONFESSIONS OF A VETERAN GARDEN GLOATER WHO HAS DISCOVERED AN ARTISTIC 

 WAY OF LOAFING, WITHOUT GETTING HOT, THINKING, OR LEARNING ANYTHING USEFUL 



NEVER again shall I be an 

 "author." My first and only 

 previous indiscretion was a wild 

 burst of confidence in The 

 Garden Magazine for August, 191 2, 

 which bore the innocent title of "A Vaca- 

 tion Among New England Gardens." 

 Since then the very life has been pestered 

 out of me by people who want itineraries. 



I dread opening a letter nowadays, lest 

 my eyes crinkle at the loathed sight of 

 some such threadbare phrase as "a fort- 

 night among the famous North Shore gar- 

 dens," "a tour of the celebrated gardens 

 around Philadelphia," "a sniff of century- 

 old gardens," "siestas among seaside gar- 

 dens." 



Seriously I purpose to slay, once for 

 all, all these invaders of my peace. I will 

 make you a tour of the best gardens in the 

 universe. Then I will buy 1000 copies of 

 the number containing my article and 

 install a private secretary who can forge 

 my signature to perfection. She will sort 

 out all the crested envelopes that breathe 

 an aroma of gardens, retort with a few 

 pages of illegible rapture, send them under 

 separate cover the "very thing you want," 

 and voila tout! Getting off pretty cheap, eh? 



The best gardens in the world are those 

 that come unbid in dreams — the ones 

 that solace you in hours of sleeplessness 

 or of pain. I see the Eastern gardens 



through a mist of years, and I write only 

 of their spirit, scorning all practicality 

 or accuracy of detail. The garden that 

 comes oftenest to me in time of need is one 

 of the oldest and simplest in America — 

 the finest survival of seventeenth century 

 times, when the Dutch still ruled Man- 

 hattan. It is the Van Cortlandt manor 

 at Croton. As I close my eyes and shut 

 out the work-a-day world, I can see the 

 old house from my skiff on the Hudson. 

 It stands there on a triangle formed by two 

 rivers, just as Manhattan did, and Charles- 

 ton, and all the early settlements. For, 

 by this arrangement, the colonist could 

 see everyone who approached, whether 

 friend or foe, and it was only necessary to 

 make a wall across a peninsula, to have 

 good protection from the Indians. Ah, 

 but it was a stout old fort, the Van Cort- 

 landt manor, built in 1680. The loop- 

 holes through which one shot at Indians 

 are still there. And thereby hangs a tale. 

 Once upon a time — to wit, the dread 

 Victorian era — when everything baleful in 

 art occurred, except the cubists, one of the 

 owners of the manor house got tired of its 

 fort-like appearance, and thought it ought 

 to look like a suburban villa or something. 

 So she covered all the fascinating Dutch 

 stonework with a yaller stucco which was 

 designed to make the old fighter look tame 

 and respectable and even natty and up- 



13 



to-date. In sealing up the past the 

 plasterers, of course, hid all the loopholes. 

 But when the present generation came into 

 possession, the respect for old things was 

 in full tide again, and Miss Van Cortlandt 

 removed the false skin, restored the Colonial 

 stonework, and brought to light the ancient 

 loopholes. Then, mirabile dictu, she found 

 a bird's nest in each loophole — perhaps 

 thirty in all, and eggs in each! 



I love to peep around the corner of the 

 manor house and see its mate — a simple, 

 sturdy, well proportioned house built 

 about 1682. It was the old ferry house, 

 where the Croton was crossed in the 

 early days. The garden is simply a 

 direct walk between the two houses, 

 bordered on both sides for perhaps 150 

 yards by ancient shrubs and old-fashioned 

 flowers. On one side you look up toward 

 a magnificent hanging wood, of tropical 

 richness and variety. On the other you 

 look toward rush-lined river, over mellow 

 meadow, and betwixt murmuring elms. 

 Flowers of a century ago have escaped from 

 the garden and run wild upon the banks. 

 In the shade of trees the lance-leaved day 

 lily rears thousands of purple spikes. The 

 views along this simple walk change every 

 step or two, for these peaceful landscapes 

 are continually being seen through new 

 frames, e. g. a pair of ancient rose bushes. 

 The hero of the garden is a mighty bush of 



