114 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



lings so full of interest and of hope. Here is the 

 sunny spot where we gather, like Virgil's shepherd, 

 the first Rose of spring, or 



* Rosa quo locorum 

 Sera moretur,' 



the last of autumn. Art is here as the meek admir- 

 ing handmaid of Nature, gently smoothing her 

 beautiful hair, checking only such growth as would 

 weaken her flowing ringlets, but never daring to 

 disfigure with shams and chignons — with pagodas, 

 I mean, and such like tea-garden trumpery. Art is 

 here to obey, but not to dictate — to work as one 

 who counts such service its own reward and honour. 

 If before the Fall, before the earth brought forth 

 brier or thorn, man was put into a garden to dress 

 it and to keep it, with his will and with his might 

 must he labour now in that plot of ground where he 

 fain would realise his fond idea of Eden. He must 

 work hard, but only as one who copies some great 

 masterpiece — not as one who designs, but restores. 

 He must keep order, but only as replacing an 

 arrangement which he has himself disturbed. Thus 

 and thus only he may hope to make himself a 

 garden 



^ Where order in variety we see, 

 And where, though all things differ, all agree.^ 



