GARDENS IN LITERATURE 
illuminate the garden, even had there been no sunshine. 
Every portion of the soil was peopled with plants and 
herbs, which, if less beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous 
care . . . some were placed in urns, rich with old carv¬ 
ing, and others in common garden pots. Some crept 
serpent-like along the ground or climbed on high, using 
whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant 
had wreathed itself round a statue of Vertumnus, which 
was thus quite veiled and shrouded with a drapery of 
hanging foliage, so happily arranged that it might have 
served a sculptor for a study.” 
A garden of death, nevertheless, this gorgeous con¬ 
summation of color and poison, as poor Beatrice was to 
discover. 
In “ Sesame and Lilies,” a garden blows that is, of 
course, no garden, having nothing to do with “ hot-glow¬ 
ing peony” or “faint mignonette,” nor with green alley 
or fountain; but one reads the essay on “ Queen’s Gar¬ 
dens ” with much the same quality of refreshment as is 
derived from the actual thing ; for it is a spiritual garden 
of which Ruskin writes, and every true garden appeals 
to the spirit even more than to the senses: 
“ The perfect loveliness of a woman’s countenance can 
only consist in that majestic peace, which is founded in 
the memory of happy and useful years,— full of sweet 
records ; and with the joining of this with that yet more 
majestic childishness, which is still full of change 
and promise;—opening always — modest at once and 
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