The Sculptures of Faulkner Farm 
tial to a garden is the intermingling of con¬ 
scious art in the shape of craftsmanship. A 
Garden Corner becomes a flush of bloom, 
guarded and controlled by the hard wall and 
the verticals of the pergola, and accented by 
the crumbling sculpture of Old Well- 
heads. The green velvet of The Terrace is 
framed again by the keen line of balustrade, 
salian heights, gazes from one eternity into 
another, heedless that now not the leaves of 
the cypress and bay, but the slim needles of 
the new-world pines whisper behind his head. 
The masks and garlands o{ A Desolate R oman 
Fomb , the crinkled carving of A Venetian 
Well-head , all play their part in a composition 
that is not only for the outer eye, but as well 
while the Old Italian Urn gives instant life to 
the composition. Under the vine arbour A 
Sun-Flecked Satyr gives a sudden fillip to the 
fancy, or the lovely head of a Young Bacchus, 
vine-crowned, against an arras of moving 
leaves, brings a sudden daydream from over 
seas and out of the ghostly past. An Im¬ 
passive Olympian , far-wandered from Thes- 
for that subtler apprehension that lays hold 
of inner and spiritual things through the 
outward and visible sign. For in this also, 
gardening is at one with the other arts, it 
can please and it can inspire, and no art can 
do more—or less—the difference is in degree. 
Some day we shall find that there is no such 
thing as Fine Art, or that there is nothing 
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