GLEANINGS FROM OLD GARDENS AND FROM

OLD GARDEN LITERATURE

BY GEORGE WALTER DAWSON

Professor of Drawing

An hour is such a short time to devote to the subject of gardens, a subject that includes all ages, all countries, all people that deals so intimately with man's needs, aesthetic as well as useful, and nature's gifts. A subject in which man, and his works, and vast nature, and her works, are so intimately united that it is hard to find a point of approach about which to talk; a subject that has varied with the ages; and that has, alas, at times- followed fashion almost blindly.

It is a subject that could be divided into uncountable parts, any one of which might easily claim all of the time alloted to

us.

Because of the short time allowed I felt the necessity of approaching it from a very general standpoint rather than from any particular one, and so I announced my talk as "Gleanings from Old Gardens and from Old Garden Literature," thinking it would be more pleasant to wander about and gather here and there, just as one might wander along the path of some old garden, culling a few old time blossoms or a sprig of sweet-scented foliage, enjoying the sunlight or the flecking shadows and resting for a while on some sequestered bench to listen to the splash of fountain or song of bird and perhaps meditate on the passing charms of gardens.

What a mental picture the mere mention of the word garden brings forth! It is as the magic key of Prince Agib opening the door of the mansion that revealed wonders like Paradise; for, its sound unlocks the gates of memory and, again, for a little while, allows full play of that greatest of youthful possessions imagination. To each and everyone a different picture and a different memory comes.

Memory pictures for us the ordered garden with its trimmed

box hedges enclosing beds of choicest flowers, such as exist in old Portsmouth and Salem gardens, our own old Germantown gardens, Mount Vernon, and the old gardens by the James River.

It brings visions of that lovely walled-in garden of the Medici's at Castello, with its gay flower beds, its regal alleys and its superb fountain backed by its ilex wood, which will never be forgotten by those who have read Mary Robinson's sensitive verse beginning:

"The Triton in the Ilex Wood

Is Lonely at Castello.

The Snow is on him like a hood.

The Fountain Reeds are yellow."

It recalls the loving care that we so often have seen bestowed by humble cottager or lowly peasant, on window-box and potted plant.

With that recollection must come another of the princely use of flower urns for the lemon and the orange trees that adorn those gardens where they may not be planted in the earth and must be housed in the winter.

Memory again recalls the cottager's love of flowers, as shown in every English village by his care in placing them near his door while his potatoes, his onions and beans are relegated to a place behind the hedge; it recalls the garden of the nearby Manor-house with its strangely tonsured yews and box bushes giving a touch of unreality while adding strength and interest to the garden, if, exciting an influence which if not under curb may perhaps lead from quaintness to absurdity.

From this playful pleasant formality the memory pictures another peaceful quiet garden with its green carpet and bright border of flowers shut in by its clipped wall of green which encloses also that quiet pool which doubles the charm of the Petite Trianon and its embowering garden; and, this picture is followed by others: the Garden of St. Cloud with its grand fountain of many jets and the still more elaborate fountain gardens of Versailles and Fontainebleau.

From princely gardens capricious memory jumps to the

little garden that Hopkinson Smith loved so to paint on that quiet small canal in Venice where oleanders and roses topped and hung over the wall and enlivened the sage green water by the rippling tongues of reflected red.

Then there comes to the mind picture after picture of fourcourt gardens all along the grand canal; of gardens rising from the Lake's edge at Como; of their water stairways; their cool terraces and sparkling fountains; of enchanting views across the lake to the mountains; and of balustrades, rose entwined with swag-like festoons reaching down, narcissus like, to the reflection below.

The thought of these rose entwined balustrades again recalls humble doorways in England and New England, embowered by white roses urged to perfection by perhaps even more kindly care than ever was bestowed on kingly gardens.

Other pictures present themselves: A series of pathways, the orchard with its grass path and broad borders of old-fashioned perennials overhung with apple bows; its slightly richer parallel with paved path of flag-stone or brick; then the straight path, flower-bordered, that leads so joyously and hospitably to the open door and to friendliness and cheer; and the path, bright with favorite flowers, that divides the kitchen garden and makes that part of the garden of England one of the best remembered and most colorful of pictures.

Then there are other walks that come to mind of more stately character; Dorothy Vernon's walk beneath the grove on that well-remembered terrace at Haddon Hall; the long shaded walks in the ilex grove of the Bobboli garden in Florence; the terrace pathways of the hanging gardens above the bay of Salerno; and, the monastic walk under the vines and above the sea at Amalfi.

So memory takes us into many places and we know that love of gardens, of flowers, of trees, and indeed of all nature, is not of one country, but of all; and, as gardens are of all countries, so is the literature of gardens of all and of all ages.

In trying to find some arrangement for the great mass of the literature of gardens that exists it seems to me that there is a

considerable amount among the Greek and Roman writers; that little appears from about the sixth to the twelfth centuries; but that from that time on there is an ever increasing amount, until in our own day there seems to be no end of new books on gardens.

Through all ages we find much that is polite and sensitive and often poetical. Yet through all there seem to be two strong forces: one advocating order and system and craftsmanship, combined with love of growing and living things; and the other naturalistic and filled with an admiration and love of flowers and trees of field and wood, yet often militantly opposed to anything that has to do with man's own creative instinct, but upholding in the main his imitative power.

These two characteristics divide, then, much of the literature of gardens.

Aside from these, we might arrange our garden literature under these general headings, namely:

The praise of gardens.

Gardens of romance.

Descriptions.

Discourses-philosophic and otherwise.

Historical.

Horticultural.

Analysis of the art of garden making.

I have taken-rather at random-a few quotations, for the most part descriptive, and mainly from ancient writers. These to be as a foreword to the pictures that I am to show you later and that we may see how the gardens that we know best are but the compliment of those older writings.

I like those writings that sing the praise of gardens; and particularly this of Epicurus, embodying the spirit of contentment and hospitality combined with pleasure in his garden possessions, without which no garden can have charm.

Epicurus, B. C. 342-270.

"As for myself, truly (I speak modestly, and therefore may be permitted) I am not only well content, but highly pleased

with the Plants and Fruits growing in these my own little Gardens; and have this inscription over the door, 'Stranger, Here, if you please, you may abide in a good condition; Here, the Supreme Good is Pleasure; the Steward of this homely Cottage is hospitable, humane, and ready to receive you; He shall afford you Barley-broth, and pure water of the Spring, and say, Friend, are you not well entertained? For, these Gardens do not invite hunger, but satisfy it; nor increase your thirst with drinks, while they should extinguish it, but wholly overcome it with a Natural and Grateful Liquor.'

Then there is this still earlier reference of Xenophon's describing a visit of Lysander to Cyrus of Persia, in which we again find praise and pleasure in the beholding and a justifiable pride in the planning, planting and caring for the garden.

Xenophon, B. C. 444-359.

When Lysander brought presents to Cyrus from the cities of Greece, that were his confederates, he received him with the greatest humanity, and amongst other things showed him his garden which was called "The Paradise of Sardis;" which when Lysander beheld he was struck with admiration of the beauty of the trees, the regularity of their planting, the evenness of their rows and their making regular angles one to another; or, in a word, the beauty of the quincunx order in which they were planted, and the delightful odours which issued from them, Lysander could no longer refrain from extolling the beauty of their order, but more particularly admired the excellent skill of the hand that had so curiously disposed them; which Cyrus perceiving, answered him: "All the trees which you here behold are of my own appointment; I it was that contrived, measured, laid out the ground for planting these trees, and I can even show you some of them that I planted with my own hands."

Cicero refers to this quotation from Xenophon in his "Defense to Old Age," when discoursing on agriculture and joys of country life; and I add an excerpt from his "Defense" which,