ing-room. They may possibly have been reared in the Surrey greenhouses, but we are not told so, and, if they were, we are not instructed how we may go and do likewise. We do not ask for things difficult; all we want is to know how to have flowers, and what flowers to have all the year round. How many country drawing-rooms does one go into, say in January, to find no more blossom than is represented by a primula and a bowl of the so-called Chinese joss-lily? Mrs. Earle might take the amateur's greenhouse, which can only just manage to keep out the frost in winter, and tell us what we might get from it; when to strike cuttings of pelargoniums for December flowering; when to sow cinerarias; when to pot the various bulbs for succession; how to ensure flowers from the jacobea lily, and a dozen others to cheer us in the dark days. Since she tells us how and when to pot freesias for winter flowering, she would appear to accept a certain amount of responsibility for greenhouse as well as for outdoor flowers; and since she carries her pot-pourri through the winter months, she might reasonably be expected to instruct us during that period. We feel inclined to cry out to her with an exceeding bitter cry for the help which she might give us, but refrains from giving.

There is no denying, however, that Mrs. Earle complies, in a way, with both the conditions with which I set out; she lets us have her own practical experience, and she enlivens the technical matter of her book by putting before us the thoughts of other writers in poetical form. But the experience is not first and foremost of the garden, and the thoughts are not of the greatest. The verse she quotes is anything but inspiring. She has chosen, for the most part, to express little minds instead of great ones, or rather, I should say, small poets instead of great poets.

Owen Meredith, and Mrs. Hemans, and Erasmus Darwin, and Emerson, and the Tyneside young clergyman's wife are not satisfying food. We want something larger and better than this.

Nevertheless, for sheer utility, Mrs. Earle's is the best of all these books. When we can persuade her to go with us into her garden we feel that we are in the company of an expert, and when she tells us a cultural detail we listen with respect, as to one who knows well what she is talking about. The intimate society, even if only between the covers of a book, of a person who is a competent authority on any subject whatever is in itself a privilege, and on every page Mrs. Earle convinces us that she is worthy of attention, and we gain pleasure and instruction accordingly. But of subtler charm the book has none, and we put it down with a sigh, and turn to "Elizabeth and her German Garden."

Elizabeth is original or nothing. Whereas most of these books have some sort of plea put forward for their existence, such as gardening, housekeeping, or the like, Elizabeth's book frankly concerns Elizabeth. Her garden, though it appears on the title-page, and on many another page of her volume, is obviously incidental, and even the Man of Wrath partakes of this nature as well as the April, May and June babies. One realizes that, although Elizabeth may be rather fond of them, she could very well reconcile herself to life without them. She is profoundly interesting to herself as well as-let me frankly confess it-to the reader. It is the book of Elizabeth which we have to consider, with a German garden and a few necessary impedimenta thrown in. We may dismiss her gardening experiences in a very few words. In common with most books of this kind there is little to be learnt from it of a floricultural nature. To be sure we hear much of sweet rockets, sweet

peas, roses bought by the hundred, lilies, hollyhocks, pansies and various other subjects. But never a word does she tell us of their culture. For aught that we can learn from her we might, on buying large quantities, as she does, treat all these things alike, and suffer accordingly. Elizabeth would never check us in our foolishness. Is it, dear Elizabeth, because you cannot? Is it that, in your desire to make us happy by writing a garden book, you took no heed to the fact that you were utterly ignorant of gardening? But even if this is so we may be persuaded to forgive you. You have made amends for your deception by making your readers happy. We will let the garden slip into its proper place and regard it as a parterre blessed by your presence, and we will hasten to discuss in its stead the absorbing topic of the person, Elizabeth.

more

It has been noticeable that than one reviewer of recent novels has welcomed in them the revival of a delightful character who had long been thought extinct-the Minx. She disappeared suddenly from among us just about the time that the Tendenz-Roman came into vogue; there was not room enough in our fiction for both types of heroine. But she was not extinct. She had merely gone into retirement for a while, to re-emerge brilliantly from the recesses of a far-away German garden. And the absolute certainty that there are April, May and June minxes being brought up to follow in her chartered footsteps, relieves us from the haunting fear that we may lose the type again. A joy has come back to the world in the person of that archetype of minxes, Elizabeth.

Elizabeth's vivid and delightful style of writing makes us willing to overlook the fact that she is not quite familiar with some of the commonest rules of composition for the English language. But I do not intend to convey the idea VIII. 411

LIVING AGE.

that her ignorance arises through the use of a tongue foreign to her. She is English to the backbone, despite her occasional artless attempts to persuade us otherwise. She is amusing in describing her adopted compatriots, and enjoys many a laugh at their expense. She is certain that Dr. Grill must be a German rose, because the more attention you give him the ruder he is to you, or, in other words, the less will he repay your kindness by expansion. But there are very few things and fewer persons for whom Elizabeth has a word of praise. The only friend whom she can endure near her is one who is clever enough to flatter her about her garden. To the others she is inwardly cold and critical, with a charming affectation of pleasantness which could not deceive a baby. She dislikes Minora most of all, and is only well disposed to her visitor when she notices her thick wrists. The real fact is that Minora has a beautiful nose, and, although Elizabeth would rather die with torture than own herself jealous, it is obvious to the meanest capacity that this is what ails her. The admirable Miss Jones, also, whose perfect propriety of demeanor is assumed through a rigid sense of duty, rouses all her wrath. But what was there, in the name of justice, to complain of in Miss Jones? That she had small respect for her employer should not in itself have formed a legitimate grievance, since not even a nursery governess can control her inward feelings, and Elizabeth admits that Miss Jones's conduct was severely perfect in its outward manifestation. And to her bosom friend, Irais, Elizabeth is simply diabolical when she thinks that that friend is trespassing a little too long on her hospitality. She makes no secret of her opinion that the weeks her friends are with her are time lost so far as her pleasure is concerned, and even goes so far as to say that it rejoices her as much to see them

go as to see them come. We suspect that it rejoices her even more.

The truth of the matter is that our good Elizabeth has no wholesome illusions; glamor is unknown to her; the bump of reverence is entirely missing. The Man of Wrath no more than the others escapes her scorn; he furnishes her with many an opportunity for ribald jibes. It is evident to the reader that she has utterly failed in bending him to her imperious will, as she would fain bend all with whom she comes in contact. She has certainly not cured him of his trick of holding his glass in his left hand, and she bears him a perennial grudge in consequence.

We begin to wonder if there is any person in the world for whom she really cares, and it is a relief to find her confessing that she likes her coachman almost as well as her sundial, but it turns out that this is only because he never attempts to thwart any of her unreasonable wishes. She hates giving I presents, for fear the recipient may be spoilt, and she shall suffer. She has a great dislike to furniture, though we feel certain that she would be the first to cry out if she had not enough of it, or if her armchair was not comfortable, or if her presses were not large enough to hold her frocks. But there is no pleasing her. Things animate and inanimate alike annoy her, and the one person who is, in her eyes, entirely charming is Elizabeth.

And indeed she is not very far wrong. She is a fascinating being, and it is difficult to endure with equanimity the thought that the Man of Wrath has attained, by right of conquest, the privilege of her constant society. She will always amuse him; she will nevereven when come the days of gray hair and wrinkles-she will even then never bore him. She will keep his affection inviolate, however much she may deserve to lose it. But one cherishes a secret, though perhaps unworthy, joy

in the conviction that, inordinately as he may adore her, he will never let her know it. Is he not a German husband, closely connected in his ways and modes of action with the Dr. Grill who rouses Elizabeth's ire? When she puts forth her fascinations the Man of Wrath will retire with well-affected indifference to his smoky series of dens in the southeast corner of the house. When she holds forth on the superiority of the sex he will smile blandly down on her, talking her at last into passionate flight. He dominates her by sheer strength, as well as by the moral power of that superior irritating smile.

Although Elizabeth has done her best to persuade us, we do not even feel sure that it was by her own desire that she came to live in a German garden. It is far more likely that it was the iron will of the Man of Wrath which condemned her to it after much ineffectual resistance, although she had sense enough when she found herself in exile to pretend that she liked it. How else should a commiseration of the neighboring Patronizing Potentate (a woman potentate, of course) have roused her to such anger if some secret sting had not lain in the words: "Ah, these husbands! They shut up their wives because it suits them, and don't care what their sufferings are?"

It was the painful, unacknowledged truth of the remark which stung the resentful Elizabeth.

And this explains the whole situation.

Here is a young and fascinating woman condemned by her bluebeard of a husband to live in a remote Schloss sorely against her will. The unfortunate lady immediately becomes a cynic, and professes contempt of worldly enjoyments. But revenge is essential to her well-being, so she sits down to write a book which, because she calls it a book about a garden, will attract

an

her

enormous audience. In this book she wreaks her vengeance on society, on her friends both present and absent, on her insentient furniture, on servants (except the one whom she likes nearly as well as her sundial), on her governess, and even-0 tempora, O mores!-on her husband. The fact that she is totally ignorant of gardening does not for a moment deter her from writing a garden book. She might have put her experiences into a novel, and enjoyed a circulation of a paltry five hundred or so. Or she might have fulminated under the guise of Woman's Rights, and have printed a pamphlet (mainly for gratuitous distribution) in which to vent her views. But she knew a better way than this. She had noted the vogue of the garden book, and with specious craftiness she adopted this unfailing method of reaching a large and sympathetic audience.

And what is the result?

The result is exactly as she anticipated. Everybody knows Elizabeth and everybody is devoted to her. She has a charm such as is seldom found in the mere heroine of fiction; it is a real live charm, and her readers claim her as a-no, alas! not as a friend, because she will not permit it, but as a delightful acquaintance who has the rare power of keeping them amused for an hour together. We shall gladly read every word which it may enter her sprightly, capricious head to write, though we shall first attempt to persuade her not to call her future books by titles so deceptive as to lead the reader to imagine that they deal with gardening. It was distinctly fraudulent so to describe this one, although in Elizabeth's painful position we have recognized and indicated the necessity of the course. But in the future it will not even be necessary, because we know our Elizabeth, and shall be glad to meet her again, no matter on what subject she may choose to discourse us.

I think I have said sufficient to show that the garden book, in its latest development, is a very different thing from the ordinary book on gardening, and that in it a new form of literature has arisen which has appealed from the first to the general public. There can be no doubt as to the success of a class of book whose circulation is practically certain to run into thousands in a few months, and to continue lively for years. That these books are not, strictly speaking, gardening works, seems to be no disadvantage as regards their sale, but rather the contrary. They evidently satisfy the buyer, which is what both buyer and writer chiefly require. But it is difficult to contemplate with equanimity the possibility of their continuing to flourish on their present basis, for that would be to invite any irresponsible member of the general public who may happen to be afflicted with the cacoëthes scribendi to inflict us with his private diary and to be rewarded for the inflicting.

That a knowledge of gardening is not essential in these writers is sufficiently shown by the analysis given above of two of the most popular of these books. That a working acquaintance with the English tongue is unnecessary is proved by the fact that the novice is as successful as the practiced writer in attracting attention. That the human interest is immaterial is demonstrated by more than one of the many popular volumes on our shelves, such as Miss Jekyll's "Wood and Garden," and Mrs. Earle's "Pot-pourri from a Surrey Garden," although such human interest when it appears is evidently appreciated, as Elizabeth and Mr. Alfred Austin can testify. That natural history is not definitely asked for, although it has an infinite charm when it is supplied, those who count Mr. Phil Robinson's "In Garden, Orchard and Spinney," as perhaps one of the least known though most deserving of these

works, can positively assert. In short, the reasons for the present vogue of these books are so difficult to discover that, finding that hardly any two of them put forth the same claim to consideration, one is forced to the conclusion that this craze of the moment is merely a general demand which may be catered for in any manner chosen by those who make or who intend to make themselves responsible for the supply. The vogue will probably die away as effectually as it has arisen when the buyer knows a little more · The Nineteenth Century.

about floriculture, and comes to see that he can be secure of anything save instruction in gardening matters from the majority of these garden books. Then the natural law of survival will step in, and the balance will be restored. Those books which have the power to amuse will be welcomed for their rare merit; those which can instruct for their almost as valuable quality; and those which can do neither the one nor the other will probably lead the way to oblivion of this whole new class of garden literature.

H. M. Batson.

hand."

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