At that time the cult of gardens was not, as now, universally popular; it was before the day of garden books, though some very good works on horticulture of a more serious type were occasionally published. Such a one was a very interesting book called _My Garden_, written by a Mr. Smee, who had a beautiful garden near Carshalton. This was embellished with cuts of nearly every plant, bird, or insect which the owner had observed upon his domain—a most excellent idea which was admirably carried out. Of course, amongst modern garden books there is none to compare with the delightful _Potpourri from a Surrey Garden_, a work which, in addition to containing much valuable horticultural information, is also permeated with the personal charm and originality of its gifted writer. Though people did not, as a rule, formerly devote so much care and attention to their gardens as is now the case, many country houses had attached to them “a garden of friendship.” One of these, at Cortachy, in Scotland, I particularly recall to mind, on account of the many happy days I have spent with its mistress, Lady Airlie, a very dear and old friend of mine. Mr. Lowe (afterwards Lord Sherbrooke) once wrote on this garden some very pretty verses, a tribute to a hostess for whom he entertained the very highest admiration. It was, alas, but seldom that Mr. Lowe exercised his gift of graceful versification, but the lines in question show that his talents in this direction were of no mean order:— THE GARDEN OF FRIENDSHIP AT CORTACHY Is life a good? then if a good it be, Mine be a life like thine, thou steadfast tree; The selfsame earth that gave the sapling place Receives the mouldering trunk in soft embrace, The selfsame comrades ever at thy side, Who knows not Envy, Wilfulness, or Pride. The Winter’s waste repaired by lavish Spring, The rustling breezes that about thee sing, The intertwining shadows at thy feet, Make up thy life, and such a life is sweet. What though beneath this artificial shade No Fauns have gambolled and no Dryads strayed! Though the coy nurslings of serener skies Shudder when Caledonian tempests rise, Yet sways a cheering influence o’er the grove More soft than nature, more sedate than love. And not unhonoured shall thy grove ascend For every stem was planted by a friend, And she, at whose command its shades arise, Is good and gracious, true and fair and wise. XIII