It is in the Temple gardens that Shakespeare makes York and Lancaster pluck the red and white roses which became the badges of their rival houses. It is here _Plantagenet_ says: “Let him that is a true‐born gentleman, And stands upon the honor of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.” _Somerset._—“Let him that is no coward, nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.” _Warwick._—“And here I prophesy—this brawl to‐day. Grown to this faction in the Temple garden, Shall send, between the red rose and the white, A thousand souls to death and deadly night.” There are no red or white roses blooming here now, but quantities of chrysanthemums grow along the paths under the elms and lime‐trees. An enormous basket, overrun with ivy, handle and all, stands near the old Elizabethan Hall where Shakespeare’s _Twelfth Night_ was performed during the author’s lifetime, and where the benchers of the Middle Temple now dine off long oaken tables in the light of emblazoned windows, and beneath the eyes of kings depicted by Vandyck and other great painters. A company of volunteers are drilling on the green, perhaps in the same place where the Knights Templars had their military exercises; children are playing in the gravelled walks; and groups of gentlemen and ladies, and here a lone pilgrim, are sauntering about, enjoying the calm bright evening and the view of the Thames, with little steamers rushing up and down among all sorts of craft; and beyond, the great city with its countless spires, the bells of which seem to be all ringing. Perhaps the cheerful notes of that psalm come from S. Clement’s in the Strand, which Dr. Johnson used to frequent—notes that will sound as cheerfully when we are no more as they do now over the tombs of past generations who likewise have paced up and down this terrace listening to them. “The boat, and the barge, and the wave have grown red, And the sunset has crimsoned the boughs overhead; But the lamps are now shining, the colors are gone, And the garden lies shadowy, silent, and lone.” Was Origen A Heretic?